3. Lucy
3
Lucy
O kay, stay calm, Lucy.
You can do this.
It’s just a meeting.
Yeah, a meeting with a corporate shark who eats companies like Hammond we’re hemorrhaging. He’d actively hidden the sheer scale of the disaster. From me .
The folder trembles in my hand. A hot flush crawls up my neck, burning my cheeks. Betrayal stings sharp and bitter, momentarily eclipsing the panic.
He lied. Deliberately lied to me.
“Dad… what is this?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He avoids my gaze, sinking back into his chair. He fiddles with the vintage fountain pen he always carries. “Just… contingency planning, Lucy. Worst-case scenarios.”
“Worst-case?” I slam the folder down on the desk, making Weiss jump. “This isn’t worst-case, Dad, this looks like reality! The reality you hid from me while sending me into a negotiation completely blind!”
Weiss watches the exchange with undisguised satisfaction. Bastard.
Tears prickle behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of Weiss. “How could you?” I direct the question solely at my father, my voice thick with hurt. “All this time… I’ve been killing myself trying to find a way, trying to protect your legacy… and you didn’t trust me with the truth?”
He looks up then, his expression anguished. “I didn’t want to burden you, Lucy. I thought I could still fix it… shield you from the worst of it. ”
“Shield me? Dad, I’m not a child! I’m supposed to be your partner in this! How am I supposed to negotiate with Blackwell now? My entire proposal is based on numbers that are complete bullshit!” The anxiety I’d been suppressing surges, cold and terrifying. I feel exposed, stupid. Christopher Blackwell probably already knows these real numbers. He has teams of analysts. He knew I was walking in there with nothing but wishful thinking.
No wonder he looked amused yesterday. And that was before those demonic robot dogs ruined everything.
Weiss clears his throat and licks his lips eagerly. “This changes things, wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps Blackwell’s offer isn’t so unreasonable after all.”
I whirl on him. “Get out, Morgan.”
“Now, Lucy…” my father starts.
“No, Dad. He needs to leave. Now.” My voice is low and shaking with fury.
Weiss raises an eyebrow but apparently decides pushing further isn’t wise. He gives a small, insincere nod, then walks out, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence descends. I stare at my father, the man I’ve idolized and tried so hard to protect. The weight of his legacy, his fear, his mistakes. It all feels so crushing.
“I have to go,” I finally say, my voice flat. “I have a meeting to get to.”
“Lucy, wait. We need to talk about this. About the offer…”
“What’s there to talk about, Dad?” I grab my briefcase, stuffing the damning folder inside alongside my now-useless presentation. “You lied. You compromised my position before I even walked in the door. Whatever happens now… it’s based on the reality you tried to hide.”
I walk out without looking back, the sting of betrayal a fresh wound alongside the familiar ache of inadequacy.
Way to go, Dad. Might as well just hand the predator the ammunition he needs.
The taxi ride downtown feels like a descent into the underworld. The city flashes past in a blur of gray concrete and hurried faces. My stomach churns.
I pull out my compact, checking my reflection. Pale, eyes too bright, a definite blush lingering high on my cheekbones.
Fantastic. Nothing screams ‘savvy negotiator’ like looking like you’re about to burst into tears.
I take a shaky breath, reapplying lip gloss with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The faint scent of my bergamot and jasmine perfume feels like a flimsy shield.
Blackwell Tower looms ahead, a sleek monolith of glass and steel piercing the clouds. It screams money, power, and unapologetic dominance. It makes the Hammond building look like a quaint relic.
Okay, maybe ‘quaint’ is generous. More like… historically significant but needs rewiring.
The taxi pulls up to the imposing entrance. My heart pounds against my ribs.
Be confident. Walk in with your head held high.
The lobby is vast, minimalist, and intimidatingly silent. Gleaming white marble floors reflect the abstract, expensive-looking sculptures dotting the place. The air conditioning hums softly, carrying a faint, almost undetectable scent. A cross between disinfectant and money. It’s the polar opposite of the familiar, lived-in scent of Hammond & Co. This place feels… sterile. Untouchable.
I navigate the surprisingly intense lobby security checkpoint, which feels more like airport screening than anything else, replete with metal detectors. After, I approach the massive information desk and a professionally bland receptionist looks up.
“Lucy Hammond for Christopher Blackwell,” I state, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
The receptionist murmurs my name into a sleek headset, listens for a moment, then nods. “Ms. Cole says you may go up. Please take the private elevator bank to your right.”
“Thanks.” I head towards the indicated elevators. One set of doors slides open silently as I approach, beckoning me into a small, windowless cabin lined with dark, polished wood. I step inside, looking for the button bank… only there isn’t one. No floor numbers, no emergency call button, nothing. Just smooth, seamless walls.
What the…? Is this thing voice-activated? Do I need a secret code? Did they forget to install the controls?
Before I can lean out and ask the receptionist if this thing runs on psychic energy, the doors glide shut with a soft whoosh, sealing me inside. For a terrifying second, nothing happens. Then, with a faint hum I feel more than hear, the elevator begins its silent, rapid ascent.
My ears pop. Alone in the weirdly buttonless elevator, I smooth down my skirt for the tenth time, and adjust the strap of my briefcase. My gaze drifts upward, and I notice the security camera studying me from one corner.
Okay, Lucy. Remember who you are. You fought your way through Stern, navigated Parsons art snobs, and you’ve been holding a legacy company together with spit and ingenuity. You can handle one arrogant billionaire.
Even if he holds all the cards. And even if looking at him makes my pulse quicken in a way that’s completely inappropriate and counterproductive.
Focus. Poker face.
The elevator doors slide open onto a silent, private office lobby. Minimalist art, expensive finishes.
Seated behind an imposing desk positioned strategically near a set of large double doors is the woman I assume must be Ms. Cole. Perfectly styled blond hair, form fitting red dress, an aura of unflappable competence.
She looks up, her expression completely neutral. She gestures gracefully towards a sleek waiting area near her desk. “Ms. Hammond. Mr. Blackwell will see you shortly. Please have a seat. May I get you anything while you wait? Water? Coffee?” Her voice is quiet but crisp.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I manage, walking towards the indicated chairs.
She gives a minuscule nod and returns her attention to her screen.
I take a seat.
Now the waiting begins.