4. Christopher
4
Christopher
L et her wait.
It’s a petty move. A standard negotiation tactic pulled straight from the Mark Blackwell playbook of corporate dick-swinging. Establish dominance from the outset. Make them sweat. Make them feel small before they even open their mouths. I fucking hate that I resort to it but it works. Usually.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office watching the city sprawl beneath me. Gray buildings reaching for a gray sky. I pick out all of the ones I own. A kingdom built on concrete and ambition. My kingdom. Won through logic and strategy and sixteen hour days fueled by a burning need to carve my own name into the skyline separate from the suffocating weight of my father’s.
I check the platinum watch on my wrist. Almost an hour. Lucy Hammond has been cooling her undoubtedly expensive heels in my waiting area for fifty seven minutes. Long enough.
I touch the comm panel built into my desk. “Tatiana. Send Ms. Hammond in. ”
“Yes Mr. Blackwell.”
I move to sit behind my desk and arrange my hands deliberately on the cool surface. Projecting calm control. Boredom even. Let her think this is just another Wednesday afternoon annoyance for me. Which it should be.
But it isn’t.
Fuck me it isn’t.
The memory of her at the expo keeps flickering at the edges of my thoughts. That spark in her eyes when she challenged me. The surprising steel beneath the business chic polish. The way she didn’t back down even when faced with the full force of my reputation and implied threat. It was unexpected. Irritatingly intriguing. And her curves...
My father’s grating voice echoes in my mind. Don’t let that girl distract you.
Easy for him to say. His idea of dealing with an obstacle is to run it over with a bulldozer. My methods are supposed to be smarter. More surgical. Yet my reaction to Lucy Hammond felt distinctly primal. An unwelcome jolt of awareness that had fuck all to do with synergy calculations or market share.
The double doors open silently and Lucy Hammond walks in.
And fuck. She looks even better today. Less flustered than when a robot dog was violating my trousers, anyway.
She’s extremely well put together. Expensive-looking tailored navy dress that manages to be both professional and subtly feminine. Her honey blonde hair is styled perfectly. Her makeup is flawless. But I see the faint tension around her eyes. The slight rigidity in her posture. The way her knuckles are white where she grips the strap of her briefcase.
She waited an hour. She knows exactly what game I was playing. And she’s pissed. Good. Anger is easier to handle than tears or pleas.
She stops a precise ten feet from my desk. Head held high. Trying damn hard not to look intimidated by the thirty floors of glass and steel beneath her feet or the man sitting behind the ridiculously large desk.
“Mr. Blackwell,” she says. Her voice is steady. Impressively steady. Maybe a touch too bright.
“Ms. Hammond. Please sit.” I gesture towards one of the chairs opposite me. They’re uncomfortable by design. Another petty power play courtesy of dear old Dad’s influence which I despise even as I use it.
She sits, settling her briefcase beside her. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t look around the room too much. Just meets my gaze directly. Those damn blue eyes.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” she starts. “Before we begin, I really must apologize again for what happened at the expo yesterday. My friend can be an idiot, his sense of humor is… questionable, and I am truly sorry about the disruption, and, well… your trousers.” Her cheeks redden slightly.
I allow myself a small, dry smile. Let her squirm a little. “Don’t worry about it, Ms. Hammond. Consider it… memorable.” I pause, letting the word hang, then I lean forward slightly, my tone shifting back to pure business. “Now, my schedule is demanding. I trust you have something more substantive to discuss beyond the rather… eventful… introduction?” I keep my tone cool. Let’s cut the crap.
Her chin lifts slightly. “I believe a strategic partnership offers significantly more long term value for both Hammond & Co. and Blackwell Innovations than a hostile takeover and liquidation.”
“Hostile takeover.” I let a small dry smile touch my lips. “Such loaded terminology. I prefer to think of it as a strategic acquisition. A necessary restructuring of undervalued assets hampered by ineffective legacy management.” Harsh. But true. And designed to sting.
Her eyes flash. There’s that fire again. “My father built Hammond & Co. from nothing, Mr. Blackwell. It has a history. A reputation—”
“A history of declining profits and mounting debt,” I interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Reputation doesn’t pay the creditors. According to the financials I’ve reviewed, your debt-to-equity ratio is, frankly, alarming. Your operating margins are razor thin. Several key properties are underperforming. Significantly. And your father seems to have made a series of questionable high risk investments over the past three years that haven’t panned out.”
I tick off the points coldly, watching her face. Tatiana’s deep dive was thorough. I know the rot goes deep. Deeper perhaps than even the daughter realizes.
She maintains eye contact but I see the slight tightening of her lips. She knows I’m right. Or at least she knows I have the data.
“We are aware of the challenges, Mr. Blackwell,” she says. “That’s why I’m proposing a partnership. An injection of capital. Your technological expertise. Your market insights. Combined with our legacy assets, our brand loyalty, and our established presence— ”
“Your legacy assets are aging and worthless. Your brand loyalty is eroding. Your established presence is costing you a fortune in overhead.” I lean back again, crossing my arms. “Why would I partner with a sinking ship when I can simply buy the salvage rights for pennies on the dollar?”
This is the kill shot. The point where most people crumble. Where the fight goes out of them. I watch her waiting for the inevitable deflation. The flicker of defeat.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead something else happens. Her expression shifts. The defiance hardens but it’s overlaid with something raw. Something vulnerable. Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.
“Because,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “You don’t have the full picture. Or rather you probably do. And until this morning I didn’t.”
What the fuck?
She takes a shaky breath. “My father… he hasn’t been entirely forthcoming about the scale of the financial trouble. I discovered the true extent of it just hours ago. The numbers you have… they’re likely more accurate than the ones I based my initial proposal on.” She looks down at her hands clenched in her lap. “He hid it from me. The real depth of the debt. The warnings from creditors.”
Okay. That I did not expect.
My internal calculations stutter. Richard Hammond lying to his own daughter? Shielding her? Or setting her up to fail? Either way it’s a new variable. And her admitting it? Right here right now? That’s… bafflingly honest. Stupidly honest in a negotiation like this. Na ive even.
Or maybe incredibly brave.
She looks back up, meeting my gaze again. The anger is still there but now it’s mixed with a painful honesty. “So yes. Hammond & Co is in worse shape than I presented yesterday. Much worse. My pitch for partnership might seem even more ludicrous now. But it doesn’t change the core value proposition. Our name still means something in this city. Our key locations are irreplaceable. With the right investment, the right strategy… we can be saved. We can be profitable again. More profitable perhaps than just carving us up for scrap.”
Her voice gains strength as she speaks. The passion is back. Not just business speak. Genuine fucking passion for that crumbling family legacy. It’s definitely naive. It’s probably foolish.
But it’s undeniably real.
And goddammit I find myself respecting it. Respecting her refusal to just roll over and die even when faced with betrayal from her own father and the cold hard facts I’ve laid out. She’s still fighting. Still trying to find a way.
My father’s voice sneers in my head Crush them. Sentiment is weakness. But looking at Lucy Hammond right now, seeing the fight in her eyes despite the impossible odds… maybe sentiment isn’t just weakness. Maybe it’s fuel . Maybe it’s the foundation of that brand loyalty she keeps talking about. Something my purely logical strategic acquisitions sometimes fail to capture.
What if she’s right? What if there’s more value here than just liquidation? Integrating her passion, her connection to the company’s history… could that be the missing piece? Could we actually rebuild this thing stronger together ?
The thought is so contrary to my usual playbook that it feels alien. Dangerous even.
But the potential flickers there. A different kind of win. A smarter win. My win. Not my father’s scorched earth victory.
Fuck. What am I thinking? This is business. Not a rescue mission for a damsel in distress. Though she’s hardly a damsel. She’s a fighter. Cornered maybe but still fighting.
I need more information. I need to understand her motivations better. See how deep this resolve runs. Assess her capabilities beyond just inherited loyalty.
Purely strategic of course.
An idea forms unbidden in my mind.
“Your situation is indeed precarious,” I say. “And yet you still believe a partnership is viable?”
“I believe it’s the best path forward. For everyone involved.” Her gaze is steady. Earnest.
I study her for a long moment.
“All right,” I say, leaning forward. “Let’s assume for a moment that I entertain this… optimistic... notion of a partnership. What exactly would that look like from your end?”
Let her talk. Let her lay out her vision. See if there’s any substance behind the desperation and the pretty face.
And as she starts outlining potential synergies, restructuring ideas, and ways to leverage the Hammond brand with Blackwell tech my mind spins. It’s partly bullshit of course. Overly optimistic projections fueled by hope rather than hard data. But buried within it… there are kernels of genuine insight. Creative angles I hadn’t co nsidered. A perspective grounded in history and personal connection that my analysts could never replicate.
She understands the soul of the company. Even if its body is failing.
My father would laugh me out of the room. A partnership? With her? Unthinkable. Weak.
But the idea takes root. A hostile takeover is clean brutal efficient. A partnership… is messy. Complicated. Requires trust. Something I’m notoriously short on. Yet… the potential upside…
Maybe. Just maybe.
I need more time. More information. Not just financial data. Information about her. If she’s going to be my partner, I need to know everything there is to know about her and what makes her tick.
“This requires further discussion, Ms. Hammond. A more… informal setting perhaps. Are you available for dinner tonight?” The words are out before I can fully process the impulse, or the repercussions.
Her eyes widen slightly. Surprise flickers across her face, quickly replaced by suspicion. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. What’s his angle? Is this another power play? A trap?
Good. She’s not entirely naive.
“Dinner?” she repeats warily.
“To continue this conversation,” I clarify smoothly though my internal monologue is screaming What the fuck are you doing? Dinner? Are you insane?
I quickly rationalize it. Strategic necessity. Gauge her personality outside the boardroom. Identify weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Keep the enemy close.
Yes. Purely tactical.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I want to see if that fire in her eyes persists over a glass of expensive wine .
Nothing at all.
She hesitates for a beat longer then gives a small sharp nod. “Fine, Mr. Blackwell. Dinner.”
“My office will send you the details.” I stand up, signaling the end of the meeting.
She stands, too, gathering her briefcase. Her composure is firmly back in place but there’s a new awareness in her eyes. Acknowledgment that the game just shifted onto unfamiliar territory.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwell,” she says formally.
“Ms. Hammond.” I give her a curt nod, watching her walk towards the door.
She doesn’t look back.
The doors close behind her leaving me alone in the sudden silence of my office.
I rub the back of my neck.
What the hell just happened?
I came into this meeting planning to dismantle her arguments piece by piece. After watching her crumble, I intended to pounce by dictating the terms of surrender. Standard operating procedure.
Instead I listened. I considered her perspective. And I asked her to fucking dinner.
Don’t let that girl distract you. My father’s warning rings louder now.
Too late, maybe.
She’s already a distraction. A complication I didn’t anticipate and don’t quite understand. A variable messing with my carefully constructed equations.
Dinner.
Strategic advantage, I tell myself again firmly. Nothing more. Just gathering intelligence on the enemy.
But as I stare out at the indifferent city skyline a sliver of something else cuts through the cynicism.
Intrigue.
Annoyance.
And just maybe, a reluctant flicker of anticipation.
Fuck. This is going to be complicated.