12. Lucy
12
Lucy
M y phone buzzes with a notification that’s definitely not from my usual contacts.
Encrypted message received.
Seriously?
Who sends encrypted messages besides spies, tech billionaires, and people buying questionable things on the dark web? Given recent events, my money’s on option B.
Probably just spam. Really sophisticated, slightly terrifying spam.
Except it’s not. The sender ID is masked, but the timing? Right after my disastrous lunch non-date boundary clarification meeting with Christopher ‘I-Kiss-You-Then-Pretend-It-Was-A-Minor-Operational-Glitch’ Blackwell?
Suspicious.
Highly suspicious.
My fingers feel awkward trying to navigate the decryption prompt. Why all these steps? What if it’s a virus? What if it bricks my phone? What if it’s just a picture of Christopher smirking with the caption ‘Gotcha?’
What if it’s a dick pic?
Knowing him, that’s entirely plausible.
Finally, the file opens.
It’s… data.
I shit you not.
Just raw data. Communication logs, weird financial transfer flags, trading anomalies linked to… Morgan Weiss.
Holy shit.
There are no explanations, no helpful little arrows pointing ‘Villain Here.’
Just cold, hard numbers and dates.
Presented without commentary.
Okay, Blackwell. What game are you playing now?
This feels less like spam and more like… help? Anonymous, slightly menacing, definitely confusing help. Like finding a briefcase full of cash and a cryptic note about your enemies on your doorstep. You don’t know whether to thank the sender or call the cops.
Why would he send this? To prove he’s not his father? To gain leverage? To see if I’m smart enough to figure it out? Or maybe he just enjoys messing with my head? Probably all of the above.
The data points directly at discrepancies in property valuations. The ones Morgan used in his ‘let’s just liquidate everything’ presentation to the board. Christopher’s parting shot at lunch wasn’t just a guess.
“Think, Ms. Hammond. Who hates your father? Who benefits from seeing the Hammond legacy dismantled? Who has a history of… aggressive acquisitions? ”
He knew . Or at least, he suspected enough to point me in the right direction.
All right. Fine. If Mr. Mystery wants to play breadcrumbs, I’ll follow. Time to put that business degree and my suddenly very relevant art history background (hello, forensic analysis of boring spreadsheets) to work.
I spend the next few hours cross referencing Morgan’s reports with our internal historical data and independent appraisal archives. It’s tedious. Soul sucking, even. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand, and the scent of stale coffee fills my small office cubicle.
Glamorous, I know. Junior Exec chic.
But then I check all the final numbers and… bingo.
There it is. Consistent undervaluation. Not by much on any single property, just a few percentage points here and there. But add it all up across dozens of assets? It paints a drastically different financial picture. One that makes liquidation look appealing and Blackwell’s investment seem riskier than it might actually be. Morgan hasn’t just been pushing for a sale, he’s been actively cooking the books to justify it.
Rage, cold and sharp, cuts through my exhaustion. That snake. He’s been sabotaging us from the inside. While pretending to be concerned. While questioning my ability to manage.
Oh, I’ll manage you, Morgan. Right out the goddamn door.
Okay, maybe not right out the door. I need a strategy. Need… to confront him. Ugh. Confrontation. My favorite thing in the world.
Right up there with public speaking and dental visits.
I find Morgan in the executive lounge, sipping an espresso like he owns the place. Which, apparently, he’s trying to arrange. His silver-streaked hair is perfect. His suit impeccable.
He looks up as I approach, that blandly pleasant mask firmly in place.
“Lucy. Burning the midnight oil?”
Funny man. It’s not even past three o’clock.
“Just reviewing some figures, Morgan.” I keep my voice level, dropping a printout of one of the manipulated valuation reports onto the low table between us. I tap a specific number. “Funny thing about this appraisal for the Tribeca lot. It seems significantly lower than the independent assessment we commissioned last year. And the year before that. In fact, quite a few of your recent summaries show similar… discrepancies.”
His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. The mask flickers. Just for a second. He takes a slow sip of his espresso. Stalling. “Market fluctuations, Lucy. Real estate is volatile. Surely you know that.”
“Volatile enough to consistently dip only in your reports?” I push back, feeling a blush creep up my neck as my anger simmers. “It looks less like market fluctuation and more like… deliberate undervaluation. Almost as if someone wanted the company’s position to look worse than it is. To perhaps encourage a quick sale?” I add sweetly.
Morgan sets his cup down with a hard click. The pleasantries vanish and his gaze turns cold. Calculating. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lucy. Your father wouldn’t approve you digging into things you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think I understand perfectly,” I counter, matching his icy tone. “You’re trying to sabotage this company. ”
He leans back and a condescending smirk plays on his lips. “ Sabotage is such an ugly word. I prefer ‘facilitating necessary transitions.’ Your father’s sentimentality has run this company into the ground. Someone needs to ensure the shareholders get something back before it’s all gone.”
“By lying?”
“By presenting a realistic picture,” he corrects smoothly. Then his voice drops, taking on a confidential, almost pitying tone. “Look, Lucy. You’re smart. Ambitious. But you’re in over your head. You think Blackwell is your savior? He’ll bleed you dry. A quick sale is cleaner. Kinder, even.” He pauses, letting his next words land with deliberate weight. “Especially considering… other factors.”
“Other factors?” I repeat, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach.
Morgan studies his perfectly manicured nails. “Your father… he’s a good man. Respected. But these past few years… the pressure got to him. He made some decisions. Took some… creative liberties with financing. Arrangements that wouldn’t look good under intense scrutiny. The kind of scrutiny a hostile buyer, or even a demanding partner like Blackwell, would inevitably bring.”
My blood runs cold. He’s not just guessing. He knows something. Something Dad did. Those questionable loans Christopher mentioned? Is this what Morgan’s holding over us?
“I understand wanting to protect his legacy,” Morgan continues, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “A quiet liquidation avoids uncomfortable questions. Ensures certain… indiscretions… remain private. Think about it, Lucy. Is fighting for a doomed company worth dragging your father’s name through the mud?”
He’s threatening me. Using my father’s mistakes as leverage to force the sale that benefits him and whoever he’s working for.
Probably Mark Blackwell, just like Christopher hinted.
The rage I felt earlier curdles into nausea. I feel dizzy. Trapped.
I step back abruptly. “Stay away from my father, Morgan.” My voice trembles slightly, but it’s low and fierce.
He just gives me that cold, knowing smile. “The choice is yours, Lucy. Protect the company, or protect your father. You probably can’t do both.”
I walk out of the lounge on autopilot, my heart pounding against my ribs. I need air. I need perspective. I need… Ava. And maybe her scary smart, billionaire husband.
Because I’m in over my head.
“He threatened you? Using your dad?” Ava looks horrified, setting her teacup down with a clatter in Gideon King’s minimalist, museum-like living room. The place always makes me feel like I should be wearing little paper booties. Everything is white or grey or chrome, except for Ava’s vibrant, chaotic paintings, which look like beautiful acts of rebellion against the starkness.
Gideon, leaning against the massive window overlooking Central Park, turns towards me. His intense grey eyes miss nothing. Even in casual clothes, he radiates power. And a surprising amount of protectiveness when it comes to Ava, and by extension, her friends. Which currently includes me, the damsel in financial distress.
“Morgan Weiss is a snake,” Gideon says flatly, his voice rumbling with distaste. “Always has been. Aligns himself with whoever seems strongest. If he’s threatening you with dirt on Richard, he either has it, or he’s working for someone who does.”
“Mark Blackwell,” I say quietly. “Christopher hinted as much. And it makes sense. Mark wants Hammond dismantled. Christopher offers a deal, maybe too moderate for Mark’s taste. So Mark uses Weiss to push for liquidation instead, undermining Christopher and getting what he wants anyway.” It’s like Game of Thrones, but with spreadsheets and less nudity. Probably.
Gideon nods slowly. “That fits Mark’s playbook. He despises your father. As for Christopher, my impression is... his father is always pushing him, manipulating him... trying to make him into a carbon copy of himself. And if that’s failing... well, using Weiss to force a liquidation Christopher might oppose? That’d be classic Mark Blackwell.”
“So the data Christopher sent me…” I trail off, still grappling with it. “Was he warning me? Helping me fight his own father’s scheme?”
“Maybe,” Gideon concedes, crossing his arms. He studies me for a moment. “Christopher Blackwell is brilliant. Ruthless, yes, but strategically unparalleled. He broke away from Mark for a reason. He wants his own legacy, not just an extension of his father’s. If Mark is interfering in a deal Christopher structured…” Gideon shrugs. “Christopher wouldn’t like that. Using you to counter Mark? It’s a complex move, but plausible.”
“But can I trust him?” The question hangs in the air, heavy and uncertain. Trusting the man who kissed me senseless then dismissed it as a ‘lapse’? Trusting the man nicknamed ‘The Executioner?’
“Trust him?” Gideon raises an eyebrow. “Professionally? His word on a deal, once given, is usually solid. Christopher values his reputation for closing. Personally? That’s… complicated. If he’s anything like me, he has more walls than Alcatraz. And letting anyone in won’t be his default setting.” He glances at Ava, a flicker of something soft in his eyes. Maybe Alcatraz has a visitor’s center or something.
“But Gideon,” Ava chimes in, “he did send Lucy the information on Weiss. That’s something, right? He didn’t have to.”
“No,” Gideon agrees. “He didn’t. Which makes it interesting. He clearly sees value in Hammond & Co... or maybe,” he looks back at me, “he sees value in you, Lucy. Beyond just a liaison.”
My cheeks heat up instantly. Oh god, he had to go there. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s business.”
Gideon just smirks, a faint echo of the intimidating player he used to be before Ava sanded down his sharper edges. “Everything is personal, Lucy. Especially at this level. Christopher might be offering help, but he’ll expect something in return. Control. Loyalty. Information. Be prepared for that.” He pauses. “And never, ever underestimate Mark Blackwell. He plays the long game, and he plays dirty. Take it from me, I know.”
Great. So my options are: trust the possibly manipulative son, get screwed over by the definitely evil father via his weasel proxy Morgan, or watch the company die.
Fantastic choices all around .
Can I pick ‘run away to Tahiti and sell seashell art’ instead?
I look between Ava’s worried expression and Gideon’s shrewd assessment. Morgan’s threat hangs over me. If I fight him openly, he could ruin Dad. If I accept Christopher’s deal, I gain an ally against Morgan, maybe, but I hand Christopher immense power. Power he could use however he wants once the ink is dry. Including digging into Dad’s ‘indiscretions.’
But Christopher did help. He gave me the weapon to fight Weiss. He didn’t have to. Maybe… maybe it’s a test? Maybe he wants to see if I’ll roll over or fight back? Maybe partnership, real partnership, starts with taking a calculated risk.
Okay. Decision time.
“I need to work with Christopher,” I say, the words tasting strange and risky on my tongue. “Against Morgan, at least. It’s the only way to neutralize the immediate threat without letting Weiss burn everything down or expose Dad.”
Ava nods slowly. “If that’s what you want. Just be careful, Lucy.”
“Eyes open,” Gideon advises. “Assume nothing. Verify everything. And keep your leverage against Morgan, whatever it is.”
My leverage. Right now, that feels like my wits, Christopher’s cryptic data dump, and a whole lot of nervous energy.
I say goodbye to Gideon and Ava and thank them for their advice, and when I’m secure inside a cab on the way to my apartment, I pull out my phone.
Forget email. Forget Tatiana.
This needs to be direct.
But not too direct.
Definitely not from my office or his. Neutral ground: the secure number the message came from.
My slightly damp thumbs hover over the keypad. What do I even say? I type something quick.
Hey Executioner, thanks for the anonymous tip about the traitor in my company. Wanna team up to screw him over before he screws my Dad? Coffee?
Smooth, real smooth.
I clear the message and start over.
It should be professional but… allied?
I type another short message.
Need to discuss Morgan Weiss. Urgent. Suggest off-site meeting. Confidential. Let me know time/place.
- L. Hammond
I hit send before I can second guess myself for the hundredth time. The little ‘delivered’ notification pops up almost instantly.
Now I wait to see if the enemy of my enemy is truly my friend.
Or just a different kind of predator circling closer.
My stomach does a nervous flip. This secret alliance, if that’s what it becomes, feels like walking a tightrope over a shark tank. With flippers on.
But hey, at least the view is… interesting? Yeah, let’s go with interesting.
It sounds waaaayyy better than terrifying.