Page 67 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
And right in the middle of it, somehow radiating an aura of infuriating calm, is Christopher Blackwell. Mr. ‘Standard Operational Procedure’ himself.
He’s on his phone, his voice low but carrying unmistakable authority. He’s not barking orders at the first responders, thank god, he’s notthatarrogant, but he’s coordinating with his people, and resources I didn’t even know existed are suddenly materializing.
A top tier structural engineering team from Gideon King’s company (apparently billionaires have emergency speed dial). Extra lighting rigs. Some kindof specialized drone scanning the damaged scaffolding.
And his security detail, led by the silently competent Elijah Reeves, has secured the immediate perimeter, smoothly managing access. They look less like bodyguards and more like hyper-efficient event managers.
I should be annoyed. Resentful, even. Here he is, swooping into my company’s business, deploying his vast resources like it’s just another day at the office. But honestly? I’m mostly just… grateful. And ridiculously impressed. He’s not taking overmyrole, I’m still liaising with the site manager, talking to the union reps, trying to get updates on the injured workers (three serious, four minor, thank god no fatalities reported yet).
But he’s plugging the gaps, providing support systems Hammond & Co. simply doesn’t have. He’s acting like… well, like a partner.
A terrifyingly efficient, slightly scary, partner.
“We need eyes inside the damaged section before we clear anyone past the inner cordon,” the FDNY Battalion Chief is saying to me, his face grim under his helmet. “We need to assess the risk of secondary collapse.”
Before I can answer, Christopher is beside us. How does he move so silently?
“My drone team has thermal imaging capabilities,” he says to the Chief, his voice calm, level. “They can provide a live feed of structural stress points and temperature variations without putting any first responders at risk. Feed can be patched directly to your command post.”
The Chief looks surprised, then nods sharply. “Get it up there!”
Christopher retreats once more, talking on his phone, and within minutes, a small, sophisticated drone lifts silently into the air, disappearing into the damaged structure.
We work side-by-side like that for what feels like hours. The initial chaos subsides into a tense, methodical process. Securing the site. Getting accurate information. Ensuring the injured are cared for. Coordinating with city agencies.
Christopher stays focused, analytical, providing resources and connections with quiet efficiency. He doesn’t hover over me, doesn’t second-guess my decisions regarding Hammond personnel, but he’sthere. A solid, unexpectedly reassuring presence amidst the flashing lights and shouted updates. The intimacy of last night, the heart-to-heart conversation we were having this morning... all burned away by the adrenaline of the crisis. Or maybe just compartmentalized again.
With him, who the hell knows?
Then I see him. Dad. Pushing through the outer police line, his face etched with worry, looking older and more frail than I’ve ever seen him. Liam O’Connell, our sturdy head architect, is right beside him, looking equally grim.
Dad spots me, relief washing over his features, quickly followed by confusion as he takes in Christopher standing next to me, deep in conversation with the structural engineer from King Enterprises.
“Lucy! Thank god.” Dad rushes over, pulling me into a hug. “I came as soon as I heard. The men… are they…?”
“Three serious injuries, Dad, but stable for now. Four others minor. Everyone’s accountedfor,” I reassure him quickly. “The site is secure. We’re assessing the structural damage now.”
His eyes flick towards Christopher, then back to me, a question mark hovering in the air.
When I don’t answer, he turns toward Christopher.
“Mr. Blackwell,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. He extends a hand, gratitude obviously warring with deep-seated suspicion in his eyes.
Christopher shakes his hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Richard. Sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Dad glances around at the controlled efficiency, the extra personnel, the high tech drone feed visible on a nearby monitor. He looks back at me. “Seems… you have things well in hand, Lucy. With Mr. Blackwell’s…assistance.”
The word hangs there, heavy with unspoken questions.
Like what the hell is the Executioner doing playing Good Samaritan at my disaster site?
“Christopher’s resources have been invaluable, Dad,” I say firmly, meeting my father’s gaze. No hedging. No downplaying. “His engineers, the drone imaging… have helped secure the site faster and potentially prevented further risk. He got here before I did.”
Okay, that last is a slight white lie maybe, but the point stands.
Dad looks from me to Christopher, then back again. The suspicion doesn’t entirely fade, but a grudging respect seems to dawn. Or maybe just resignation.
When your company is literally falling apart, youcan’t always afford to be picky about who helps hold it up.
