18. Christopher
18
Christopher
I stride through the deserted lobby of the Hammond building, ignoring the startled look from the night guard.
What the fuck did I just do? I left her there. On that worn leather sofa in her disaster zone office. Naked. Flushed. Probably staring after me like I’d just performed open heart surgery and then walked away mid stitch. Which, metaphorically speaking, maybe I did.
Rule number one: Don’t get involved. Especially not with the target. Especially not when that target is wrapped up in a deal already complicated by family bullshit and internal sabotage. I don’t do messy. I don’t do personal. I acquire. I optimize. I win. I don’t do… that .
It was pure, unadulterated loss of control. Fucking her against her desk, on the sofa… commanding her, tasting her, losing myself inside her heat. It was primal. Necessary in the moment.
And a catastrophic strategic error.
Just like Father predicted .
His voice echoes in my skull, dripping with smug certainty.
‘You’ll fuck her eventually, Christopher. It’s weakness. Sentiment. You think you can save her, save the company? You’ll end up fucking her and fucking the deal.’
And like a goddamn fool, I walked right into it. Proved him right.
I descend the front steps to the building in silence, passing my security detail. Victor has the car waiting, engine humming silently. He opens the door without a word, his expression impassive as always. He knows better than to comment, no matter how late or potentially disheveled his employer appears.
The drive back to the penthouse is a blur. My body still thrums with the aftermath, the scent of her seemingly clinging to my skin despite the sterile luxury of the car. But my mind? My mind is already building fortifications.
Walls.
Higher. Thicker.
I have to seal the breach.
Contain the damage.
Morning sunlight streams into the penthouse, mocking my lack of sleep. My phone screen shows three missed calls from L. Hammond.
I ignore them. Delete the notifications.
I need distance. Need to re-establish the lines she somehow managed to blur. This is strictly business. Last night was… an anomaly. A stress-induced deviation from protocol. It won’t happen again. Can’t happen again.
I arrive at the office and Tatiana briefs me on the morning agenda. Full schedule. Back-to-back meetings. Culminating in the Blackwell Innovations board meeting this afternoon. The one where I formally present Project Nightingale and request approval to proceed with the Hammond investment. The one my father will almost certainly try to derail.
Just as Tatiana finishes, my private line buzzes. Speak of the devil.
“He’s on his way up, sir,” Tatiana informs me, her voice professionally devoid of inflection, though she knows exactly what this means. “Unannounced.”
Fucking fantastic. He couldn’t wait for the board meeting. Needs to apply pressure beforehand.
Father sweeps into my office moments later, radiating disapproval and smug calculation. “Christopher. Preparing for your little passion project presentation?”
I don’t bother to rise from my desk. “Project Nightingale offers significant long term value.” I say the words as if by rote, not sure if I even believe them myself anymore.
“Nightingale?” He scoffs. “Sounds sentimental. Like its primary negotiator.” He fixes me with a knowing stare. “You seem… distracted. Spending late nights at the Hammond offices, I hear?”
My jaw clenches. He knows. Or suspects strongly enough to use it as a weapon. “I conduct thorough due diligence.”
“Do you now?” A smirk plays on his lips. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Just be careful your ‘due diligence’ doesn’t compromise your judgment, son. Sentiment is poison in this business.” He straightens up. “I’ll see you at the board meeting. Expect… robust di scussion.”
He leaves as abruptly as he arrived.
The Blackwell Innovations boardroom is cold, imposing, designed for ruthless decision making. Steel chairs surround a glass table, and surrounding that are panoramic views reminding everyone just how high the stakes are. My board members are sharp, seasoned players. They respect results, not sentiment.
And sitting right there, where he hasn’t sat in over a year, is Mark Blackwell my father. Playing the ‘concerned founder.’ Bullshit. He’s here to gut Project Nightingale.
I present the revised proposal. Incorporating the terms Lucy and I hammered out. Partnership structure, capital infusion tied to performance milestones. The Hammond family retains the brand, Richard Hammond stays as nominal CEO, Lucy Hammond acts as direct liaison and operational lead. I lay out the financials, the strategic rationale, the turnaround potential. My voice is steady, my arguments logical. But my focus keeps snagging on the memory of tangled limbs on a leather sofa.
Get your head in the game, Blackwell.
As expected, my father leads the opposition. “A partnership? With a failing company run by a sentimental fool? Preposterous. Hammond & Co. is ripe for acquisition and liquidation. Strip the valuable assets, discard the rest. Maximum return, minimum risk. That’s the Blackwell way.” He looks directly at me. “This… Nightingale project… smells of emotion, not strategy. Perhaps Christopher’s personal involvement with Hammond management is clouding his judgment? ”
The implication hangs there, thick and ugly. A few board members shift uncomfortably.
“My judgment is perfectly clear,” I state, meeting my father’s gaze, my voice ice. “Project Nightingale maximizes long term value by leveraging existing brand equity and restructuring for efficiency. A hostile takeover and liquidation destroys that potential value for short term gain, driven by,” I pause deliberately, “outdated personal grievances rather than sound financial strategy.”
The debate volleys back and forth. It’s tense. I counter every argument, stick to the data, refuse to get drawn into personal attacks. My father smirks the entire time, utterly confident he can sway the board back to his familiar, brutal tactics.
At one point, during a lull, he leans towards me and murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, “You think they don’t know? I knew you were fucking her the moment you started defending that sinking ship.”
Rage flashes, hot and quick, but I suppress it instantly.
Don’t show any reaction.
The vote is called. It’s close. Closer than it should be. But in the end, Project Nightingale passes. By a single, deciding vote. A narrow victory. It should feel triumphant.
But it feels… empty.
After the board members file out, my father remains. His eyes are chips of ice. “You won this round, Christopher. But don’t think for a second this is over. You chose the girl and her pathetic legacy over sound business. Over the Blackwell way. You’ll regret it.”
“My business decisions are my own,” I reply, gathering my papers, refusing to meet his furious gaze.
“Are they?” he sneers. “Or are they hers now?” He walks out.
Always has to get the last word.
I stand alone in the boardroom, the approved proposal feeling like lead in my hands. I won. I defended the strategy I believe in, the one that inexplicably involves saving Lucy Hammond’s company.
But the victory feels hollow, tainted by the methods I had to use, the lines I crossed, and the undeniable fact that my father’s taunts about Lucy hit far too close to home.
Yes. I fucked her. Yes. That was a mistake. I...
I retreat. Emotionally. Shut down the part of me that felt… something… in her office last night. Compartmentalize it, and focus on the objective, on executing the plan.
Morgan Weiss. Yes. That’s the next step.
Pure strategy. No emotion.
Later that afternoon, Tatiana buzzes. “Ms. Hammond is here to see you, Mr. Blackwell. She doesn’t have an appointment.”
On cue my stomach clenches.
The walls. Build the walls.
I swallow and stand up. “Send her in.”
Lucy walks into my office. She looks determined, professional, but there’s a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes, a vulnerability around her mouth that wasn’t there before last night.
It’s a direct hit to my newly reinforced defenses .
“Christopher,” she starts, her voice a little hesitant. “About last night…”
“Last night was a strategic planning session,” I cut her off smoothly, my tone deliberately cool, all business. I gesture towards the visitor chairs, but remain standing behind my desk. A physical barrier. “Did you bring the updated analysis on Weiss’s communications?”
The hurt flashes in her eyes, clear and sharp, before she masks it with professional composure. The easy camaraderie, the charged connection from last night, evaporates.
Good.
That’s the point.
“Yes,” she says, her voice tightening almost imperceptibly. She opens her portfolio, pulling out documents. “I cross referenced the logs you… somehow acquired… with internal server access times. There’s a clear pattern correlating with board meetings and proposal submissions.”
“Good.” I take the papers without meeting her eyes directly, scanning them quickly. “We need irrefutable proof before we make a move against him. Focus on tracing the financial transfers next. Follow the money. It always leads somewhere.”
I keep the conversation strictly tactical. Morgan Weiss. Counter strategies. Financial forensics. I don’t ask how she is. I don’t acknowledge the tension crackling between us.
She responds in kind, matching my professional tone, acting like we weren’t fucking the shit out of each other last night. She outlines her findings, asking sharp questions about strategy. But the hurt lingers in the slight stiffness of her posture, the way she avoids prolonged eye contact.
It twists something uncomfortable in my gut. Seeing that look in her eyes, knowing I put it there. But it’s necessary. This distance is necessary.
Because the alternative?
Letting her in?
Feeling whatever the fuck that was last night?
That’s a vulnerability I can’t afford.
A risk far greater than any hostile takeover.
She broke through my walls once. I can’t let it happen again.
Even if pushing her away feels like slamming a door on the only genuine thing I’ve encountered in years.