Page 37 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
There it is. Consistent undervaluation. Not by much on any single property, just a few percentage points here and there. But add it all up across dozens of assets? It paints a drastically different financial picture. One that makes liquidation look appealing and Blackwell’s investment seem riskier than it might actually be. Morgan hasn’t just been pushing for a sale, he’s been actively cooking the books to justify it.
Rage, cold and sharp, cuts through my exhaustion. That snake. He’s been sabotaging us from the inside. While pretending to be concerned. While questioningmyability to manage.
Oh, I’ll manage you, Morgan. Right out the goddamn door.
Okay, maybe not right out the door. I need a strategy. Need… to confront him. Ugh. Confrontation. My favorite thing in the world.
Right up there with public speaking and dental visits.
I find Morgan in the executive lounge,sipping an espresso like he owns the place. Which, apparently, he’s trying to arrange. His silver-streaked hair is perfect. His suit impeccable.
He looks up as I approach, that blandly pleasant mask firmly in place.
“Lucy. Burning the midnight oil?”
Funny man. It’s not even past three o’clock.
“Just reviewing some figures, Morgan.” I keep my voice level, dropping a printout of one of the manipulated valuation reports onto the low table between us. I tap a specific number. “Funny thing about this appraisal for the Tribeca lot. It seems significantly lower than the independent assessment we commissioned last year. And the year before that. In fact, quite a few of your recent summaries show similar… discrepancies.”
His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. The mask flickers. Just for a second. He takes a slow sip of his espresso. Stalling. “Market fluctuations, Lucy. Real estate is volatile. Surely you know that.”
“Volatile enough to consistently dip only in your reports?” I push back, feeling a blush creep up my neck as my anger simmers. “It looks less like market fluctuation and more like… deliberate undervaluation. Almost as if someone wanted the company’s position to look worse than it is. To perhaps encourage a quick sale?” I add sweetly.
Morgan sets his cup down with a hard click. The pleasantries vanish and his gaze turns cold. Calculating. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lucy. Your father wouldn’t approve you digging into things you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think I understand perfectly,” I counter, matching his icy tone. “You’re trying to sabotage this company.”
He leans back and a condescending smirk plays on his lips. “Sabotageis such an ugly word. I prefer ‘facilitating necessary transitions.’ Your father’s sentimentality has run this company into the ground. Someone needs to ensure the shareholders get something back before it’s all gone.”
“By lying?”
“By presenting a realistic picture,” he corrects smoothly. Then his voice drops, taking on a confidential, almost pitying tone. “Look, Lucy. You’re smart. Ambitious. But you’re in over your head. You think Blackwell is your savior? He’ll bleed you dry. A quick sale is cleaner. Kinder, even.” He pauses, letting his next words land with deliberate weight. “Especially considering… other factors.”
“Other factors?” I repeat, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
Morgan studies his perfectly manicured nails. “Your father… he’s a good man. Respected. But these past few years… the pressure got to him. He made some decisions. Took some… creative liberties with financing. Arrangements that wouldn’t look good under intense scrutiny. The kind of scrutiny a hostile buyer, or even a demanding partner like Blackwell, would inevitably bring.”
My blood runs cold. He’s not just guessing. He knows something. Something Dad did. Those questionable loans Christopher mentioned? Is this what Morgan’s holding over us?
“I understand wanting to protect his legacy,” Morgan continues, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “A quiet liquidation avoids uncomfortable questions. Ensures certain… indiscretions… remain private. Think about it, Lucy. Is fighting fora doomed company worth dragging your father’s name through the mud?”
He’s threatening me. Using my father’s mistakes as leverage to force the sale that benefits him and whoever he’s working for.
Probably Mark Blackwell, just like Christopher hinted.
The rage I felt earlier curdles into nausea. I feel dizzy. Trapped.
I step back abruptly. “Stay away from my father, Morgan.” My voice trembles slightly, but it’s low and fierce.
He just gives me that cold, knowing smile. “The choice is yours, Lucy. Protect the company, or protect your father. You probably can’t do both.”
I walk out of the lounge on autopilot, my heart pounding against my ribs. I need air. I need perspective. I need… Ava. And maybe her scary smart, billionaire husband.
Because I’m in over my head.
“He threatened you? Using your dad?”Ava looks horrified, setting her teacup down with a clatter in Gideon King’s minimalist, museum-like living room. The place always makes me feel like I should be wearing little paper booties. Everything is white or grey or chrome, except for Ava’s vibrant, chaotic paintings, which look like beautiful acts of rebellion against the starkness.
Gideon, leaning against the massive window overlooking Central Park, turns towards me. His intense grey eyes miss nothing. Even in casual clothes, he radiates power. And a surprising amount of protectiveness when it comes to Ava, and by extension, herfriends. Which currently includes me, the damsel in financial distress.
