Page 155 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Being CEO is still terrifying.
But looking across the table at Christopher, seeing the respect in his eyes and the future he’s carefully, strategically offering… it doesn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.
Maybe CEO Hammond andLucyHammond can coexist after all.
45
Christopher
Lucy left early. Excused herself politely after our tense dinner, saying she wanted to check on her father again before visiting hours ended. Understandable. Admirable, even.
But the empty space she left in that private dining room, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the expensive restaurant air… it felt like a goddamn chasm.
She agreed to the framework. The protocols. The firewalls designed to let CEO Hammond and CEO Blackwell coexist without igniting mutually assured destruction, while still allowing Lucy and Christopher… something.
A possibility.
But her hesitation lingered. The shadow of that professional boundary she felt compelled to draw still hung between us. The ease we’d found, the raw connection, felt… buffered. Muted by responsibility and the ghosts of corporate warfare.
Back in my penthouse, scotch in hand, I replaythe evening. Her confession. The fear of failure, the weight of the CEO title, the terror of repeating her father’s mistakes, it made a twisted kind of sense.
I pushed her towards this role. Now she feels she has to sacrificeusto fulfill it properly. Irony is a fucking bitch.
My first instinct, the old instinct, is to protect myself. Wall off. She drew a line, fine. Respect it. Maintain distance. Focus on crushing my father’s remaining takeover attempts purely as a business maneuver. Treat Project Nightingale as just another strategic investment.
Forget the rest.
Forget the way she felt beneath me, the way she looks when she smiles, the way she challenges me without calculation.
But… fuck. It’s not that simple anymore. She’s burrowed too deep.
That conversation with Richard Hammond, his unexpected blessing… it highlighted the stark absence in my own life. The gaping void where paternal support should be.
Lucy, with all her complications and anxieties, represents something… real. Something worth fighting for, beyond just market share and quarterly returns.
The conflict churns inside me. Self-protection versus… this. This terrifying potential for something more. Something I never thought I wanted or deserved.
On impulse, I do something I haven’t done before. I seek advice. Not from my usual circle of lawyers or strategists or even friends.
I call Gideon King.
King. Our past interactions have always been edged with rivalry. Respect, maybe, for a fellow predator who built his own empire. But mostly competition.
Yet... Lucy trusts his wife, Ava. Implicitly.
And Lucy mentioned Ava’s perspective on navigating… similar complexities.
Maybe King, having traversed this territory himself, has some insight beyond the usual cynical bullshit.
Sounding mildly surprised, he agrees to meet. We convene in the restrained atmosphere of his private club. I leave my security detail at the front door so they can shoot the shit with King’s detail.
“Blackwell,” he greets me, his handshake firm, his gray eyes assessing. No warmth, but no overt hostility either.
“King.” We settle into the chairs, drinks ordered and delivered with unobtrusive efficiency.
The initial conversation is stiff. Market trends. A potential downtown development he’s eying. The usual sparring, testing the waters.
Finally, I cut through the crap.
