Page 41 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“A plausible theory,” I concede, leaning against the edge of the desk, crossing my arms. “What did Weiss say when you confronted him? Youdidconfront him, right?” I can see the tension in her shoulders. She definitely confronted him. Good. No hesitation.
Her expression darkens. “He didn’t deny it. Practically confirmed he’s working for someone else. And then…” She hesitates, looking uncomfortable. It’s a crack in the armor, and it draws my attention like a fucking magnet.
“And then what, Lucy?” My voice is softer than intended.
She meets my gaze, her eyes troubled. “He threatened me. Implied he has information about my father. Questionable financial decisions. Things that could ruin his reputation if they came out during due diligence… or a hostile takeover.”
Fucking knew it. Weiss is using Richard Hammond’s past mistakes, likely fed to him by my father, as leverage. Classic Mark Blackwell move. Poison the well, force the target into a corner.
Anger, cold and familiar, coils in my gut. Anger at Weiss. Anger at my father for his relentless manipulations. And a surprising surge of anger on Lucy’s behalf. Her father might be a fool, but using his past sins to threaten her… it’s low. Even by my father’s standards.
“Let me guess,” I say, my voicehardening. “He suggested a quiet liquidation would make all those nasty little secrets disappear?”
She nods, looking grim. “Exactly. Protect the company or protect my father. He made it clear I couldn’t do both.”
“The snake.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“So,” Lucy takes a breath, squaring her shoulders. The vulnerability recedes, replaced by resolve. “Here I am. You helped me see the sabotage. Now I need to figure out how deep it goes, what exactly Morgan knows about my father, and how to neutralize him without letting him detonate everything.”
“All right.” I push off the desk. Time to work. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Spread it out.”
We spend the next couple of hours hunched over the desk. About thirty minutes in, I move my chair so that we’re side-by-side. Close enough that I can smell that damn fragrance she wears. Bergamot. Jasmine. Vanilla. It’s distracting. Under the cool overhead lighting, I see the faint lines of concentration etching themselves around her eyes. She’s quick. She sees connections in the numbers, asks sharp questions, challenges my assumptions. Richard Hammond didn’t just sideline her, he fucking wasted her talent. The man’s an idiot on multiple levels.
Are all fathers like this?
Her passion is evident. Not just for saving the company, but for doing itright. She points out discrepancies, not just in numbers, but in ethical implications. How certain asset shifts impacted long term employees. How Morgan’s proposed cuts disproportionately affected specific departments her father had always protected. It’s bleeding heart bullshit from apure business perspective. But hearing her defend it… it doesn’t sound entirely stupid.
The initial tension between us slowly morphs into a focused rhythm. We’re a team. A temporary, uneasy, mutually beneficial team, but a team nonetheless. Analyzing data. Brainstorming strategies. Mapping out Morgan’s likely moves and potential countermoves.
My stomach growls. I glance at the clock. It’s past nine.
“We should eat,” I state.
Lucy looks up, surprised, as if noticing the time for the first time. “Oh. Right. I didn’t realize…”
“I’ll have my personal chef Emilia send something up.” I pick up the internal phone, ordering salads and grilled fish from my personal chef. Simple. Healthy. Working food.
While we wait, the conversation stalls. The documents lie between us, a temporary truce zone. The silence isn’t awkward, exactly, but it feels… charged. Different from earlier silences.
Lucy glances around the office, her gaze lingering on the bookshelves. “You have a first edition Hemingway?”
“A Farewell to Arms,” I confirm. “A weakness.”
“Didn’t peg you for a Hemingway fan.”
“Loss. Love. War. Seems relevant to business, wouldn’t you say?” A rare moment of letting the mask slip, just a fraction.
She considers this for a moment, tilting her head. “Maybe. Though I always preferred Fitzgerald. More tragedy beneath the glitter.”
Before I can respond, she reaches for a stray spreadsheet printout that slid near theedge of the desk. Her arm brushes against a small, unassuming silver frame tucked amongst some financial journals. It wobbles, then tips over with a soft clatter.
Instinctively, I reach out. “Don’t—” Too late.
Lucy picks it up, turning it over in her hand. It’s not a business award. It’s a photograph. Old. Slightly faded. A young boy with serious eyes. Me, maybe seven or eight years old. I’m standing beside a woman with kind eyes and dark, wavy hair. She’s smiling, but there’s a sadness around her mouth. My mother. Taken not long before she left.
A cold fist clenches around my heart. Raw. Unexpected. Pain I thought I’d buried decades ago surges to the surface. That photo shouldn’t be here. It’s usually buried in a drawer in my bedroom. Whitfield must have moved it during a recent reorganization.
Fucking hell.
