5. Lucy
5
Lucy
D inner?
Did I actually just agree to dinner with Christopher Blackwell?
The guy whose idea of foreplay is probably a hostile takeover bid?
My hand is still gripping my briefcase handle like it’s a life raft, and the silent, buttonless elevator ride back down from Blackwell Tower feels like stumbling off a Broadway stage mid-performance, clutching a script written in crayon, having just discovered the play is actually a tragedy and you thought it was a rom-com until five minutes ago.
“Fine, Mr. Blackwell. Dinner,” I’d said.
What was I thinking? Strategic advantage? More like strategic suicide.
He probably plans to ply me with thousand-dollar wine until I accidentally sign over the company on a cocktail napkin.
No. Absolutely not. I cannot let him control this narrative. Dinner in his turf, his rules, his carefully chosen restaurant, no doubt designed to intimidate or impress or whatever rich guys do when they’re trying to subtly assert dominance. I need to regain some semblance of control here, even if it’s just choosing the damn meeting location.
Back on the street, the noise of Midtown hits me like a physical force after the eerie quiet of Blackwell Tower. Taxis honk, sirens wail, the air smells like exhaust fumes and questionable street food. It’s chaotic, messy, real . Unlike the sterile perfection upstairs.
I need that grounding right now.
Pulling out my phone, my fingers fumble slightly. I don’t have his direct number, obviously. He probably changes it weekly to avoid peasants like me. But I have the main line for Blackwell Innovations.
“Blackwell Innovations, how may I direct your call?” The operator sounds like a pleasant robot. Maybe it is.
“Tatiana Cole, please. Lucy Hammond calling.” I try to inject crisp confidence into my voice, praying it doesn’t wobble.
A few clicks, a brief hold Muzak interlude that sounds suspiciously like a synthesized version of Vivaldi, and then a cool, calm voice answers. “Tatiana Cole.”
“Ms. Cole, hello. It’s Lucy Hammond.” Don’t sound desperate. Don’t sound desperate. “I’m calling regarding the dinner Mr. Blackwell proposed for this evening.”
A beat of silence. I can practically hear her processing, filing, assessing. “Yes, Ms. Hammond?”
“While I appreciate the invitation,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I believe a more productive continuation of our discussion would be best held at Hammond it’s him. My brilliant, confident father, reduced to hiding debts and dodging reality. The legacy isn’t just the buildings; it’s the man, and he’s crumbling, too.
“Okay,” I say softly, the fight gone from my voice. “Okay, Dad. No more hiding. No more wishful thinking.” I walk over to the desk, placing my hands flat on the cool wood. “We need a real plan. A survival plan. And I need everything. Every hidden bill, every threatening letter, every skeleton in the Hammond & Co. closet. Because tomorrow morning, Christopher Blackwell is walking through that door, and I need to know exactly what battlefield we’re fighting on.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes. There’s fear there, but also a flicker of something else. Relief? Maybe. “So it’s not over yet, then. You’ll found a way. You always do. All right, Lucy. I’ll give you everything.”
The rest of the evening is a blur of spreadsheets, frantic calls to our increasingly panicked accountant, and lukewarm coffee. Dad, to his credit, doesn’t hold back. The full picture is brutal. Worse than I imagined. We’re teetering on the edge, and Blackwell knows it.
Alone in my apartment later that night, surrounded by piles of financial documents that look more like autopsy reports, exhaustion wars with adrenaline. There’s no way any sort of partnership proposal would be accepted. Not in our current state. It’s laughable. Utterly delusional.
And yet...
While Christopher Blackwell saw the rot that has eaten away at this company, he also witnessed the potential underneath. Or at least, he was willing to entertain the idea of potential. Maybe. Why else agree to the meeting tomorrow? Why not just proceed with the hostile takeover he knows he can probably win?
My internal compass screams at me not to rely on him, not to trust the shark. But practicality whispers a colder truth: his capital, his expertise… they might be the only things that can save us. If I can somehow convince him that rebuilding is smarter than wrecking.
I start sketching out a new proposal. Drastic restructuring. Asset sales. Painful, but necessary. I go through his entire website, all the brochures, even stuff his R&D team is working on. If we’re going to integrate his tech, I need to know exactly what that tech is and what it does.
Then I come up with a clear plan. Shared control, ironclad clauses protecting the Hammond name and core employees. It’s a long shot. A Hail Mary pass based on the hope that beneath the ruthless billionaire facade, there’s a strategist who values a smart rebuild over a quick demolition. And maybe respects a fighter.
Okay, Blackwell, I think, rubbing my tired eyes. You want to see value? Tomorrow, I’ll show you value. Hammond & Co. isn’t dead yet.
The thought brings a flicker of determination, but exhaustion pulls at me. My mind drifts, unbidden, back to those sharp blue eyes, the faint smirk, the unexpected intensity of his presence.
Focus!
He’s the adversary!
The very attractive, infuriatingly competent adversary.
Tomorrow.
My turf.
Let’s see how well Mr. Blackwell enjoys playing away from home.
I just hope I have enough coffee to survive it.