6. Lucy
6
Lucy
I smooth down the front of my Roland Mouret dress. Power red, because subtle is for people who aren’t teetering on the brink of financial annihilation. My heels click sharply on the floor of the Hammond & Co. lobby, a sound that usually feels authoritative but today just jangles my nerves.
The echo mocks the silent fury I’d been nursing for the past sixty minutes. An hour. Christopher Blackwell was late. Again. Just like he’d been for our meeting at his office. When Carol’s voice finally crackled over the intercom announcing his arrival at precisely 10:00 AM, a full hour past schedule, I told her I needed five minutes. Petty? Maybe. But turnabout is fair play, even when you’re negotiating from the business equivalent of a sinking ship. Can’t let him think he can just dictate everything, including time.
Five minutes later, having achieved absolutely nothing except feeling slightly less trampled, I head toward the front of the office.
Carol, Dad’s assistant and the closest thing Hammond & Co. has to an immovable object, gives me a tight-lipped, almost imperceptible nod from behind the mahogany reception desk as I approach. It’s her ‘Good luck, don’t let the shark bite’ look. She’s seen generations of Hammonds face down crises, but I bet even she hasn’t seen one quite like this.
And there he is. Not pacing, not looking inconvenienced by my five-minute power play, but seated comfortably in one of the slightly worn leather armchairs in the waiting area. Legs crossed, casually scanning a copy of the Wall Street Journal like he hasn’t just waltzed in an hour late.
Of course he doesn’t look bothered.
His suit is charcoal gray, making our slightly faded grandeur look, well, faded. He’s alone today, no intimidating assistant or obvious security detail, though I bet he has men standing guard outside.
He lowers the newspaper slowly as I approach, those sharp blue eyes instantly finding mine across the lobby. And then he smirks. That infuriating, knowing little smirk that says, ‘Nice try, cupcake, but I’m still running this show’.
God, I hate that smirk. And the way my stomach does a stupid little flip-flop when I see it.
He rises smoothly, folding the paper and placing it neatly on the side table. “Ms. Hammond,” his voice is smooth, deep, and laced with barely concealed amusement. “Ready to begin? Or were you hoping I’d leave?”
“Mr. Blackwell,” I reply, stepping forward, hand outstretched. My palm is embarrassingly damp. Get it together, Lucy. “Welcome to Hammond & Co. Thank you for agreeing to meet here.”
His hand envelops mine. It’s warm, firm, and the contact sends another ridiculous jolt up my arm. His grip lingers just a fraction of a second too long, his thumb brushing lightly against my pulse point.
Is he doing that on purpose? Power play? Or just… him?
I pull my hand back, maybe a little too quickly.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, the smirk deepening slightly. “Always interested in historical sites. Though I confess, I usually prefer ones with fewer… structural issues.”
Ouch. Okay, so we’re starting with insults disguised as observations. Lovely.
“We prefer to think of it as character, Mr. Blackwell,” I say brightly, forcing a smile that hopefully looks more confident than terrified. “Something built to last, not just to flip. Shall we?”
“You say it like flipping is a bad thing,” he retorts.
I ignore the comment, and gesture towards the main hallway, which is lined with black-and-white photographs of iconic New York buildings Hammond & Co. helped shape. “Our history is literally built into the skyline.”
Please don’t ask about the last decade’s contribution, please don’t ask…
He falls into step beside me, his presence disconcertingly large in the relatively narrow corridor. He smells incredible, that subtle, expensive cologne—
Focus, Lucy! Legacy, not cologne comparisons.
“Impressive portfolio,” he murmurs, pausing before a photo of the Chrysler Building during its construction. “Your grandfather was involved in the financing structure for Van Alen’s spire, wasn’t he? A notoriously complex deal for the time.”
I blink.
He did his homework. Or he just has an encyclopedic knowledge of New York real estate history. Which is somehow more annoying.
“He was,” I tell him. “He always said it was more about vision than financing. Believing in something bold.”
“Boldness requires capital,” Christopher counters smoothly, moving to the next photo. “And foresight. Something that seems to be… lacking in recent years.”
And there it is. The subtle jab, wrapped in historical commentary.
Don’t react. Don’t let him see it gets to you.
“We’re adapting,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Which is why we’re exploring strategic partnerships with someone like you. Someone with a modern approach, technological expertise…” Someone with a giant pile of cash who won’t fire everyone. “To complement our legacy.”
We pass the main drafting room. Through the glass walls, I can see architects bent over screens and large-format prints. Liam O’Connell, our head architect, a man whose family has worked with the Hammonds for three generations, looks up as we pass. He gives me a small, encouraging nod.
“Your team still does manual drafting?” Christopher asks, tilting his head towards a younger architect sketching on vellum.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Liam believes it connects you to the design differently. But we’ve integrated CAD and VR modeling extensively. In fact, that’s an area where Blackwell Innovations’ expertise could be invaluable.”
He doesn’t reply immediately, just watches the architects work for a moment. His expression is thoughtful, almost… appreciative ?
No, must be indigestion.
He turns back to me. “What’s your current tech stack for project management and client visualization?”
I launch into an explanation of our software, the recent upgrades I pushed through, the pilot program for using VR walkthroughs on our newer projects. He listens intently, occasionally interjecting with a sharp, technical question that shows he actually understands the nuances.
“We’re not dinosaurs, Mr. Blackwell,” I say, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice as we continue down the hall towards the executive offices. “We understand the need to evolve. We just need the resources to do it effectively, without compromising the quality and integrity Hammond is known for.”
“Integrity doesn’t pay the bills,” he remarks coolly.
“Which brings us back to the idea of a mutually beneficial arrangement,” I parry, trying to sound breezy. “Your resources, our legacy and market position.”
God, I sound like a corporate brochure.
We arrive at the heavy oak door of my father’s office. The nameplate reads ‘Richard Hammond, Chairman.’
I plaster on a smile. “My father is looking forward to meeting you.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Carol buzzes us in without needing to be asked.
Dad is standing behind his desk, not sitting. A power move, trying to match Christopher’s height. He looks… tired. The lines around his eyes seem deeper, his usual confident posture a little forced.
“Mr. Blackwell,” Dad says, his tone perfectly courteous but distinctly cool. He doesn’t offer his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Mr. Hammond,” Christopher replies, his voice equally level. The faint smirk is back. He glances around the office, his eyes lingering for a moment on a photo of a much younger Dad with my grandfather at a groundbreaking ceremony. “Impressive office. Quite the… historical perspective.”
“We value history here, Mr. Blackwell,” Dad says stiffly. “It reminds us of what we’re building on. And what we stand to protect.” The implication hangs heavy in the air: protect it from you .
“History is valuable,” Christopher concedes, turning his gaze back to my father. “But nostalgia can be expensive. Sometimes, preserving the past requires embracing the future. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”
Okay, Lucy, jump in before Dad starts quoting Churchill or something equally irrelevant.
“Which is exactly why we’re having this conversation,” I interject quickly, moving slightly between them. “Dad, I’ve been showing Mr. Blackwell some of our legacy projects, but also discussing the potential for integrating new technologies, areas where Blackwell Innovations excels.”
Dad looks at me, his expression a mixture of pride and apprehension. Mostly the latter. “Lucy is quite forward-thinking,” he says to Christopher. “Always has been.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Christopher says, his eyes flicking towards me. “Hammond & Co. has deep roots, undeniable brand recognition. But its infrastructure, both physical and operational, needs significant investment to remain competitive.”
Dad shifts uncomfortably. “We’re not looking for a handout, Blackwell. Or a hostile… absorption. ”
Christopher raises an eyebrow. “My initial offer was hardly hostile, Mr. Hammond. It was generous, considering the publicly available financial data.” He pauses, letting the implication sink in regarding the non -public data. “However, your daughter presents an alternative. A path involving collaboration rather than acquisition. I’m here to explore the viability of that path.”
The air crackles with tension. My father looks like he swallowed something sour. Christopher looks perfectly composed, perhaps even enjoying the discomfort.
Is this his idea of fun? Watching established families squirm?
“We have intrinsic value beyond the balance sheet,” Dad insists, his voice tight. “Decades of relationships, community trust…”
“Trust is easily eroded by financial instability,” Christopher cuts in smoothly. “And relationships often follow the money. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
Okay, this needs to end before Dad throws a vintage paperweight at his head.
“Mr. Blackwell has another meeting shortly,” I lie smoothly, glancing pointedly at my watch. “We appreciate you taking the time for this tour, Mr. Blackwell. It’s given you a clearer picture, I hope, of what Hammond & Co. represents beyond the numbers.”
He turns his full attention back to me. “It’s given me data points, Ms. Hammond. Your passion is certainly a data point. Your father’s… reluctance… is another.” He offers a slight nod. “I’ll be in touch regarding the next steps after reviewing my team’s analysis alongside… this.” He gestures vaguel y around the room, encompassing the history, the tension, maybe even me.
He nods coolly at my father, who returns the gesture with equal frostiness. Then Christopher turns and walks out. I escort him to the front door, and when it closes behind him, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I return to Dad’s office.
“Well,” Dad says from his chair. He looks older than he did ten minutes ago. “That went… about as expected.”
“Expected?” I whirl around, the fragile calm shattering. “Dad, that was potentially our only way out of this mess! And you treated him like he was tracking mud on the carpet!”
“He’s a vulture, Lucy!” Dad snaps back, his own frustration boiling over. “Circling, waiting for us to drop! Did you hear him? Talking about ‘nostalgia’ and ‘financial instability’? He doesn’t respect what we’ve built!”
“Maybe not,” I retort, pacing in front of his desk. “But he respects competence . He asked real questions. He sees the potential buried under the debt you racked up! He was offering a lifeline, maybe not the one we wanted, but a lifeline nonetheless! And you were practically radiating hostility!”
“My hostility?” He pushes himself up straighter. “He’s the one trying to steal our company!”
“He’s the one who might be able to save it!” My voice rises. “Don’t you get it? We don’t have the luxury of pride right now! Morgan Weiss is pushing for liquidation, the banks are closing in, and all you want to do is offend the billionaire who might actually have the capital and the strategy to turn things around! ”
Tears of frustration prick my eyes. “I spent all last night going through the real books, Dad. The ones you didn’t want me to see. Do you have any idea how close we are? How much I’ve been doing behind the scenes just to keep payroll met? The cost-cutting, the renegotiated supplier contracts, the projects I personally saved from falling apart because you were too busy making ‘one last gamble’?”
The words hang in the air, raw and painful. I’ve never spoken to him like this. Never laid bare how much responsibility I’d shouldered while he clung to illusions.
His face falls. The anger drains away, leaving him looking utterly defeated. He stares at his hands, resting on the polished mahogany desk that suddenly looks too big for him. “I… I didn’t realize, Lucy. How much…”
“You didn’t want to realize,” I say, the accusation softer now, laced with exhaustion and a deep, aching sadness. “It was easier to pretend things weren’t that bad. Easier to let me handle the messy parts.”
He looks up, his eyes glistening. “I thought I was protecting you.”
“You were protecting yourself,” I whisper. “And now, we might both lose everything because of it.”
The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic outside the window. The weight of the company, the legacy, his failings, my frantic efforts. All of it presses down on me. Showing Christopher the ‘value’ of Hammond & Co. feels almost pointless now, overshadowed by the deep cracks within my own family, within the leadership of the company itself.
Did Christopher see that too? Did he see the desperation behind the history lesson, the conflict simmering beneath the surface?
Probably. The man doesn’t miss much.
The question is, what will he do with that knowledge? And why, despite everything, despite the fight I just had, despite the pit in my stomach, does a tiny, defiant part of me feel a flicker of… hope? Or maybe just morbid curiosity about what happens next.
Ugh. I definitely need coffee. And maybe a very, very stiff drink later.