Page 26 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Our gazes collide again.
And again.
A silent battle of wills waged across a crowded room. Her chin lifts slightly each time, in subtle defiance.
Good.
I prefer my opponents with a spine.
Enough waiting.
Time to engage.
I set the untouched champagne flute down on a nearby table and move towards her, parting the crowdwith the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you own most of the rooms people walk through. The silver haired fossil finally disengages, patting her arm before shuffling off towards the buffet.
Why does seeing him touch her arm like that suffuse me with a sudden rage?
I shake my head, force my mind clear. I’m here for one purpose, and one purpose alone.
Business.
She turns as I approach, her expression carefully neutral, but I see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
“Ms. Hammond,” I greet her, my voice cutting through the surrounding chatter. “Fancy meeting you here. Supporting literacy, are we? Or just networking for a bailout?”
Her spine stiffens. Predictable. Yet annoyingly attractive.
“Mr. Blackwell. Always a pleasure,” she replies, her tone dripping with polite frost. “I believe in supporting worthy causes. Unlike some, I find value beyond the bottom line.”
Always the fucking optimist, even when she’s drowning.
“Commendable,” I say, letting a smirk touch my lips. “Though I find worthy causes are easier to support when one isn’t facing imminent financial collapse. Which brings us to Project Nightingale. Three days, Ms. Hammond. My patience has its limits.”
She takes a delicate sip of her own champagne, buying time. Her hand, I notice, is steady on the glass. Impressive. “The proposal is comprehensive, Mr. Blackwell. It requires careful consideration by the board. Deals of this magnitude can take months to finalize. But I’m sure you knowthat already.”
“Your board,” I counter, stepping slightly closer, “is deadlocked. Paralyzed by nostalgia and fear. We both know that. Morgan Weiss is pushing for liquidation, isn’t he?”
Her eyes widen slightly. Surprise. Good. Keep her off balance. “Board discussions are confidential.”
“Confidentiality is a luxury, Ms. Hammond. Like ethics. Your company doesn’t have many luxuries left. You need this deal. You need me. So, let’s cut the bullshit. What’s the real holdup?”
She hesitates, glancing around as if seeking an escape. There is none. Just me. “The board has concerns,” she admits finally, meeting my gaze directly. “Significant ones. About control. About… personnel.”
“Personnel,” I repeat flatly. “You mean your father.”
She nods, her jaw tightening. “My father founded Hammond & Co. He built its reputation. He deserves to remain as CEO. It’s non-negotiable.”
I almost laugh. Non-negotiable? Everything is negotiable when you’re desperate. But her fierce loyalty… it pisses me off and, damn it, I respect it. Okay. Fine. A calculated concession. With strings attached. Thick, unavoidable strings.
“Fine,” I say, the word sharp. “Richard Hammond can keep his title. CEO. For now. On one condition.”
Her eyes narrow. “Which is?”
“You,” I state, holding her gaze. “You become my personal liaison. You report directly to me. Weekly briefings. Full transparency. No filters. No delays. And you start immediately. Before the deal is signed.”
She looks stunned. “My father can report to you.”
“No,” I cut her off, my voice hard. “Your fatherhid the company’s disastrous financials from his own daughter. He massaged the books, took questionable loans. You think I’m going to trust him and him alone with my investment? Imagine what he’d hide from me, the son of a man he clearly despises.” I lean in fractionally. “I trust you, Ms. Hammond. You, I believe, understand the stakes. You won’t bullshit me. That’s the only way your father keeps his corner office. Take it or leave it.”
