Page 36 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Lucy
My phone buzzes with a notification that’s definitely not from my usual contacts.
Encrypted message received.
Seriously?
Who sends encrypted messages besides spies, tech billionaires, and people buying questionable things on the dark web? Given recent events, my money’s on option B.
Probably just spam. Really sophisticated, slightly terrifying spam.
Except it’s not. The sender ID is masked, but the timing? Right after my disastrous lunch non-date boundary clarification meeting with Christopher ‘I-Kiss-You-Then-Pretend-It-Was-A-Minor-Operational-Glitch’ Blackwell?
Suspicious.
Highly suspicious.
My fingers feel awkward trying to navigate the decryption prompt. Why all these steps? What if it’s a virus? What if it bricks my phone? What if it’s just apicture of Christopher smirking with the caption ‘Gotcha?’
What if it’s a dick pic?
Knowing him, that’s entirely plausible.
Finally, the file opens.
It’s… data.
I shit you not.
Just raw data. Communication logs, weird financial transfer flags, trading anomalies linked to… Morgan Weiss.
Holy shit.
There are no explanations, no helpful little arrows pointing ‘Villain Here.’
Just cold, hard numbers and dates.
Presented without commentary.
Okay, Blackwell. What game are you playing now?
This feels less like spam and more like… help? Anonymous, slightly menacing, definitely confusing help. Like finding a briefcase full of cash and a cryptic note about your enemies on your doorstep. You don’t know whether to thank the sender or call the cops.
Why would he send this? To prove he’s not his father? To gain leverage? To see if I’m smart enough to figure it out? Or maybe he just enjoys messing with my head? Probably all of the above.
The data points directly at discrepancies in property valuations. The ones Morgan used in his ‘let’s just liquidate everything’ presentation to the board. Christopher’s parting shot at lunch wasn’t just a guess.
“Think, Ms. Hammond. Who hates your father? Who benefits from seeing the Hammond legacy dismantled? Who has a history of… aggressive acquisitions?”
Heknew. Or at least, he suspected enough to point me in the right direction.
All right. Fine. If Mr. Mystery wants to play breadcrumbs, I’ll follow. Time to put that business degree and my suddenly very relevant art history background (hello, forensic analysis of boring spreadsheets) to work.
I spend the next few hours cross referencing Morgan’s reports with our internal historical data and independent appraisal archives. It’s tedious. Soul sucking, even. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand, and the scent of stale coffee fills my small office cubicle.
Glamorous, I know. Junior Exec chic.
But then I check all the final numbers and… bingo.
