Page 109 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“The terms reflect a strategic investment in long term value, not a short term asset strip,” I reply calmly, my voice cutting through the murmurs of agreement around the table. I meet each of their gazes. Coldly. Letting them see the resolve. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Hammond & Co. possesses unique historical assets, deep market knowledge, and under Lucy Hammond’s leadership, a clear path towards modernization and profitability within the Project Nightingale framework. I’m not sure how many times I need to say this until it’sdrilled into your fucking heads.”
“But thecost, Christopher,” Sarah pushes back, leaning forward. “The capital injection required, the favorable debt restructuring… it deviates significantly from our standard acquisition protocols. The old Nightingale was bad. This is ten times worse. We won’t see a profit for at least ten years. If we ever see a profit at all.”
“I’m not worried about when we’ll see a profit on this one,” I state flatly. “This is different. This is a partnership. A strategic synergy. Sometimes sustainable growth requires investment and cultivation, not just brute force.”
Who the fuck am I? Some kind of goddamncorporate environmentalist? The words sound foreign even to me, yet they feel… right.
Even necessary.
The silence that follows is thick with skepticism. They aren’t buying it. They see the numbers, the risk profile, the deviation from the Blackwell playbook. They don’t see Lucy’s grit, her vision, the potential I see. Or maybe they do, and they just don’t give a shit.
Profit over potential. That’s the old way.
And I know exactly who’s pulling their strings. Who’s whispering doubts in their ears, reminding them of the ‘true’ Blackwell way.
My father.
Mark Blackwell.
He may not be in this room, but his goddamn influence lingers like a bad smell. Giving him that seat on the Blackwell Innovations board years ago, a concession meant to appease him, to prove I wasn’t entirely rejecting his world… that has to be the fucking worst mistake I’ve ever made. He uses it not for governance, but for interference. For undermining me whenever my path diverges from his poisonous ideology.
“The decision is final,” I conclude, my voice leaving no room for argument. “Project Nightingale proceeds under the revised terms. Your departments will execute accordingly. Focus on the integration plan, not on second guessing the strategic direction. Am I understood?”
Reluctant nods around the table. They know better than to argue further, not to my face. But the dissent is palpable. My father’s seeds of doubt have taken root.
This isn’t over.
“Meeting adjourned,” I snap,rising before anyone else can speak. I need to deal with the source of the rot directly.
Right now.
As usual, the drive out to the Blackwell estate feels like descending into the underworld. The stone lions standing guard at the entrance, the perfectly manicured lawns, the ostentatious fountain, the imposing stone facade… it’s all designed to project power, legacy, impenetrable wealth.
To me, it just feels like a gilded cage filled with bad memories.
Alfred greets me at the door and let’s me inside.
My father is in his study, naturally. Surrounded by dark wood and portraits of smug-looking ancestors. He looks up as I enter, no surprise on his face. He’s still watching me, then.
Of course he is. He has eyes and ears everywhere.
“Christopher,” he greets me, his voice devoid of warmth. He gestures towards a chair I don’t take. “Come to reconsider your… sentimental attachment to the Hammond disaster?”
“I came to make something clear,” I reply, standing my ground. “Your attempts to undermine the Hammond partnership through my executive team and the board end now.”
He chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. “My attempts? I merely shared prudent financial concerns with fellow board members. Concerns about your… unusual generosity towards a failing competitor, led by an inexperienced young woman who clearly has you compromised.” His eyes narrow. “Is it true you refused to use the information Morgan Weiss provided? The proof of Richard Hammond’s fraud? That’sleverage, boy!”
“The SPE information is irrelevant to the strategic merits of the partnership,” I lie coolly.
Its strategic merit isLucy. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Irrelevant?” He slams his hand down on the antique desk. “It was the perfect leverage! A killing blow handed to you on a silver platter, and you threw it away! For her! Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“My mind is perfectly clear,” I retort. “Unlike yours, it’s not clouded by a decades-old vendetta. Project Nightingale is proceeding as planned. With Lucy Hammond as interim CEO. And you will stop interfering.”
“Or what, Christopher?” he sneers, rising to face me across the desk. The resemblance between us is stark in moments like this. The same jawline. The same cold eyes. But I will not become him. “You’ll remove me from the board? The board I helped establish connections for? The board where several members still value my experience, my perspective, over your increasingly erratic decisions?”
The threat hangs heavy in the air. He’s not bluffing. He has allies on the board, old-guard types who trust his ruthless calculus more than my evolving vision. Hecanmake trouble. Serious trouble.
