7. Christopher
7
Christopher
A s the car pulls smoothly into traffic, I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes for a moment. Fucking Hammond & Co. What a goddamn relic. And yet…
I pull out my phone, dialing Tatiana. She answers on the first ring, naturally.
“Sir?” Her voice is crisp, efficient.
“The Hammond tour is complete,” I state.
“Initial assessment?” she asks, already anticipating my need to process.
I take a breath. “Structurally? It’s exactly the decaying pile I expected. Operationally? Obsolete in ways I didn’t even think were possible in this century. Richard Hammond is clinging to the past like a life raft, and he’s going down with the ship.”
“So, the initial acquisition analysis holds. Proceed with the standard asset absorption model?”
I hesitate. That’s the logical move. The profitable move. Strip it for parts. Sell the landmark building. Liquidate the portfolio. Simple. Clean. What my father would do. What I usually do .
“Not entirely,” I hear myself say. The words surprise me slightly. “There’s… something there. Intangible.”
Silence on Tatiana’s end. She knows better than to question the vagueness, but I can almost hear her blinking.
“The daughter,” I continue, trying to put a finger on it. “Lucy Hammond. She’s sharper than the financials suggest. She’s the one keeping the lights on, I’d bet my last billion on it. And she fought for it. Not just pleading, actually arguing value beyond the numbers.” I remember her in that power red dress, eyes flashing as she defended her crumbling legacy. The way she stood between me and her father, trying to mediate the inevitable collision.
“Her passion is noted, sir,” Tatiana says, her tone carefully neutral.
I purse my lips. “It might prove to be useful leverage. And the brand legacy… it still resonates, despite the mismanagement. The architects, the history she showcased. There’s a narrative. It could be spun, maybe rebuilt.”
Where the fuck is this coming from? Rebuilding? Spinning narratives? I’m a surgeon, not a fucking storyteller. I cut out the rot.
“So, a revised approach?” Tatiana probes gently. “A strategic partnership, as Ms. Hammond proposed?”
“Potentially,” I concede, annoyed at my own lack of decisiveness. “Something that preserves the core, maybe injects capital and tech, but maintains the Hammond name. Under our control, obviously. It’s… a possibility for you to model.” I think of Lucy’s face when I asked about their tech stack, the way she lit up explaining the VR pilot program she’d pushed th rough. She sees the future, even if her father is stuck in 1985.
“Understood, sir. I’ll task the analysts with modeling a structured investment scenario alongside the liquidation projection. Any specific parameters?”
“Focus on integration points for Blackwell tech. Identify key personnel worth retaining. And get me everything you can find on Lucy Hammond. Education, career path, personal connections. Everything.”
“Immediately, sir.”
I hang up, rubbing my temples. What the hell was that? Since when do I care about ‘key personnel’ in a target company beyond the C-suite I’m about to fire? Since when does a fucking history lesson make me reconsider a multi-million dollar acquisition strategy?
Since Lucy Hammond looked me dead in the eye and refused to back down, apparently. The thought is irritating. Distracting.
The Maybach glides to a stop in the private underground entrance of my building. Elijah Reeves, my head of security, is waiting, looking sharp and alert as ever. He opens my door.
“Welcome back to the office, Mr. Blackwell.” Elijah’s eyes scan the surroundings, even down here.
The ride up to the elevator is silent. My mind is still churning over the Hammond visit.
The elevator doors open directly into my office. Minimalist, clean lines, priceless art I barely notice. It’s a fortress, designed for efficiency and solitude.
I notice something is amiss immediately.
Tatiana isn’t here.
A voice cuts through the quiet.
“Well, well. Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”
Fuck.
Elijah, you could have mentioned He was here!
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan is my father. Perfectly tailored suit, silver goatee precisely trimmed, that cold, calculating look in his eyes that always sets my teeth on edge. He holds a tumbler of what I assume is my best scotch.
He never asks.
“Father,” I say, keeping my voice level. Showing irritation is showing weakness. “Unexpected visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” He scoffs, turning from the window. “Business, Christopher. Always business. I trust your little field trip to the museum of failed real estate was productive?”
He knows where I was. Of course he does. He probably has spies on my payroll, or worse, informants within Hammond’s crumbling walls.
“It was informative,” I reply, walking towards my office bar to pour myself a drink. Something stronger than scotch.
“Informative?” He follows me, his presence crowding my space. “Don’t give me that corporate bullshit. Did you close the deal? Did you put Richard Hammond out of his misery?”
“Negotiations are ongoing,” I say calmly, pouring two fingers of bourbon.
Father slams his tumbler down on the bar. Ice rattles. “Ongoing? What the hell is there to negotiate? They’re bankrupt! Offer pennies on the dollar, take the assets, gut the rest. It’s simple! It’s what we do , Christopher.”
There it is. The royal ‘we.’ As if Blackwell Innovations is just an extension of his archaic empire. As if I haven’t built my own billion-dollar company on different principles. Mostly.
“It’s my company, Father,” I remind him, my voice dangerously quiet. “And my deal. I employ strategies you might not appreciate. Subtlety has its place.”
“Subtlety?” He laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Subtlety is for people who can’t afford to be direct. Richard Hammond is weak. His company is dying. You go in for the kill, Christopher. Rip out the throat. Don’t dance around with his little girl.”
My hand tightens around my glass. The mention of Lucy, dismissive and crude, sparks a surprising flare of anger. “Lucy Hammond happens to be the only competent person left in that entire organization,” I snap, losing the careful control for a second.
Father raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes. “Oh? Is that right? Don’t tell me you’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment. Especially not over some desperate debutante trying to save daddy’s sinking ship.”
“My judgment is perfectly clear,” I bite back. “Hammond & Co. has certain legacy assets and brand recognition that might be more valuable preserved, albeit under new management. A hostile gutting could destroy that value.”
“Value?” He sneers. “The value is in the land, the portfolio you can flip, the competitors you eliminate. Everything else is noise. Don’t tell me you’re falling for that ‘legacy’ bullshit Richard has always peddled.”
“I’m assessing all angles,” I say stiffly. “Which is more than you ever did. Brute force isn’t always the most effective path.”
“It’s the cleanest,” Father counters. “Gets the job done. No messy partnerships, no lingering obligations. You learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t you? Or have you forgotten what happened with Michael Vance?”
The mention of my former partner, the betrayal that cost me millions and reinforced every cynical lesson my father ever taught me, hits a raw nerve. He knows it will.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I say, my voice like ice. “Which is why I handle my business my way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Father studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a thin, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Fine. Handle it your way. But don’t come crying to me when your ‘subtle’ approach blows up in your face. And remember, Christopher, some opportunities only knock once. Don’t let sentiment, or a pretty face, make you hesitate.”
He picks up his scotch, drains it, and sets the empty glass back down with a decisive click. “I’ll see myself out.”
He walks towards the elevator without looking back. The doors slide shut, leaving me alone in the sudden silence, the echo of his condescending advice ringing in my ears.
Fuck him.
The need to prove him wrong, to succeed on my own terms, burns hotter than ever. But his words burrow under my skin. Sentiment. A pretty face. Is that what this is? Am I letting Lucy Hammond distract me from the objective?
I down the bourbon in one gulp, the burn momentarily clearing my head. I stalk over to my desk, sinking into the chair. My terminal glows, waiting.
On impulse, I type ‘Lucy Hammond’ into my secure research database. Tatiana will pull the official records, but I want the unfiltered digital footprint.
The usual pops up first. LinkedIn profile: Junior Executive, Hammond & Co. Education: NYU Stern School of Business. Standard enough. But then… something else. Cross-enrolled at Parsons School of Design? Major listed as Art History and Photography, minor in Business Administration initially, before switching focus fully to Stern.
Art history? Photography?
I lean back, frowning. It doesn’t fit the picture of the determined businesswoman I met. Or does it? I remember her pausing by the old black-and-white photos in the Hammond hallway, her explanation of her grandfather’s vision for the Chrysler Building spire. It wasn’t just rehearsed corporate spiel. There was genuine appreciation there. Maybe even… passion. The same passion I saw when she defended her company, her father’s legacy, flawed as it is.
Does the art history background explain her focus on legacy, on aesthetics, on things beyond the bottom line? Does it explain why she sees value where the balance sheets only show debt? Or is it just a privileged young woman’s hobby before settling into the family business?
No. That doesn’t feel right. The woman I met, the woman who countered my dinner invitation with a demand to meet on her turf, the woman who faced me down despite knowing her company was bleeding out… she’s no dilettante. There’s steel under the stylish dress. There’s a brain behind those bright, challenging eyes, and those ever so sultry curves.
The art history adds… texture. Dimension. It makes her less predictable.
More interesting.
Shit.
Interesting is dangerous in this business. Interesting makes things complicated.
I stare at the screen, at the dual degrees, the unexpected path. My father’s voice echoes in my head: Don’t let sentiment make you hesitate.
Is it sentiment? Or is it strategy? Recognizing an unusual asset, a leader with both business acumen and a different perspective, someone who might, under the right circumstances, be capable of actually rebuilding Hammond & Co. into something formidable again. With my capital and technology, and her vision and drive…
The thought is radical. Risky. Completely counter to my usual methods and my father’s doctrine.
I pull up a blank document. Title it: Project Nightingale. Preliminary Proposal Draft. Why Nightingale? Fuck knows. Maybe because the name Hammond reminds me of old estates and birdsong. Or maybe because the idea feels like it needs shielding, something fragile brought back from the brink.
I start typing. Standard acquisition clauses first. Control percentages. Board seats. Financial oversight. The usual power plays.
Then I pause. I think about the history etched into the New York skyline. I think about Lucy, standing defiantly in her father’s office, trying to bridge the gap between his wounded pride and my calculated assessment.
Delete.
I start again. Investment tranches tied to performance milestones. Technology integration plans. Shared board control, weighted slightly in my favor but granting Hammond significant input. Key personnel retention clauses, specifically naming Lucy Hammond as interim CEO, reporting directly to me. Preservation of the Hammond & Co. brand identity.
This isn’t an acquisition. It’s a rescue mission. A fucking joint venture.
What the hell am I doing?
This proposal leaves value on the table. It invites complexity. It keeps the Hammond family involved, albeit with significantly less power. It’s everything my father warned against. Everything my own hard-won experience screams is a mistake.
But it feels… right. Strategically sound, even. A revitalized Hammond & Co., powered by Blackwell tech and led by a hungry, motivated Lucy Hammond, could become a major asset, worth far more than the liquidated parts. It’s a longer game. A more challenging game.
And perhaps I just want to see if she can actually pull it off.
I save the draft. Project Nightingale. It’s preliminary. Just an exploration of options. Nothing committed.
But I know, looking at the words on the screen, that I’ve already deviated from the path. My father wanted a quick kill. I’m planning… something else entirely.
Now comes the hard part. Convincing Lucy Hammond this isn’t just another predator’s trap. And dealing with the inevitable fallout when my father finds out I didn’t crush his old rival.
A slow, humorless smile touches my lips. This just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
And probably a hell of a lot more complicated .
Good.
I was getting bored anyway.
And honestly, I can’t wait to see the look on my father’s face when he finds out what I’ve done.