10. Lucy
10
Lucy
W alk, Lucy.
Just walk.
Don’t run.
Running implies panic, and panic implies he actually affected you. Which he didn’t. Except he totally, completely, apocalyptically did .
My heels click too fast on the polished marble floor of the St. Regis lobby, echoing the frantic jackhammering in my chest.
Get out. Get out. Get out.
I can still smell the ghost of his cologne. And my lips tingle. Burn , actually. Like I’ve been… well, like I’ve been thoroughly kissed by Christopher Blackwell, the man actively trying to swallow my family’s company whole.
Did anyone see? Oh god, please tell me no one saw.
I wonder if he’s still here.
I risk a glance back towards the elevators leading to the rooftop ballroom.
No sign of him. Good.
He probably vanished in a puff of smug billionaire smoke the second I turned my back. Or more likely, coolly adjusted his perfect cuffs and went back to dissecting someone else’s vulnerabilities for fun and profit.
Outside, the cool night air hits my flushed face like a blessing. I wave frantically for a cab, ignoring the doorman’s attempt to summon one. A yellow blur screeches to a halt.
I practically dive into the back seat.
The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. “Rough night, miss?”
“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, slumping against the worn vinyl. My reflection stares back from the window. Wild eyes, slightly smeared lipstick (his fault), hair probably escaping its elegant updo thanks to my panicked flight.
And my cheeks are flaming. Of course they are. A hostile-takeover-turned-makeout-session is practically guaranteed beetroot territory.
I quickly give the driver my address and then close my eyes to think.
Okay. Tactical retreat executed. Enemy contact… unexpectedly physical.
What the hell was that anyway?
A power play?
A moment of sheer insanity?
Boredom?
Probably the latter. Still, he looked just as shocked as I felt for a split-second before his impenetrable mask slammed back down. But the kiss itself… wasn’t cold. Wasn’t calculated.
It was furious. Intense.
It’s as if all the simmering tension between us, the arguments, the negotiations, the stupid, unwanted sparks, finally combusted .
And the worst part? The absolute worst part? For one insane second, before my brain screamed bloody murder and my hands found his chest, I might have… leaned in. Just a fraction.
No. Absolutely not. Chalk it up to shock. Temporary insanity induced by stress and champagne.
I shake my head. What a crazy night.
Also, god, at least give me some warning next time so I can pop a freakin’ breath mint!
Actually no. That would imply I care that he kissed me.
Which I absolutely don’t.
The cab pulls up to my apartment building. I quickly pay with my phone and stumble out onto the familiar sidewalk.
Safe. Ish.
The next morning dawns gray and unforgiving, mirroring my mood. My apartment, usually my sanctuary filled with art books and cozy throws, feels like a cage. I’m pacing, clutching a mug of coffee strong enough to wake the dead, which is essentially what I feel like. I barely slept a wink all night.
Logic. I need logic, not emotions.
Deploy the logic.
I grab a notepad and pen, channeling my inner business student.
PROS of Christopher Blackwell Kissing Me:
1. …
2. … Okay, maybe no t ‘pros’.
CONS of Christopher Blackwell Kissing Me:
1. He’s the enemy. The gorgeous, infuriating, surprisingly complex enemy.
2. He’s trying to take over my family’s company.
3. This complicates everything. The deal, the liaison role he demanded… Oh god, the liaison role. Reporting directly to him? After that? Kill me now.
4. It was… confusingly good? No! Bad Lucy! Down girl! Focus!
5. Potential for epic professional implosion: HIGH.
6. He probably thinks I’m easy now. Ugh.
My phone buzzes on the counter, making me jump. An email notification.
Subject: Meeting Request - C. Blackwell.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
My stomach does a nervous flip-flop. The message is not from him directly, of course. It’s from Tatiana Cole, his terrifyingly efficient assistant. The email is brief, precise, and utterly devoid of emotion, which somehow makes it even more intimidating.
Mr. Blackwell requests a private meeting with Ms. Hammond at her earliest convenience to clarify professional boundaries regarding Project Nightingale. Please advise availability. Suggested location: Private dining room, The Carlyle, 12:00 PM today ?
Clarify professional boundaries? Is he serious?
He’s the one who blew them up with napalm last night! The absolute nerve. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance.
And The Carlyle? Seriously? Couldn’t pick a coffee shop like normal people?
Nooooo, it has to be some hush hush, super expensive temple of discretion.
Jesus.
Part of me wants to write back: Dear Mr. Blackwell, regarding boundaries: How about you keep your damn predatory lips on your side of the negotiating table? Thanks, Lucy.
But I can’t. Hammond there’s a cold, hard logic to it. A perspective I hadn’t considered. He sees himself not as a destroyer, but as… a surgeon? Cutting away the disease to save the patient?
Okay, did the big bad wolf just present a surprisingly nuanced argument? Or is this just a more sophisticated form of manipulation?
He makes saving the company sound almost… collaborative. Aligned, even. While simultaneously demanding total control via me.
He watches me process this, his expression carefully neutral, but I sense a keen awareness, an assessment of my reaction.
“My methods aren’t my father’s methods,” he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought. “He believes in scorched earth. I believe in strategic reconstruction.”
The mention of his father, the shadowy Mark Blackwell, hangs in the air. The man Ava’s husband Gideon despises and my father hates. For good reason. The same man Christopher supposedly broke away from, yet seems perpetually measured against.
I pick at my salad, my mind racing. This Christopher Blackwell is… more complicated than the caricature. The ruthless reputation is real, earned, but maybe the motivation behind it isn’t purely predatory. Maybe. Or perhaps he’s just really good at selling his narrative.
The conversation stalls. The elephant, the kiss, has been addressed, and dismissed (by him, anyway), but its ghost lingers, charging the air between us.
“So,” I say finally, pushing my barely touched plate away. “Project Nightingale. Your terms. My role as liaison. It’s the only way?”
“It’s the best way,” he counters smoothly. “For the company’s survival. For preserving what can be preserved. And,” he adds, a glint I can’t quite decipher in his eyes, “for ensuring I have someone on the inside I can actually work with.”
Work with. Not against. Is that what this is becoming?
I don’t know what to think. My head is spinning. He’s the enemy, the threat, the man who kissed me senseless and then coolly compartmentalized it. But he’s also offering a lifeline, albeit one with sharp edges, and articulating a vision for Hammond & Co.’s survival that makes a certain amount of sense. He’s challenging my assumptions, not just about business, but about him .
“I need to think,” I murmur, gathering my portfolio.
“Think quickly, Lucy,” he replies, his voice regaining its usual cool command.
I stand up, my legs feeling slightly unsteady. “I’ll be in touch. Through Tatiana .”
He nods, remaining seated, watching me with that unnervingly steady gaze.
I turn and walk out of the private room, leaving him surrounded by the quiet luxury.
Okay. Well, that was an interesting meeting. Complicated and confusing maybe, but also... a tiny bit hopeful? Or is that just the adrenaline talking?
My head hurts. And somehow, despite clarifying nothing definitively, the path forward feels even murkier than before.
The only thing I know for sure is that Christopher Blackwell is getting under my skin in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with business.