16. Lucy
16
Lucy
P roject Nightingale.
More like “Project Nightmare Fuel.”
My office is ground zero for a Red Bull-fueled battle against financial Armageddon. I’m drowning in spreadsheets, legal clauses, and the faint, lingering scent of panic sweat.
Christopher Blackwell’s preliminary proposal sits on my screen, mocking me with its cool, calculated precision. It’s a lifeline, sure, but one tangled with enough strings to puppet the entire Hammond dynasty.
My mission, should I choose to accept it (and let’s be real, what choice do I have?), is twofold. First: Craft a counter-proposal. One that accepts the unavoidable infusion of Blackwell cash but claws back some semblance of control, protects Dad’s legacy (and his nominal CEO title), and prevents us from becoming just another soulless subsidiary stamped with the Blackwell brand. This involves intricate financial modeling that makes my art history brain weep, outlining synergies that sound plausible, and identifying non-negotiables that don’t make me seem completely delusional.
Second, and arguably more terrifying: Damage control. Dad’s tearful confession about his ‘creative accounting’ and Morgan Weiss’s snake-like threats hang over me like twin guillotines. If Blackwell’s team dives deep for due diligence, and they will, they’ll find the skeletons. I need to understand the exact extent of the rot before they do. I need to find the questionable loans, the fudged numbers, the skeletons Dad buried, and figure out how to present them, mitigate them, or at least brace for the explosion when they’re inevitably discovered. It feels like trying to tidy up after a hurricane using only a dustpan and sheer willpower.
My desk is littered with crumpled draft pages, and it’s pushing ten pm. The building is deserted except for the security guard downstairs and me. The deadline isn’t just a presentation tomorrow, it’s the ongoing, crushing pressure to salvage something before the wolves descend.
And the lead wolf? While he might be offering help, he’s still a wolf.
My eyes feel gritty. My brain feels like mush. I stare at a slide comparing potential restructuring scenarios, and the options blur into equally unpalatable shades of disaster. Maybe I should just replace all the charts with pictures of kittens?
Yes. Kittens are very persuasive.
Probably more persuasive than my current plan to negotiate with a billionaire while simultaneously hiding my father’s financial sins.
A sharp knock on my office door makes me jump so hard I nearly concuss myself on the desk lamp .
Who the hell is here this late? Security doing rounds? A very lost pizza delivery guy?
I push my chair back, smoothing down my slightly wrinkled blouse. Probably look like I wrestled a badger and lost. “Come in?”
The door opens, and my heart does a stupid, inconvenient plummet straight into my sensible heels.
Christopher Blackwell, in the flesh.
Looking infuriatingly impeccable in a dark suit, minus the tie this time. His hair is perfect. His jaw is sharp. He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot titled ‘Billionaires In The Wild.’
And he’s holding… takeout bags? Fancy ones. From that absurdly expensive Italian place downtown that requires reservations booked three months in advance.
Okay, what Twilight Zone episode did I just stumble into?
“Working late?” he asks, his voice smooth, betraying none of the vulnerability I witnessed last night.
Back to default Billionaire Bot mode, apparently.
“Uh, yeah. Trying to wrestle Project Nightingale into submission. And maybe perform some financial exorcism while I’m at it.” I gesture vaguely at the chaos on my desk. “Trying to polish the… turd?”
Smooth, Lucy. Real professional.
My cheeks instantly flame. Why do I say these things?
He actually cracks a small smile. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there. Progress?
“Thought you might need fuel.” He steps inside, setting the bags on the small clear corner of my desk. The aroma of truffle oil and something involving artisanal cheese fills the air, making my sad, half-eaten protein bar look even more pathetic.
“You brought dinner?” I ask, bewildered. This is… weird. The flowers this morning were weird enough. Now a personal delivery service from the man himself?
Is this part of the ‘no strings attached’ help? Because these strings feel suspiciously like expensive pasta.
“You looked… focused when my driver took me by, earlier,” he says, dodging the question. Right. He just happened to be driving past Hammond & Co. headquarters at night on a Tuesday. And of course he could see through a solid brick wall and into my office, right? Totally believable. “Figured the least I could do, given our potential partnership, is offer assistance.”
“You’re going to help me refine a counter proposal against your own takeover plan? Isn’t that a serious conflict of interest?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But it lets us skip over the negotiating stage. You’re going to have to show it to me one way or another, at some point, anyway.”
I force a weak smile. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”
He nods towards my laptop screen. “Walk me through your counter-proposal strategy. And the… financial exorcism.”
Part of me wants to say no. To maintain my independence. To keep the full, ugly truth of Hammond’s finances hidden for as long as possible. To prove I don’t need his help, even though I clearly do.
But my brain is fried, the sheer volume of work is crushing, and honestly? The truffle pasta smells divine. Plus, his offer to help… after sending the flowers… it feels genuine.
I think.
Or maybe I’m just delirious from sleep deprivation .
“Okay,” I sigh, pulling up a chair for him. “But just know, if you start looking too gleeful about the financial skeletons I’m digging up, I’m throwing this stapler at your head.” I indicate the heavy tool on my desk.
Always knew it would serve some purpose other than as a paperweight!
He raises an eyebrow and takes the seat. “Duly noted. My glee will be reserved solely for optimized balance sheets.”
I giggle at the mock severity of his tone.
The mask is down. Go figure.
For the next hour, we work. And it’s… amazing. Annoyingly amazing. He doesn’t take over. He actually listens. He asks sharp, insightful questions that force me to clarify my points both on the counter-proposal and the underlying financial mess.
He points out weaknesses in my arguments, not to tear them down, but to help me strengthen them. He suggests different ways to frame the data, focusing on potential rather than just past failures.
He even offers surprisingly non-judgmental perspectives on navigating legacy financial issues during acquisitions, treating the ‘skeletons’ as problems to be solved rather than reasons to condemn. He actually respects my ideas, building on them instead of dismissing them.
It’s the kind of collaboration I’ve always craved, the kind I never got from my father or dismissive colleagues.
And I’m getting it from my supposed enemy.
The world is officially upside down.
He makes a quick, discreet call at one point. Low voice, clipped tones. Something about “ perimeter status” and “ETA zero thirty.” I assume it’s his security detail lurking outside.
Right. Because normal people bring tactical support when offering to help with financial modeling and damage control.
It’s a jarring reminder of who he is, the layers of security and power that surround him. But then he hangs up and turns back to my messy spreadsheets, instantly focused again.
We finish the pasta, and oh my god, it’s heavenly. Afterward, we refine the slides of the counter-proposal strategy. The plan is ten times stronger now. Clearer. More compelling. And with far less power in Christopher’s hands. I’m actually surprised at how much leeway he’s willing to offer me. Maybe I was wrong about him after all.
And then we return to the financial ‘exorcism,’ and as we come up with a final plan, it feels slightly less terrifying with his analytical brain dissecting the problems alongside mine. Hope, a dangerous little butterfly, starts fluttering in my chest. Maybe… maybe we can actually pull this off.
“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. “I think… I think that’s actually a viable strategy. For tackling the internal mess.”
“It’s more than viable, Lucy,” Christopher says, his voice quiet beside me. I turn to look at him. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim office light. “You’ve done impressive work holding this together and figuring out a path forward under impossible circumstances. Your father doesn’t appreciate what he has in you.”
His unexpected praise sends a wave of heat rising up my neck.
“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away, fiddling with a pen. “Just trying to… you know. Keep the lights on. And maybe avoid prison for Dad.”
Okay, maybe too much honesty there.
“Why are you really doing this, Christopher?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I look back at him, meeting his intense blue gaze. “The file on Morgan. The flowers. Showing up here tonight with dinner and advice. This isn’t the Executioner playbook. Why help me instead of just waiting for me to fail so you can pick up the pieces for pennies on the dollar?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching. I can almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes. Then, he gives a small sigh, a surprising crack in the usual mask.
“Because,” he says slowly, “watching my father and Weiss try to manipulate this situation purely out of spite… is a game I’m no longer interested in playing. And because...” He pauses now, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “Because what you’re trying to build here, trying to save… despite everything stacked against you… I respect it. Maybe more than I respect the way I’ve done business in the past.”
Wow. Okay. Real, unvarnished honesty.
It hits me harder than any power play could. He respects me. Not Lucy Hammond, the heiress. Not Lucy Hammond, the potential business asset.
Me.
My work.
My fight.
“Oh,” is all I can manage. My brain feels utterly short-circuited.
“And maybe,” he adds, his voice dropping lower, “I find your relentless optimism… irritatingly compelling.” He leans forward slightly and th e space between us shrinks perilously. I can smell his cologne again, that sophisticated blend of cedar and pepper. It mixes with the lingering scent of truffle pasta and stale coffee, creating a weirdly intimate scent.
My heart starts hammering again, but this time it has nothing to do with investor presentations. It’s him. The proximity. The intensity in his gaze. The memory of his kiss at the gala, the unexpected vulnerability in his office… it all swirls together into a confusing, potent cocktail of attraction and apprehension.
I quickly reach into my desk and pop a breath mint with trembling hands.
When he gives me that devastating smirk in response, I force a shrug.
“What?” I squeak nervously. “I like how they taste.”
It’s not a lie. I do like them. And it’s not like I’m preparing for... anything.
Totally not.
His gaze never leaves mine. I feel my cheeks reddening.
“You’re making this very difficult, you know,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“Making what difficult, Lucy?” he asks. His gaze drops to my lips.
“Pretending you’re the enemy,” I admit, the words barely audible.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. The mask is gone, replaced by something primal and focused.
He stands up, slowly. My eyes track his every movement.
He’s tall. Imposing.
He radiates confidence and control .
He walks around the desk until he’s standing directly in front of me, boxing me in between my chair and the solid oak.
“Perhaps,” he murmurs, reaching out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His touch sends sparks across my face.
Holy hell is this really happening? It can’t be happening.
“Perhaps I don’t want to be enemies anymore,” he finishes.
He leans down, his face inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him. My breath catches in my throat. This is it. The point of no return. My brain is screaming warnings.
He’s your enemy! This is unprofessional! He’ll break your heart and your company!
But my body isn’t listening. It’s humming with an anticipation that drowns out all reason.
Screw it.