Page 32 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
He leans forward slightly, his gaze holding mine. The intensity is back, but it’s different this time. Less hostile, more… focused. “Businesses aren’t static, Lucy.” Hearing him use my first name sends another unexpected jolt through me. “They either evolve or they die. Hammond & Co. is dying. Years of complacency, poor investments disguised as loyalty to tradition… your father’s sentimentality has crippled it.”
“He built it—”
“And he’s killing it,” Christopher states with brutal honesty. “What I do… it’s not always about destruction. Sometimes it’s about transformation. Identifying the core value, stripping away the rot, and rebuilding something stronger, leaner, capable of surviving in the current market. Is it painless? No. Does it require difficult decisions? Absolutely. But is preserving a failing model, propping up inefficiency out of nostalgia, truly more ethical than forcing an evolution that allowspartof the legacy, theviablepart, to survive and potentially thrive?”
I stare at him, momentarily silenced. His words resonate, uncomfortably so. He’s articulating thoughts I’ve barely dared to admit to myself about my father’s recent decisions, about the deep-seated problems at Hammond & Co. He’s not just spouting ruthless capitalist dogma; there’s a cold, hard logic to it. A perspective I hadn’t considered. He sees himself not as a destroyer, but as… a surgeon? Cutting away the disease to save the patient?
Okay, did the big bad wolf just present a surprisingly nuanced argument? Or is this just a more sophisticated form of manipulation?
He makes saving the company sound almost… collaborative. Aligned, even. While simultaneously demanding total control via me.
He watches me process this, his expression carefully neutral, but I sense a keen awareness, an assessment of my reaction.
“My methods aren’t my father’s methods,” he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought. “He believesin scorched earth. I believe in strategic reconstruction.”
The mention of his father, the shadowy Mark Blackwell, hangs in the air. The man Ava’s husband Gideon despises and my father hates. For good reason. The same man Christopher supposedly broke away from, yet seems perpetually measured against.
I pick at my salad, my mind racing. This Christopher Blackwell is… more complicated than the caricature. The ruthless reputation is real, earned, but maybe the motivation behind it isn’t purely predatory. Maybe. Or perhaps he’s just really good at selling his narrative.
The conversation stalls. The elephant, the kiss, has been addressed, and dismissed (by him, anyway), but its ghost lingers, charging the air between us.
“So,” I say finally, pushing my barely touched plate away. “Project Nightingale. Your terms. My role as liaison. It’s the only way?”
“It’s the best way,” he counters smoothly. “For the company’s survival. For preserving what can be preserved. And,” he adds, a glint I can’t quite decipher in his eyes, “for ensuring I have someone on the inside I can actually work with.”
Work with. Not against. Is that what this is becoming?
I don’t know what to think. My head is spinning. He’s the enemy, the threat, the man who kissed me senseless and then coolly compartmentalized it. But he’s also offering a lifeline, albeit one with sharp edges, and articulating a vision for Hammond & Co.’s survival that makes a certain amount of sense. He’s challenging my assumptions, not just about business, butabouthim.
“I need to think,” I murmur, gathering my portfolio.
“Think quickly, Lucy,” he replies, his voice regaining its usual cool command.
I stand up, my legs feeling slightly unsteady. “I’ll be in touch. ThroughTatiana.”
He nods, remaining seated, watching me with that unnervingly steady gaze.
I turn and walk out of the private room, leaving him surrounded by the quiet luxury.
Okay. Well, that was an interesting meeting. Complicated and confusing maybe, but also... a tiny bit hopeful? Or is that just the adrenaline talking?
My head hurts. And somehow, despite clarifying nothing definitively, the path forward feels even murkier than before.
The only thing I know for sure is that Christopher Blackwell is getting under my skin in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with business.
11
Christopher
Work.
That’s the fucking antidote.
Always is. Always has been.
It lets me drown out the noise. Bury the impulses.
I can focus on the raw numbers, the pure projections, the cold hard facts of the next deal. A property downtown in a prime location. Ripe for redevelopment into luxury condos with a tech integration package that’ll make billionaires weep for fucking joy.
