14. Lucy
14
Lucy
I stumble out of the taxi and into my apartment building lobby feeling like I just went twelve rounds in a ring I didn’t even know I’d stepped into. One minute we’re dissecting Morgan Weiss’s financial treachery like business ninjas, the next he’s dropping bombs about his mother abandoning him?
Talk about whiplash.
My apartment feels blessedly normal. Messy stacks of art books, a half-finished sketch on my easel, the faint scent of jasmine from my diffuser. It’s sanity.
Or my version of it.
I kick off my heels and collapse onto the sofa.
He looked so… broken. For a split second. Before the impenetrable Blackwell mask slammed back down. The Executioner, the ruthless dealmaker, suddenly just looked like a little boy who’d been deeply hurt. And the fact that he actually told me, admitted that vulnerability out loud… it messes with my head more than the kiss did. The kiss was confusing heat and questionable impulse. This felt…
I don’t even know. Real, maybe ?
Dangerously real.
Okay, Lucy, stop analyzing the enigmatic billionaire’s psyche. You have your own dumpster fire to manage.
I should probably just pour myself a giant glass of wine and pretend none of this ever happened. Tempting. Very tempting.
I manage about four hours of restless sleep, dreaming of spreadsheets morphing into angry sharks wearing tiny silver frames. I wake up feeling like I’ve been chewed on by said sharks.
Coffee. I need industrial quantities of coffee.
My phone rings while the coffee machine is gurgling its life saving song.
It’s Carol, Dad’s longtime assistant. “Lucy? I hate to bother you so early, but I thought you should know. Your father… well, he wasn’t feeling quite himself yesterday afternoon. Complained of some chest discomfort. Liam O’Connell insisted on driving him home early.” Liam, our head architect, loyal as they come. Thank god for Liam.
Chest discomfort? My blood turns to ice water. “Carol, what happened? Is he okay? Did he see a doctor?”
“He brushed it off, you know how he is,” Carol sighs. “Said it was just indigestion from the ghastly lunch meeting caterer. But Lucy… he looked pale. Really pale. I tried calling him this morning, just to check in, but it went straight to voicemail.”
I hang up without saying a word, my hands shaking. Forget coffee. Forget everything. Nothing else matters right now.
Adrenaline floods my system. Dad. Oh god. Chest pain. Not answering his phone. This is bad. This is really bad.
I throw on jeans and a sweater, grabbing my keys and purse in a blur. The taxi ride to his Upper East Side apartment feels like an eternity. I promise the driver if he runs all the red lights I’ll pay him double, but the bastard refuses. I frantically try to call him several times. Like Carol said, the calls go straight to voicemail.
We finally reach the building. I impatiently pay my bill and rush into the building.
I let myself into his suite with my key, calling his name. “Dad? Are you here?”
Silence. My heart hammers against my ribs. I check the living room, the study… nothing. Then I hear a faint sound from the kitchen.
I find him sitting at the small breakfast nook table, staring out the window. He’s dressed in his usual green pajamas and silk robe, but he looks… diminished. Smaller. The lines on his face seem deeper, his blue eyes clouded with worry.
He’s holding an empty mug, his hand trembling slightly.
Relief washes over me, so potent it makes my knees weak. He’s okay.
“Dad! Carol called. She said you weren’t feeling well yesterday. Why didn’t you call me? Or answer the phone?”
He looks up, startled, then quickly composes himself. “Lucy. Morning, sweetheart. Just a bit of indigestion, like I told Carol. Nothing to worry about.”
“Indigestion doesn’t make you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” I counter, sitting down opposite him. I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. It feels cool, fragile. “Dad. What really happened?”
He avoids my eyes, staring down at his empty mug. “It was nothing. A twinge. Probably stress.”
“Did you call Dr. Evans?”
He shakes his head. “No need.”
“Dad!” I try to keep my voice calm, but panic bubbles beneath the surface. “Chest pain isn’t ‘nothing’! You need to get checked out. What if it happens again? What if—”
“What if I die, Lucy?” He finally meets my gaze, his eyes filled with a weariness I’ve never seen before. “What if I leave you with this mess? Is that what you’re worried about?”
The bluntness shocks me into silence. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Among other things. Not so much the mess. The dying part.
He sighs, a long, shuddering sound. “Maybe it’s time I stopped pretending.” He looks older than his fifty eight years right now. The weight of the world seems to be sitting squarely on his bespoke pajama clad shoulders. “The company… Lucy, I’ve made mistakes. Big ones.”
“I know, Dad.”
“No, you don’t know the half of it.” He finally confesses everything. The bad investments. The loans that skirted regulations, using assets as collateral in ways that bordered on reckless. He leveraged everything, trying to dig himself out, only digging the hole deeper.
Morgan Weiss wasn’t wrong. There were definitely indiscretions.
“I kept thinking I could fix it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. “One more deal, one more project… I didn’t want to admit I was failing. Failing the company your grandfather built. Failing you. Failing your mother’s memory.” He gestures vaguely around the apartment, at the legacy surrounding him. “This is all I have. All I am. If Hammond & Co. goes under…” His voice cracks. “It’s not just a company, Lucy. It’s… everything.”
My own eyes sting. Seeing him like this, so utterly defeated, breaks my heart. All the frustration I’ve felt over his recent decisions evaporates, replaced by fierce, protective love. He messed up. Badly. But he did it trying to keep his dream, our family legacy, alive.
“We’re not going under, Dad,” I say firmly, squeezing his hand. “I won’t let that happen.”
He looks at me, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “But how? Blackwell’s offer… Morgan… it’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible,” I insist, channeling a confidence I don’t entirely feel.
Fake it till you make it, right? Or fake it till you prevent total financial annihilation and heartbreaking defeat.
“I’ve been working on it. I have a plan. We can fight Morgan. And Blackwell… he might be part of the solution, not the problem.”
Maybe. Hopefully. Please god.
“You need to take over, Lucy,” he says suddenly, his voice regaining a little strength. “Properly. As CEO. Reporting to no one. Not Blackwell, not anyone. You run the show. You make the decisions. It should have been you months ago, I just… I couldn’t let go.”
My stomach plummets. CEO? Me? The weight of that title feels crushing. All the responsibility. All the ways I could fail. The inadequacy monster roars in my head.
You’re not good enough. You only got this far because you’re a Hammond.
You’ll screw up.
“No, Dad,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly. “I can’t do it without you. We need you. Your experience, your guidance… I’ll handle the day-to-day, the negotiations. But you need to stay. As CEO.”
As the figurehead. As the safety net I can hide behind if I crash and burn.
He studies me, his gaze sharp despite his exhaustion. “What are you afraid of, Lucy?”
Failure. Being exposed as a fraud. Letting everyone down. Letting you down.
The words scream in my mind, but I can’t say them. Not now. Not when he’s like this.
“I’m not afraid,” I lie, forcing a smile. “I just think we’re stronger together.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he seems too tired to argue. He just nods slowly. “All right, sweetheart. Whatever you want. I’ll stay as CEO.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I make him promise to call Dr. Evans immediately. Then I prep some toast and tea for him, and watch him eat like a hawk. After, he seems a little better, with some color returning to his face.
But the image of his vulnerability stays with me as I finally leave for the office. The weight on my shoulders feels heavier than ever. It’s not just the company anymore.
It’s him.
Back at Hammond & Co., the atmosphere feels thick with tension, but it quickly defuses when I reveal that Dad’s okay. I explain to Carol that he’s just taking a sick day.
“That’s a relief,” Carol tells me. “By the way, something came for you. It’s on your desk.”
“Oh?” I approach my desk. And then I see them. A ridiculously elegant bouquet of flowers. White orchids, strange green fronds, deep purple lilies .
Definitely not from the office secret admirer pool, unless Morgan Weiss suddenly developed taste and a conscience.
Tucked into the blooms is a small, heavy card. No company logo. Just my name handwritten on the envelope in strong, precise script. My heart does a weird little flip flop.
Inside, the note is brief. Typed. No signature.
Morgan Weiss is a problem we can solve. Let me know how I can assist further. No strings attached.
No strings attached. From Christopher Blackwell. Is that even possible? Does the concept exist in his universe? The man who demanded I be his personal liaison as a non-negotiable condition? Now offering help with ‘no strings?’
Confusion wars with a reluctant warmth spreading through my chest. It’s… thoughtful. Unexpectedly so. After the raw moment in his office last night, this feels like… an extension? An acknowledgment? Or just another calculated move in his long game?
Probably the latter. Always assume the latter with him.
But still. He didn’t have to. He could have just waited for me to crawl back and beg for help with Morgan. This feels different. Like just perhaps Gideon was right. Maybe Christopher sees value beyond the bottom line. Maybe that glimpse of the man behind the Executioner mask wasn’t a fluke.
My cheeks flush.
Damn it.
Flowers.
Why do flowers make me blush?
Especially potentially manipulative flowers from ruthless billionaires?
I sink into my chair, staring at the elegant arrangement. They smell faintly of earth and something exotic, clean and sharp. Not like my usual comforting jasmine. They smell like… him. Complex. Controlled. With hidden depths.
Okay, Lucy. Decision time. Dad needs me. The company needs saving. Morgan needs neutralizing. And Christopher Blackwell, the gorgeous, infuriating, surprisingly vulnerable enemy, is offering a weapon. With alleged ‘no strings.’
Trusting him feels like juggling nitroglycerin. But not trusting him, trying to fight this alone while Morgan dangles Dad’s secrets like bait? That feels like certain death.
I pick up the card again. No strings attached. My thumb traces the heavy paper.
This could be the calculated risk Gideon talked about. The first step towards a real, albeit terrifying, partnership.
Assume nothing, Lucy. Verify everything.
And maybe keep a fire extinguisher handy.
Just in case.