Page 45 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Confusion wars with a reluctant warmth spreading through my chest. It’s… thoughtful. Unexpectedly so. After the raw moment in his office last night, this feels like… an extension? An acknowledgment? Or just another calculated move in his long game?
Probably the latter. Always assume the latter with him.
But still. He didn’t have to. He could have just waited for me to crawl back and beg for help with Morgan. This feels different. Like just perhaps Gideon was right. Maybe Christopher sees value beyond the bottom line. Maybe that glimpse of the man behind the Executioner mask wasn’t a fluke.
My cheeks flush.
Damn it.
Flowers.
Why do flowers make me blush?
Especially potentially manipulative flowers from ruthless billionaires?
I sink into my chair, staring at the elegant arrangement. They smell faintly of earthand something exotic, clean and sharp. Not like my usual comforting jasmine. They smell like… him. Complex. Controlled. With hidden depths.
Okay, Lucy. Decision time. Dad needs me. The company needs saving. Morgan needs neutralizing. And Christopher Blackwell, the gorgeous, infuriating, surprisingly vulnerable enemy, is offering a weapon. With alleged ‘no strings.’
Trusting him feels like juggling nitroglycerin. Butnottrusting him, trying to fight this alone while Morgan dangles Dad’s secrets like bait? That feels like certain death.
I pick up the card again.No strings attached.My thumb traces the heavy paper.
This could be the calculated risk Gideon talked about. The first step towards a real, albeit terrifying, partnership.
Assume nothing, Lucy. Verify everything.
And maybe keep a fire extinguisher handy.
Just in case.
15
Christopher
The data stares back at me from the screen. It’s undeniable.
Morgan Weiss bleeding Hammond & Co. dry from the inside, orchestrating a slow motion liquidation, all while playing the concerned board member.
And the tendrils, faint but distinct, lead directly back to shell corporations and holding companies I know belong to Mark Blackwell.
My father.
How fucking predictable.
Lucy’s sharp eyes and relentless digging last night confirmed what my data drop only hinted at. Weiss isn’t just an opportunist. He’s a pawn. My father’s pawn, deployed to sabotage my potential deal and settle some ancient score with Richard Hammond.
Because for Mark Blackwell, business isn’t just business.
It’s bloodsport.
The raw vulnerability I displayed last night gnaws at me. Letting her see that crack in my armor. The photo. My mother.
Fucking amateur hour.
Sentiment is weakness.
My father’s mantra echoes, laced with accusation.
