Page 98 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
He could have left a Post-it note saying ‘Thanks for the merger. Don’t call me.’
Emilia, his frighteningly efficient chef who probably knows all my secrets already just by analyzing my breakfast choices, informed me very politely that Mr. Blackwell had departed for the office but his driver, Victor, would return for me. Which he did, promptly.
The ride back to Hammond & Co. felt less like a walk of shame and more like a… strategic retreat?
Yeah, let’s go with that.
Since all I had was the dress I wore to the gala, I had to stop by my apartment first to pick up some proper clothes.
Now, safely behind my own desk, and dressed in a blouse, blazer and slacks combo, I’m trying to focus. Trying to ignore the memory of last night. The gala drama. The revised proposal sitting innocuously in my briefcase like a ticking time bomb of hope and potential disaster.
The way Christopher looked at me.
The way hetouchedme.
Okay, focus, Lucy. Less internal swooning, more saving-the-company-ing.
My intercom buzzes, startling me. It’s Carol, front desk receptionist and keeper of all Hammond secrets, probably including Dad’s sock drawer organization system.
“Lucy dear,” Carol’s voice crackles through, warm but with an undercurrent of warning. “Mr. Weiss just arrived. He’s heading towards his office now.”
“Thanks, Carol.” I’d asked her to buzz me the second Morgan Slimeball Weiss showed his perfectly groomed face. Time for round… what are we on now? Five? Six? Of ‘Please Stop Trying to Tank My Company, You Obvious Asshole Saboteur.’
I grab a file. It’s mostly blank pages, but looks official, and head down the hall.
Morgan’s office door is predictably open. He’s standing by the window, admiring the view he’s actively trying to liquidate.
He turns as I enter, a smug, condescending smile already plastered on his face.
Punchable. So incredibly punchable.
“Lucy. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His tone suggests the pleasure is entirely mine and involves something unpleasant, like a root canal performed with rusty pliers.
Eww... gross metaphor. But apt.
“Morgan.” I keep my voice level, planting myself in front of his desk. “Funny you should ask about pleasure. I was just reviewing the documentation for the Astor Place redevelopment and the Tribeca lofts. Some key financial reports seem to be… missing. Again. Any idea where they might have wandered off to?”
He chuckles, leaning back against the window sill, radiating slimy confidence. “Lost paperwork? Happens all the time in a company under…stress.” He lets the word hang there. “Perhaps your father misplaced them during one of his more… creative accounting sessions?”
My stomach clenches.
Play it cool, Hammond.
“Dad’s already been very forthcoming about the recent financial difficulties, Morgan.” I don’t want to tip my hand too far by revealing we know the full extent of what my father has done. If I do, Morgan might decide to publicly release what heknows early.
Christopher and I have been actively working on trying to neutralize the leverage Morgan thinks he has, mostly by attempting to get ahead of the narrative. We’ve already started initiating our own controlled disclosure to key stakeholders regarding the accounting issues and bad loans.
But Morgan’s smile only widens at my words.
“Has he really told youeverything, Lucy? Are you quite sure about that?” He pushes off the window, taking a step closer. He smells faintly of cheap soap and cologne. “Because I recall certain… entities. Special arrangements designed to make liabilities vanish into thin air. Things far more complex than simply juggling payroll funds. Things that don’t just bend the rules, they snap them clean in two.”
Entities? Special arrangements? What the hell is he talking about?
Dad admitted everything, didn’t he?
The bad investments, the desperate moves.
Unless… oh god, unless there’s more?
