Page 79 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
And the most fucked up part?
I probably wouldn’t change a damn thing.
26
Lucy
The board meeting went surprisingly well. Despite the palpable tension, Morgan’s barely veiled threats, and Dad looking like he aged ten years when the scaffolding collapse was mentioned…
I find Dad back in his office, nursing a scotch.
At four pm. Never a good sign.
He’s staring out the window like he’s contemplating joining a monastery.
“Well,” I say, sinking into the leather chair opposite his desk. It still smells faintly of his old-pipe tobacco and decades of deals, both good and bad. “That was… something.”
He takes a slow sip of scotch. “Blackwell really surprised me. First helping us with the Hammond Tower incident. And now his support here, when we need it most...”
“It helped shut Morgan down,” I agree.
“For now,” Dad comments grimly. “But Morgan knows all my sins. You remember when I told you about the questionable loans, the creative accountingto make payroll look covered, the fund shifting that won’t stand up to regulatory scrutiny? Well you see, Morgan was on the finance committee. He knows all of it. And if you’re right about Mark Blackwell pulling the strings, he won’t back off. Ever.” He wanly swirls the amber liquid in his glass, seeming to grow paler by the moment. “You know, that scaffolding collapse… damn near took the wind out of me. Those men…”
“They’re stable, Dad. Recovering.” I lean forward. “But you say Morgan won’t back off because of Mark Blackwell? Christopher told me about… about the history. Between you and Mark Blackwell. He said Mark claims you betrayed him years ago. Is that why he won’t ever call off his dogs?”
Dad flinches, almost imperceptibly. He stares down into his glass, avoiding my eyes.
Oh god. Please don’t let it be true. Please don’t let Dad be the villain in this origin story.
“Mark Blackwell has his own version of events,” Dad says quietly, his voice rough. “He always did.”
“And what’s your version?” I press gently. “Because Christopher seemed to think his father’s entire motivation for destroying Hammond & Co. stems from whatever happened back then.”
He sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the weight of decades. He takes another sip of scotch. Then he finally looks at me, his eyes clouded with regret I haven’t seen before, not even when he confessed about the recent bad loans.
“I was young,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ambitious. Hungry. I partnered with Mark on a huge project, way out on the west side waterfront. It was make or break for both of us. The financing was shaky, the projections… optimistic.” He swirls the scotch again. “Mark brought the connections, the initial capital. I had the design vision, the city planning contacts. But money got tight. Really tight. Investors got nervous.”
He pauses, collecting himself. “Mark wanted to scale back drastically, cut corners I wasn’t willing to cut on quality. He was ruthless even then, eager to sacrifice the long term vision for immediate security. The quick flip. I… I saw another way. A different group of investors, ones who believed in my original plan. I restructured the deal. Cut Mark out of that specific phase to secure the new funding.”
“You cut him out?” I echo.
“I saw it as protecting the project’s integrity,” he defends weakly, though the shame is evident in his eyes. “He saw it as betrayal. He lost his initial investment, got pushed aside just as things started turning around. When the project eventually became a huge success, fueling Hammond & Co.’s growth for years… well. Mark never forgave me. He claimed I stole his ideas, stabbed him in the back, took his money. And maybe…” Dad’s voice cracks. “Maybe from his perspective, I did. I told myself it was just business. Necessary. But it wasn’t clean, Lucy.”
The silence stretches, thick with uncomfortable truths. My father. The man I’ve spent my life looking up to, defending, trying to live up to… wasn’t just a victim of Mark Blackwell’s vendetta. He helpedcreatethe vendetta.
He made choices, ruthless choices, that mirrored the very tactics I despise in the Blackwells. First the tearful admission of nearly running the company into the ground over the past few years, and now this. It feels like the ground shifting beneath my feet. My entire understanding of our familylegacy, of the ‘good versus evil’ narrative I’d constructed, just imploded.
I stare at him, speechless. Disillusionment washes over me, cold and sharp.
“I… I need some air,” I manage, standing up on shaky legs.
Dad nods, looking utterly defeated. “I understand.”
I walk out of his office, out of the building, into the noisy indifference of the city streets. My carefully constructed world feels cracked, unstable. Who can I even trust? If Dad wasn’t who I thought he was… then who is Christopher? Is his help genuine? Or just another move in a game with rules I don’t even understand?
My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil.
City Preservation Gala.Saturday. My father will be there. Your father likely, too. A show of unity between Hammond and Blackwell would be… strategically advantageous. Your presence beside me is requested. Decide.
