15. Christopher
15
Christopher
T he data stares back at me from the screen. It’s undeniable.
Morgan Weiss bleeding Hammond & Co. dry from the inside, orchestrating a slow motion liquidation, all while playing the concerned board member.
And the tendrils, faint but distinct, lead directly back to shell corporations and holding companies I know belong to Mark Blackwell.
My father.
How fucking predictable.
Lucy’s sharp eyes and relentless digging last night confirmed what my data drop only hinted at. Weiss isn’t just an opportunist. He’s a pawn. My father’s pawn, deployed to sabotage my potential deal and settle some ancient score with Richard Hammond.
Because for Mark Blackwell, business isn’t just business.
It’s bloodsport.
The raw vulnerability I displayed last night gnaws at me. Letting her see that crack in my armor. The photo. My mother .
Fucking amateur hour.
Sentiment is weakness.
My father’s mantra echoes, laced with accusation.
But beneath the self directed anger, something else simmers. A cold fury aimed squarely at him. At his constant interference. His assumption that I’m just an extension of his will, his vendettas. His inability to comprehend that I might forge my own path, make my own fucking decisions based on my own assessments.
He wants me to act like him? Fine.
Time for a face to face. Not on my turf.
On his.
Let him feel like he’s in his element. Let it lull him into a sense of comfort and ease.
And then I’ll strike.
The Blackwell estate looms large, a monument to old money and older grudges. Stone lions guard the gates. Manicured lawns stretch towards a horizon obscured by tailored hedges.
I haven’t been back here in years. I avoid it like the plague unless absolutely necessary.
Today feels necessary.
Alfred lets me inside and I find my father in his study, a room paneled in dark wood that smells faintly of cigar smoke and self importance. He’s seated behind a large desk, reviewing reports and projecting an aura of absolute command.
He looks up as I enter, his eyes clever, calculating. No warmth. Never any warmth. “Christopher. To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”
“We need to talk.” I don’t sit. I stand across the expanse of polished wood, meeting his gaze directly. No preamble. No bullshit .
“About?” He feigns mild curiosity, but I see the flicker. He knows why I’m here.
“Morgan Weiss.” I let the name hang in the air. “Your little errand boy at Hammond & Co.”
He leans back, steepling his fingers. The picture of calm denial. “Ah, yes. The Hammond situation again. You just won’t let it go, will you?”
“You’re using Weiss to manipulate their financials,” I clip out the words. “You’re pushing them towards liquidation behind my back. Undermining my deal.”
He smiles thinly. A predator’s smile. “Concerned for your investment, Christopher? Or are you just fucking the Hammond girl?”
My jaw tightens and I momentarily see red.
Don’t rise to the bait. Control.
“No, I’m not fucking her,” I say, very quietly. “This isn’t about Lucy Hammond. This is about you interfering in my business. Again.”
“Are you sure you’re not fucking her?” he taunts. “I think you’re fucking her.”
I press my lips together, not trusting myself to answer him in any reasonable manner.
“Even if you’re not, you’ll fuck her eventually. It’s weakness. Sentiment. You think you can save her, save the company? You’ll end up fucking her and fucking the deal.”
Still I don’t answer.
Finally he shrugs. “What was that you said? I’m interfering in your business? Everything you have, you have because of me. Because of the Blackwell name. Don’t forget that. And Hammond? Richard Hammond deserves everything that’s coming to him. He crossed me years ago. Cost me a fortune. Humiliated me.” His eyes glitter with a decades old resentment. “Seeing his precious legacy crumble? Watching him lose it all? That’s not interference, Christopher. That’s justice. Long overdue.”
So that’s it. Not just business strategy. Not just teaching me a lesson. A personal vendetta. Wrapped up in his twisted definition of justice. Using me, using Weiss, manipulating markets, all to settle a score from before I was even born.
Disgust rises, thick and bitter. This isn’t strategy. This isn’t even ruthless business. This is pathetic. Petty. The obsession of an old man who can’t let go.
“Your personal vendetta is irrelevant to my strategic interests,” I state, my voice dangerously low. “Your actions, using Weiss, are jeopardizing my company’s business deal purely out of spite.”
“Spite?” He slams his hand on the desk, the sound cracking through the quiet room. His control finally slips. “It’s about principle! It’s about showing weakness has consequences! Richard Hammond is weak. His company is weak. It deserves to be devoured. And you,” he points a finger at me, his face suffused with angry color, “you were supposed to be the one to do it. To prove you have the killer instinct. To be a Blackwell. Instead, you offer partnerships? You play nice? What happened to you?”
What happened to me? I almost laugh. Maybe I finally fucking woke up. Maybe I realized building something requires more than just tearing other things down. Maybe seeing Lucy Hammond fight with integrity for something she believes in, even against impossible odds, struck a chord the endless pursuit of profit never could.
“My methods are my own,” I say, turning towards the door. “Stay out of my deal, Father. Call off your dog Weiss. Or I will handle him myself. And you won’t like the consequences.”
“Is that a threat, Christopher?” His voice follows me, sharp as broken glass.
“It’s a statement of fact.”
I walk out without looking back, the oppressive atmosphere of the estate clinging to me like grave dirt.
The ride back to the city feels like crossing into a different world. Away from the suffocating weight of the past, towards… what? Uncertainty. Conflict. But maybe, just maybe... something cleaner.
The needle has shifted. Exploiting the Hammond situation feels… distasteful now. Helping Lucy, genuinely helping her stabilize the company before finalizing any deal… that feels right. Necessary. Even if it means open war with my father.
Later that evening, back in the lonely quiet of my penthouse, I find myself pulling up files on Hammond & Co. Not the financials this time. Not the asset valuations.
The historical archives.
Old photos of buildings they constructed decades ago. Landmark projects. Architectural plans showing thoughtful design, quality materials.
A different era of development. A different definition of legacy.
Maybe Lucy’s right. Maybe there is a way to do business without sacrificing everything to the bottom line. Maybe rebuilding something is more satisfying than just acquiring and dismantling.
The thought is unsettling. Foreign. It goes against years of training, years of instinct. But it resonates.
When I sent her the flowers, I left a message indicating I’d help her with no strings attached. And I meant it.
Project Nightingale. Definitely wasn’t a random name after all. I realize now it represents a flicker of something I didn’t even recognize in myself.
A desire to nurture something back to health, instead of just picking over the carcass.
Lucy Hammond is the key. Not just to the deal. But to figuring out what the fuck I actually want to build.
And if I’m being truly honest with myself, I’m not just talking about business...