11. Christopher
11
Christopher
W ork.
That’s the fucking antidote.
Always is. Always has been.
It lets me drown out the noise. Bury the impulses.
I can focus on the raw numbers, the pure projections, the cold hard facts of the next deal. A property downtown in a prime location. Ripe for redevelopment into luxury condos with a tech integration package that’ll make billionaires weep for fucking joy.
Standard operating procedure. Find the undervalued asset. Optimize. Extract maximum value. Move on.
Simple.
Clean.
Emotionless.
Except my focus keeps shattering like cheap glass.
Fucking Lucy Hammond.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Her wide shocked eyes after… after I lost control. That goddamn kiss. A tactical error of monumental proportions. Unprofessional. Unnecessary .
And utterly fucking consuming.
I slam my fist onto the polished surface of my conference table. Empty except for me. The depiction of the downtown property shimmers on the video whiteboard. Tatiana is managing my calls. Elijah and his team are ghosts in the periphery.
Silence. Just the way I usually like it.
Usually.
I’m not going to get anything done.
“Concentrate,” I mutter to the empty room. My reflection stares back from the dark screen of another monitor next to me. Sharp suit. Impassive expression. The mask. Always the mask. But behind the eyes, there’s a fucking storm brewing. Irritation. Frustration. And something else.
Something I refuse to name.
I force my attention back to the video whiteboard and the property displayed on it. The developer, Vanguard Properties, is cutting corners. Predictable. Shoddy materials hidden behind flashy finishes. Minimal green space sacrificed for maximum unit density. Zero consideration for the existing neighborhood fabric. Just pure, unadulterated profit motive. It’s sloppy. It’s greedy. It’s… standard. It’s what I usually exploit.
But seeing it laid bare today, after walking through Hammond & Co.’s headquarters yesterday… it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Richard Hammond might be a sentimental old fool running his company into the ground, but damn it, the man built things with integrity once. Buildings that lasted . Projects that shaped the city with some degree of thought, not just naked avarice.
Lucy’s fierce pride in that legacy, her desperate attempt to salvage something real… it contrasts sharply with this Vanguard bullshit.
Am I actually comparing a potential acquisition target favorably to the company I was supposed to gut and flip? What the fuck is happening to me?
Is Lucy’s earnestness contagious?
My private line buzzes. A specific, grating tone I only assigned to one contact. My father. Mark Fucking Blackwell.
Perfect.
Just what I need: a dose of pure, unadulterated cynicism to clear my head.
I stab the button on the console. “ What? ”
No greeting. No pleasantries. We don’t do that.
“Christopher.” His voice is gravel over razor wire. Same old commanding tone, laced with impatience and condescension. “Just checking on the Hammond situation. Heard you sent them a proposal. Word is, it’s surprisingly… gentle.”
Gentle. He makes it sound like a fucking disease.
“It’s strategic ,” I bite back, keeping my voice level. Control. Always maintain control. Especially with him. “Hammond has underlying assets and a brand reputation, however tarnished, that can be leveraged. A full liquidation destroys that value. My approach preserves it for optimal long term gain.”
A dry chuckle crackles through the speaker. “Again with this bullshit? You’re like a broken record. What the fuck is wrong with you, boy? Are you getting soft? Richard Hammond is a relic. His company is a dinosaur waiting for the meteor. How many times do I have to say this? Crush it. Take the assets. Teach the dumb shit a lesson. That’s the Blackwell way.”
The Blackwell way. His way. The way he drilled into me since I was old enough to understand a balance sheet. Ruthless efficiency. Maximum pressure. No prisoners.
I can almost feel the cold weight of his hand on my shoulder, hear his voice in my ear from decades ago as he gutted yet another company.
Look at him, Christopher. You see that man? He failed because he hesitated. Because he cared more about his employees than his bottom line. Never make that mistake.
“My company. My strategy,” I state. “Look, I have to go. Your scorched earth tactics are outdated anyway.” I can’t resist adding that latter bit.
“Outdated?” He laughs again, a harsh, grating sound. “My tactics built this empire, Christopher. The empire you benefit from, even while pretending you’re above it, you ungrateful little shit. Don’t forget where you came from. And don’t forget the pleasure in grinding a stupid fuck like Hammond into the dust. Especially Hammond.”
Something about that last comment makes me pause. “This is personal to you?”
“Everything in business is personal,” Father snarls over the line. “Especially when it involves winning. Don’t fuck this up by trying to be something you’re not. You’re my son. Act like it goddamn it! Dismantle Hammond. And quickly.”
The line clicks dead. He didn’t wait for a response. He never does.
I sit there, gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white. The urge to hurl the entire console across the room is almost overwhelming.
But he is right about one thing. I am his son. I built Blackwell Innovations to escape his shadow, to prove I could succeed on my own terms. But have I? Or have I just refined his methods? Made them sleeker, more tech focused, but just as fucking ruthless? The Executioner. That’s what they call me.
Not the Builder.
Not the Innovator.
The Executioner .
Because I come in, swing the axe, and pick through the pieces. Success measured in acquisitions, market share, the sheer scale of my wealth.
And it feels… hollow.
So very hollow.
Lucy Hammond’s voice rings in my mind.
Your methods are ruthless, Mr. Blackwell.
She’s not wrong. Stripping assets and flipping companies isn’t building anything. It’s just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic for a profit before it sinks.
I walk to the window, staring down at the city twenty floors below. Cars stream like blood cells through concrete arteries. People hurrying, striving, going about their lives in a hurried rush, never taking the time to consider what it is they’re actually doing. I have the luxury of taking the time, and yet I don’t. I always press on at a rush, doing the same things I’ve always done, never pausing to consider the impact my actions might have on other people’s lives.
I’m a selfish son of a bitch.
I shake my head, and stare at the buildings before me. Hammond & Co. built parts of this skyline. Tangible things. Legacies etched in steel and stone. What have I built? A portfolio? A reputation for calculated destruction?
My father’s words echo. Act like it. Act like him. Is that my only path? Am I destined to become the thing I swore I wouldn’t? Domineering. Isolated. Measuring worth only in dollars and defeated rivals. Always being selfish, never caring for anybody but myself?
Lucy’s face flashes in my mind again. Her defense of her father, her company, her employees. Her naive insistence on ethics in a cutthroat world. It’s foolish. Impractical. And yet… there’s a strength in it I hadn’t anticipated. In her . A different kind of value.
Fuck.
What am I even thinking? This is Hammond Stockholm Syndrome. One tour of a dusty old building, one argument with a fiery blonde, and I’m questioning my entire business philosophy?
Get a grip.
Selfishness is good. Greed is good.
Just ask my idle Gordon Gekko.
But the unease lingers. The hollowness feels heavier today.
A name comes unbidden to my mind... Morgan Weiss.
Lucy mentioned him. Her distrust of him. My father’s fingerprints are likely all over Weiss’s push for liquidation. He’s likely attempting to undermine my deal with her. Trying to force my hand towards the scorched earth approach he prefers. Using Weiss as a pawn. Typical Mark Blackwell bullshit.
He wants me to act like him? Fine. I’ll play the game. But I’ll play it my way.
An idea forms. Reckless. Impulsive. Strategically justifiable? Maybe. Barely.
But the driving force isn’t strategy. It’s… something else. A desire to level the playing field? A reaction against my father’s manipulations? Or possibly, a tiny flicker of wanting to see Lucy Hammond succeed, even if it’s under my terms?
Fuck it .
I leave the conference room and stride back to my desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. Accessing encrypted files. Cross referencing timelines, shell corporations, known associates of Mark Blackwell. Tatiana’s intelligence gathering is second to none. I make a mental note to increase her salary.
The connections are there. Thin, carefully obscured, but traceable if you know where to look. Weiss has been funneling information out. Receiving instructions. Paving the way for a hostile bid, likely coordinated by my father’s people, ready to swoop in if my ‘gentle’ proposal fails.
How very typical of my father.
I compile the key data points. Communication logs. Financial transfers flagged by my auditing software. Anomalies in Weiss’s trading patterns around Hammond stock options. Nothing conclusive enough for a courtroom, maybe, but more than enough to confirm Lucy’s suspicions. Enough to give her ammunition.
Why am I doing this? Helping the adversary? Giving her weapons that could potentially be used against me later? It’s illogical. It violates every rule my father taught me.
It violates most of my own rules.
Because his interference pisses me off. Because manipulating the game from the shadows is his move, not mine. Because… because maybe I want to see what she does with it. See if that integrity she preaches is real. See if she can actually fight back when given a fighting chance.
Because I...
No, I won’t go there.
I encrypt the file before I change my mind. A simple summary. Data points. No commentary. No explicit accusations. Just the facts, laid bare.
My finger hovers over the send button. Destination: L. Hammond. Secure channel. Untraceable relay.
This is stupid. This complicates everything. She’ll know it came from me, or suspect it strongly. It shifts the dynamic. Moves me from clear adversary to… what? Conflicted antagonist? Reluctant ally?
I press send.
The file disappears into the digital ether. Gone. No recalling it.
A strange sense of… something settles over me. Not satisfaction. Not regret.
Uncertainty.
Yes, that’s it.
A profound, unsettling uncertainty.
I’ve just handed a potential weapon to the woman whose company I intend to control, the woman who inexplicably occupies my thoughts, the woman I kissed like a goddamn teenager losing his mind.
What the fuck have I just done?
The mask feels heavier now. Harder to keep in place.
Project Nightingale. Maybe the name wasn’t so random after all. Maybe somewhere deep in the cynical, calculating recesses of my brain, I actually wanted to save something for once, instead of just tearing it down. Instead of being a selfish prick.
Or maybe I’m just losing my fucking mind.
Yeah, that’s probably it.