13. Christopher
13
Christopher
H er text arrives on the secure burner phone I keep solely for untraceable communication. Short. Direct. Urgent.
She took the bait. Or the lifeline. Depends on your perspective, I suppose. Took her long enough. But she figured it out. Smart girl.
Now what the fuck do I do with her?
Off-site meeting. Confidential. She doesn’t want this meeting tracked back to either of our offices. Prudent.
My first instinct is a neutral location. A private room. Something secure. The usual playbook.
But something makes me hesitate. This isn’t the usual playbook anymore, is it?
Not since I sent that goddamn file. Not since… the gala.
Fuck it.
I text back coordinates. Not to a hotel. Not to a safe house. To my penthouse. My space. The place I rarely let anyone connected to business enter. Not even Tatiana comes up here. Well, at least not often. My guy Whitfield manages the household, keeps things running smoothly in the background. This is my sanctuary. My fortress of solitude, minus the superhero spandex and arctic temperatures.
But why? Why bring her here ?
Is it a power play? Show her the view from the top, the spoils of war she could access if she plays her cards right? Intimidate her with the sheer scale of my success?
Yeah, the latter maybe. That sounds like me.
Or is it something else? Something embarrassingly close to… wanting to impress her?
Fucking ridiculous.
I haven’t felt the need to impress anyone since I clawed my way out from under my father’s shadow.
Or maybe it’s just simpler. A controlled environment. My security, my tech, no risk of surveillance from Weiss or my father’s people.
Yeah. That’s what it is. Strategic advantage.
Much cleaner than admitting any hint of personal motivation.
I spend the next hour prowling the main living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic, almost obscene view of the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds below. Usually, it’s just a backdrop. Tonight, I see it through potentially judgmental eyes.
I check the arrangement of the minimalist furniture. Ensure the lighting is subtly dramatic. Glance at the curated art on the walls, a mix of modern abstracts and some surprisingly classical pieces James Whitfield helped source.
My custom cologne, the one from Florence, feels almost too calculated .
Jesus Christ, Blackwell. Get a grip. She’s coming here to discuss corporate espionage, not critique your decorating choices. And it’s not like we’re going to have sex.
Of course not. This is a business meeting. Not a date.
Elijah Reeves, my head of security, gives me a ping on my private line. “Lucy Hammond is on the way up.”
I thank him, and after disconnecting feel a sudden spike in anxiety.
What the fuck?
I make a fist, and clamp a mental cage tightly around the anxiety.
I have nothing to be fucking nervous about. I’m the ruler here. She’s entering my domain.
The private elevator dings softly, announcing her arrival directly into the foyer.
Lucy steps out. She looks… tired. But determined. Dressed in another one of those tailored sheath dresses, this time a deep burgundy. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back, emphasizing the clean lines of her jaw and the slight shadows under her eyes. She’s clutching a leather portfolio like it contains state secrets. Which, considering Morgan Weiss, it might.
Her eyes sweep the space and take in the view. The double-height ceilings. The art. There’s a flicker of… appreciation? But it’s quickly masked. She doesn’t gawk. She doesn’t gasp.
Okay. Maybe slightly disappointing. Or maybe refreshing?
Fuck knows.
“Blackwell,” she says, her voice steady.
“Ms. Hammond. Welcome.” I gesture towards the main living area, deliberately keeping my tone neutral. “Drink?”
“Water would be fine, thank you.”
I pour her a glass from the already prepared carafe on the sidebar. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. A charge passes between us. A fucking charge .
Or maybe it’s just my imagination working overtime again.
She walks towards the windows, gazing out at the city. “Quite the view.”
“It serves its purpose.” Noncommittal. I’m not going to show my cards quite so easily.
She turns back, a small, almost challenging smile playing on her lips. “It’s nice, Christopher. Very… high up.” She takes a sip of water. “But my best friend married Gideon King. You kind of get desensitized to billionaire penthouses after a while. They start to all look the same.”
Okay. Point taken. She’s not easily intimidated by wealth. Good to know. Annoying, but good to know. It reinforces she’s here for substance, not spectacle.
And maybe deflates my ego just a tiny, insignificant bit. Bastard Gideon King. Always has to one up me, even by proxy.
“My home office is this way,” I say, gesturing down a corridor lined with more understated art. “More conducive to work than staring at the skyline.”
The office is less ostentatious than the main living area. Still large, still with a killer view, but dominated by a massive dark wood desk, multiple monitors displaying market data, and comfortable leather chairs. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with first editions and business texts. It’s a working space, albeit a luxurious one.
“Right.” Lucy gets straight to business, taking a seat and placing her portfolio on the desk. “You sent me the file on Weiss.” It’s a statement, not a question .
I sit opposite her. “Did I?” No need to admit anything directly. Plausible deniability.
She gives me a look that says ‘don’t bullshit me.’ “The timing was… convenient. And the data confirmed my suspicions. Morgan’s been systematically undervaluing assets in his reports to the board. Building a case for liquidation.”
“A plausible theory,” I concede, leaning against the edge of the desk, crossing my arms. “What did Weiss say when you confronted him? You did confront him, right?” I can see the tension in her shoulders. She definitely confronted him. Good. No hesitation.
Her expression darkens. “He didn’t deny it. Practically confirmed he’s working for someone else. And then…” She hesitates, looking uncomfortable. It’s a crack in the armor, and it draws my attention like a fucking magnet.
“And then what, Lucy?” My voice is softer than intended.
She meets my gaze, her eyes troubled. “He threatened me. Implied he has information about my father. Questionable financial decisions. Things that could ruin his reputation if they came out during due diligence… or a hostile takeover.”
Fucking knew it. Weiss is using Richard Hammond’s past mistakes, likely fed to him by my father, as leverage. Classic Mark Blackwell move. Poison the well, force the target into a corner.
Anger, cold and familiar, coils in my gut. Anger at Weiss. Anger at my father for his relentless manipulations. And a surprising surge of anger on Lucy’s behalf. Her father might be a fool, but using his past sins to threaten her… it’s low. Even by my father’s standards.
“Let me guess,” I say, my voice hardening. “He suggested a quiet liquidation would make all those nasty little secrets disappear?”
She nods, looking grim. “Exactly. Protect the company or protect my father. He made it clear I couldn’t do both.”
“The snake.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“So,” Lucy takes a breath, squaring her shoulders. The vulnerability recedes, replaced by resolve. “Here I am. You helped me see the sabotage. Now I need to figure out how deep it goes, what exactly Morgan knows about my father, and how to neutralize him without letting him detonate everything.”
“All right.” I push off the desk. Time to work. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Spread it out.”
We spend the next couple of hours hunched over the desk. About thirty minutes in, I move my chair so that we’re side-by-side. Close enough that I can smell that damn fragrance she wears. Bergamot. Jasmine. Vanilla. It’s distracting. Under the cool overhead lighting, I see the faint lines of concentration etching themselves around her eyes. She’s quick. She sees connections in the numbers, asks sharp questions, challenges my assumptions. Richard Hammond didn’t just sideline her, he fucking wasted her talent. The man’s an idiot on multiple levels.
Are all fathers like this?
Her passion is evident. Not just for saving the company, but for doing it right . She points out discrepancies, not just in numbers, but in ethical implications. How certain asset shifts impacted long term employees. How Morgan’s proposed cuts disproportionately affected specific departments her father had always protected. It’s bleeding heart bullshit from a pure business perspective. But hearing her defend it… it doesn’t sound entirely stupid.
The initial tension between us slowly morphs into a focused rhythm. We’re a team. A temporary, uneasy, mutually beneficial team, but a team nonetheless. Analyzing data. Brainstorming strategies. Mapping out Morgan’s likely moves and potential countermoves.
My stomach growls. I glance at the clock. It’s past nine.
“We should eat,” I state.
Lucy looks up, surprised, as if noticing the time for the first time. “Oh. Right. I didn’t realize…”
“I’ll have my personal chef Emilia send something up.” I pick up the internal phone, ordering salads and grilled fish from my personal chef. Simple. Healthy. Working food.
While we wait, the conversation stalls. The documents lie between us, a temporary truce zone. The silence isn’t awkward, exactly, but it feels… charged. Different from earlier silences.
Lucy glances around the office, her gaze lingering on the bookshelves. “You have a first edition Hemingway?”
“A Farewell to Arms,” I confirm. “A weakness.”
“Didn’t peg you for a Hemingway fan.”
“Loss. Love. War. Seems relevant to business, wouldn’t you say?” A rare moment of letting the mask slip, just a fraction.
She considers this for a moment, tilting her head. “Maybe. Though I always preferred Fitzgerald. More tragedy beneath the glitter.”
Before I can respond, she reaches for a stray spreadsheet printout that slid near the edge of the desk. Her arm brushes against a small, unassuming silver frame tucked amongst some financial journals. It wobbles, then tips over with a soft clatter.
Instinctively, I reach out. “Don’t—” Too late.
Lucy picks it up, turning it over in her hand. It’s not a business award. It’s a photograph. Old. Slightly faded. A young boy with serious eyes. Me, maybe seven or eight years old. I’m standing beside a woman with kind eyes and dark, wavy hair. She’s smiling, but there’s a sadness around her mouth. My mother. Taken not long before she left.
A cold fist clenches around my heart. Raw. Unexpected. Pain I thought I’d buried decades ago surges to the surface. That photo shouldn’t be here. It’s usually buried in a drawer in my bedroom. Whitfield must have moved it during a recent reorganization.
Fucking hell.
“Put that down.” My voice is tight. Harsh. Stripped of any warmth.
Lucy flinches, her eyes widening at my tone. She looks down at the photo, then back at me, confusion and concern warring on her face. “Christopher, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Just put it down,” I repeat, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Control. Get control back. Don’t let her see. Weakness. Sentiment is weakness.
She carefully places the frame back on the desk, face down this time. Her gaze is fixed on me, searching. Waiting. That non judgmental quiet she possesses.
Fuck. She saw it. She saw the reaction. The mask didn’t just slip, it fucking shattered for a second.
Why does it matter? Why should I care what she sees?
But I do. The thought of her pity, her speculation… it ’s intolerable. Better to offer a sliver of the truth than let her imagine god knows what. Rip the bandage off. Quickly.
I turn away and stand, walking towards the window, needing distance. Needing the cold glass against my forehead. “My mother,” I say, my voice low. “She left when I was eight. Couldn’t handle my father. His… control .” I pause, because that word tastes like ash. “She started a new life. Never looked back. Something I... could never do.”
Silence stretches behind me. I brace myself for awkward condolences. Empty platitudes. The usual bullshit people offer when confronted with uncomfortable truths.
Instead, Lucy just says, quietly, “That must have been incredibly difficult, Christopher.”
No pity. No judgment. Just simple, quiet empathy.
It knocks the breath out of me more effectively than any attack could. I turn back slowly. She’s still sitting by the desk, watching me. Her expression is open. Soft. It’s dangerously disarming.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel… seen. Not as Blackwell the billionaire. Not as the Executioner. Not even as Mark Blackwell’s son. Just… me. The eight year old kid whose mother walked away.
And the relief of it, the sheer unexpected release of that tiny admission into the quiet space between us, is terrifying. And maybe, a little liberating.
The atmosphere in the room has irrevocably shifted. The documents, Morgan Weiss, the fate of Hammond & Co… it all fades slightly into the background. Replaced by this fragile, unexpected flicker of human connection.
What the fuck is happening?
This wasn’t part of the plan.
There was no plan for this.
And the most unsettling part?
I don’t entirely hate it.