9. Christopher

9

Christopher

I mpatience claws at the inside of my skull.

Three fucking days.

Seventy two hours since Tatiana fired off Project Nightingale.

Does she think playing hard to get works in multi-million dollar negotiations? Is she stalling? Or is her board, full of Hammond loyalists and goddamn dinosaurs, dragging their feet?

My fingers tap an irritable rhythm on the polished obsidian surface of my desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

This shouldn’t bother me. It’s business. Deals like these take time. Weeks, months even. But I have no patience. Not for this one.

Seeing Lucy navigate that space, defending her father’s crumbling legacy while simultaneously showcasing its hidden value… was unexpected. And the way she handled her father’s barely concealed hostility towards me was… intriguing.

Which is precisely the problem. Intrigue has no place in a deal like this. Especially intrigue centered on the woman whose company I’m poised to absorb. My father would laugh his ass off.

Sentiment, Christopher? In business? Have I taught you nothing?

The intercom buzzes. Tatiana’s voice. “Mr. Blackwell. A moment?”

“Proceed, Tatiana.”

The door glides open. Tatiana enters, a tablet held precisely in one hand. Twenty six years old and runs my life with terrifying precision. Future CEO material, if she plays her cards right.

“Ms. Hammond’s office acknowledged receipt of the proposal, sir,” Tatiana reports, her voice perfectly neutral. “No official response has been provided. Their internal channels suggest the board meeting was… inconclusive.”

Inconclusive. Fucking fantastic. More delays. “And Ms. Hammond herself?” I clip out the words.

“My sources indicate she is attending the Children’s Literacy Foundation gala tonight. The St. Regis rooftop ballroom.” Tatiana offers the information without inflection, but she knows me. Knows I prefer direct action to waiting games.

A charity gala. Of course. Diamonds and desperation. Schmoozing for donations while her company teeters on the edge of oblivion. The irony is almost thick enough to taste. Perfect.

An idea sparks. Cold, calculated. A power play dressed up in a tuxedo. Corner her on neutral ground. Public space, limited escape routes. Force the issue. See how she handles pressure outside the boardroom. And maybe… maybe satisfy a growing curiosity that gnaws at the edges of my strategic thinking.

“Excellent work, Tatiana,” I say. “Clear my evening schedule. Have Victor bring the car around at eight. And inform Elijah I’ll require discreet accompaniment.” Posing as a business associate, as usual. Maya Chen, another member of my security detail, can blend in easily as well.

Tatiana raises a single, perfect eyebrow. The only sign of surprise she ever permits herself. “Sir?”

“I believe,” I say, standing and walking towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city sprawl, “it’s time for a face-to-face about Project Nightingale. Seems Ms. Hammond requires a personal nudge.” My reflection stares back, all sharp angles and tailored suit. Impassive. Controlled. Exactly as it should be.

The St. Regis rooftop ballroom is exactly what I expected. A suffocating crush of old money, new money, and people pretending to be both. Overpriced champagne flows like water. The air hums with forced laughter and the clink of jewelry designed to signal status. It’s a stage, and everyone here is playing a part. Including me.

Elijah melts into the background near the entrance, looking like just another bored executive, while Maya drifts towards the bar, easily mistaken for someone’s assistant. Their ever-vigilant gazes will never leave me.

My eyes scan the room, methodical, dismissive. And then I find her.

Lucy Hammond.

And fuck me. She’s not just ‘cleaned up well’. She’s… incandescent. Standing near a cluster of potted palms, talking to some silver haired fo ssil. Her dress isn’t ostentatious. Simple, elegant silk the color of a stormy sea, cut low enough to hint, high enough to command respect. It clings to curves I can’t take my eye off. Honey blonde hair swept up, revealing the delicate line of her neck.

She laughs at something the old man says, a genuine sound that cuts through the room’s artificial buzz.

My gut clenches. An involuntary, unwelcome reaction. It’s the dress. The setting. The unexpected vulnerability of seeing her outside the corporate battlefield. That’s all it is. Strategic assessment.

Our eyes meet across the glittering expanse. A jolt, sharp and unexpected, like static electricity, passes through me. Her smile falters for a fraction of a second. Then composure snaps back into place. She gives a polite nod, cool and distant, before turning back to her conversation.

Game on.

Let her stew. Let her feel my presence. I take a glass of champagne I don’t want from a passing waiter. I circulate slowly. Exchange meaningless pleasantries with a few industry faces I recognize. All the while, my attention remains tethered to her.

Our gazes collide again.

And again.

A silent battle of wills waged across a crowded room. Her chin lifts slightly each time, in subtle defiance.

Good.

I prefer my opponents with a spine.

Enough waiting.

Time to engage.

I set the untouched champagne flute down on a nearby table and move towards her, parting the crowd with the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you own most of the rooms people walk through. The silver haired fossil finally disengages, patting her arm before shuffling off towards the buffet.

Why does seeing him touch her arm like that suffuse me with a sudden rage?

I shake my head, force my mind clear. I’m here for one purpose, and one purpose alone.

Business.

She turns as I approach, her expression carefully neutral, but I see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

“Ms. Hammond,” I greet her, my voice cutting through the surrounding chatter. “Fancy meeting you here. Supporting literacy, are we? Or just networking for a bailout?”

Her spine stiffens. Predictable. Yet annoyingly attractive.

“Mr. Blackwell. Always a pleasure,” she replies, her tone dripping with polite frost. “I believe in supporting worthy causes. Unlike some, I find value beyond the bottom line.”

Always the fucking optimist, even when she’s drowning.

“Commendable,” I say, letting a smirk touch my lips. “Though I find worthy causes are easier to support when one isn’t facing imminent financial collapse. Which brings us to Project Nightingale. Three days, Ms. Hammond. My patience has its limits.”

She takes a delicate sip of her own champagne, buying time. Her hand, I notice, is steady on the glass. Impressive. “The proposal is comprehensive, Mr. Blackwell. It requires careful consideration by the board. Deals of this magnitude can take months to finalize. But I’m sure you know that already.”

“Your board,” I counter, stepping slightly closer, “is deadlocked. Paralyzed by nostalgia and fear. We both know that. Morgan Weiss is pushing for liquidation, isn’t he?”

Her eyes widen slightly. Surprise. Good. Keep her off balance. “Board discussions are confidential.”

“Confidentiality is a luxury, Ms. Hammond. Like ethics. Your company doesn’t have many luxuries left. You need this deal. You need me. So, let’s cut the bullshit. What’s the real holdup?”

She hesitates, glancing around as if seeking an escape. There is none. Just me. “The board has concerns,” she admits finally, meeting my gaze directly. “Significant ones. About control. About… personnel.”

“Personnel,” I repeat flatly. “You mean your father.”

She nods, her jaw tightening. “My father founded Hammond & Co. He built its reputation. He deserves to remain as CEO. It’s non-negotiable.”

I almost laugh. Non-negotiable? Everything is negotiable when you’re desperate. But her fierce loyalty… it pisses me off and, damn it, I respect it. Okay. Fine. A calculated concession. With strings attached. Thick, unavoidable strings.

“Fine,” I say, the word sharp. “Richard Hammond can keep his title. CEO. For now. On one condition.”

Her eyes narrow. “Which is?”

“You,” I state, holding her gaze. “You become my personal liaison. You report directly to me. Weekly briefings. Full transparency. No filters. No delays. And you start immediately. Before the deal is signed.”

She looks stunned. “My father can report to you.”

“No,” I cut her off, my voice hard. “Your father hid the company’s disastrous financials from his own daughter. He massaged the books, took questionable loans. You think I’m going to trust him and him alone with my investment? Imagine what he’d hide from me, the son of a man he clearly despises.” I lean in fractionally. “I trust you, Ms. Hammond. You, I believe, understand the stakes. You won’t bullshit me. That’s the only way your father keeps his corner office. Take it or leave it.”

She stares at me, processing the ultimatum. The implications. Reporting directly to me. The intimacy of that professional arrangement. The power dynamic shift. I can almost see the gears turning behind those intelligent eyes. Relief warring with resentment. Pragmatism battling pride.

“That’s… an unusual arrangement,” she says slowly.

“It’s the only arrangement on the table,” I reply coolly. “Ensures my investment is protected. Ensures you have a direct line to implement the changes Hammond & Co. desperately needs. Changes your father has proven incapable of making.”

She looks away, towards the glittering city skyline visible through the ballroom windows. A long moment passes. The sounds of the gala fade into a dull roar.

“You mentioned Morgan Weiss,” she says eventually, her voice quieter now, turning back to face me. “What do you know about him?”

"Why?" I ask.

She studies me a moment, as if unsure she should speak. Then she opens up: “I don’t trust him. Something feels off.”

Interesting. She senses it too. Weiss is playing a deeper game. Probably my father pulling the strings, trying to undermine my approach. The old bastard always preferred scorched-earth tactics.

“Weiss is ambitious,” I offer, keeping my tone neutral, analytical. Giving her just enough rope. “He likely sees liquidation as the quickest path to cashing out his shares. Or perhaps,” I pause, watching her reaction closely, “he’s getting pressure from an outside party who benefits from Hammond & Co.’s failure.”

Her brow furrows. “Like who?”

“Think, Ms. Hammond. Who hates your father? Who benefits from seeing the Hammond legacy dismantled? Who has a history of… aggressive acquisitions?” I let the implication hang there. Let her connect the dots back to Mark Blackwell.

She absorbs this, her expression troubled. We’re no longer just discussing the deal. We’re sparring, circling each other, testing defenses. The line between business adversary and… something else… blurs.

“Your methods are ruthless, Mr. Blackwell,” she says, a spark returning to her eyes. “You talk about saving the company, but your terms are designed for absolute control. Is there any room for partnership in your world? Or just domination?”

“Partnership requires trust,” I retort, irritated by her idealistic bullshit. “And trust is earned. Your company is failing. My ‘ruthless methods’ are offering it a lifeline. A chance to survive, to modernize. Is clinging to outdated ideals more important than saving jobs? Than preserving even a fraction of your father’s legacy?”

“There’s a way to do business ethically!” she insists, her voice rising. Color floods her cheeks. God, she’s magnificent when she’s angry. “Without sacrificing people for profit! Without treating everything like a hostile takeover! ”

“Hostile?” I scoff, stepping closer still. The space between us shrinks, charged with sudden, unexpected heat. Her scent, that bergamot, jasmine, vanilla, is intoxicating. “This isn’t hostile, Ms. Hammond. This is realism. The world isn’t fucking rainbows. It’s sharks like me, and sharks like my father, and you’re bleeding in the water. I’m offering you a life raft. Stop pretending it’s a cage.”

“And you’re the benevolent shark?” she shoots back, tilting her head up to meet my gaze, refusing to back down. “Forgive me if I don’t find that comforting.”

Her defiance, her fire, the way her eyes flash… it cracks something inside me. The rigid control I maintain with iron discipline. The strategic calculation. All of it fractures. In its place surges a raw, primal impulse. To silence her arguments. To taste that defiance. To close the unbearable distance between us.

Fuck it.

Before conscious thought can intervene, I lean down and capture her mouth with mine. It’s not gentle. It’s hard, demanding. A collision of frustration, anger, and an attraction so potent it burns. Her lips are soft, yielding for a stunned second before she gasps against my mouth. The scent of her, the unexpected heat, the sheer shock of the contact, it slams through me, short-circuiting every rational thought.

Her hands come up, pushing against my chest, but there’s no real force behind them. Not yet. For a dizzying moment, there’s only the press of her lips, the sharp intake of her breath, the chaotic thunder of my own pulse in my ears.

Then, as abruptly as I started it, I pull back.

We stare at each other, breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her lips are slightly swollen, red. My reflection swims in the dark centers of her eyes. Shock. Confusion. And something else… something mirrored in the frantic hammering in my own chest.

What the actual fuck did I just do?

The noise of the gala rushes back in, loud and intrusive. We’re standing in the middle of a crowded room. Anyone could have seen. My security detail is probably having kittens.

A wave of cold realization washes over the heat.

Control. I lost control. Crossed a line I swore I never would.

Business and personal. Never mix them. My father’s voice echoes dimly. Weakness, Christopher. Sentiment is weakness.

I feel a sudden wave of irritation. At myself. At her for making me react this way.

“I…” she starts, her voice barely a whisper, touching her lips with trembling fingers.

I don’t let her finish. I can’t deal with the fallout right now. I need distance. A whole fucking lot of distance.

I need to regain control.

“My offer stands, Ms. Hammond,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, the mask of cool indifference firmly back in place, even though my insides are churning. “You know my terms. Contact Tatiana when you have your decision.”

Without waiting for a response, without trusting myself to stay another second in her presence, I turn on my heels and walk away, the taste of her still burning on my lips.

Fuck.

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