Page 33 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Standard operating procedure. Find the undervalued asset. Optimize. Extract maximum value. Move on.
Simple.
Clean.
Emotionless.
Except my focus keeps shattering like cheap glass.
Fucking Lucy Hammond.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Her wide shocked eyes after… after I lost control. That goddamn kiss. A tactical error of monumental proportions. Unprofessional. Unnecessary.
And utterly fucking consuming.
I slam my fist onto the polished surface of my conference table. Empty except for me. The depiction of the downtown property shimmers on the video whiteboard. Tatiana is managing my calls. Elijah and his team are ghosts in the periphery.
Silence. Just the way I usually like it.
Usually.
I’m not going to get anything done.
“Concentrate,” I mutter to the empty room. My reflection stares back from the dark screen of another monitor next to me. Sharp suit. Impassive expression. The mask. Always the mask. But behind the eyes, there’s a fucking storm brewing. Irritation. Frustration. And something else.
Something I refuse to name.
I force my attention back to the video whiteboard and the property displayed on it. The developer, Vanguard Properties, is cutting corners. Predictable. Shoddy materials hidden behind flashy finishes. Minimal green space sacrificed for maximum unit density. Zero consideration for the existing neighborhood fabric. Just pure, unadulterated profit motive. It’s sloppy. It’s greedy. It’s… standard. It’s what I usually exploit.
But seeing it laid bare today, after walking through Hammond & Co.’s headquarters yesterday… it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Richard Hammond might be a sentimental old fool running his company into the ground, but damn it, the man built things with integrity once. Buildings thatlasted. Projects that shaped the city with some degree of thought, not just naked avarice.
Lucy’s fierce pride in that legacy, her desperateattempt to salvage something real… it contrasts sharply with this Vanguard bullshit.
Am I actually comparing a potential acquisition target favorably to the company I was supposed to gut and flip? What the fuck is happening to me?
Is Lucy’s earnestness contagious?
My private line buzzes. A specific, grating tone I only assigned to one contact. My father. Mark Fucking Blackwell.
Perfect.
Just what I need: a dose of pure, unadulterated cynicism to clear my head.
I stab the button on the console. “What?”
No greeting. No pleasantries. We don’t do that.
“Christopher.” His voice is gravel over razor wire. Same old commanding tone, laced with impatience and condescension. “Just checking on the Hammond situation. Heard you sent them a proposal. Word is, it’s surprisingly… gentle.”
Gentle. He makes it sound like a fucking disease.
“It’sstrategic,” I bite back, keeping my voice level. Control. Always maintain control. Especially with him. “Hammond has underlying assets and a brand reputation, however tarnished, that can be leveraged. A full liquidation destroys that value. My approach preserves it for optimal long term gain.”
A dry chuckle crackles through the speaker. “Again with this bullshit? You’re like a broken record. What the fuck is wrong with you, boy? Are you getting soft? Richard Hammond is a relic. His company is a dinosaur waiting for the meteor. How many times do I have to say this? Crush it. Take the assets. Teach the dumb shit a lesson. That’s the Blackwell way.”
The Blackwell way. His way. The wayhe drilled into me since I was old enough to understand a balance sheet. Ruthless efficiency. Maximum pressure. No prisoners.
