19. Lucy
19
Lucy
O kay, so apparently ‘morning after’ protocol when you have earth shattering, desk rattling, possibly career ending sex with your billionaire maybe-enemy involves… radio silence.
Followed by an ice cold, “strictly business” dismissal.
Got it.
Filed under ‘Things They Don’t Teach You at Stern School of Business.’ Or maybe they do, and I just skipped that particular lecture.
Walking out of Christopher’s office yesterday felt like being ejected from a warm, intense bubble into the arctic tundra.
One minute, we’re working together, connecting, culminating in… that . The next, he’s Mr. Freeze, talking about financial forensics like we hadn’t just been intimately acquainted with every square inch of my office sofa.
The whiplash is giving me actual vertigo. Seriously. I’m surprised I’m still able to walk .
Did I misread everything? Was the shared vulnerability just a figment of my overworked, overstimulated imagination? Was the whole thing just… a calculated move? Or simple stress release?
God, I feel like such an idiot.
A well pleasured idiot, admittedly, but an idiot nonetheless. My body still hums with the memory of his touch, his control, that ridiculously huge cock filling me.
But my brain? My brain is doing frantic, confused laps around my bruised ego.
I need perspective. I need someone who understands the confusing landscape of billionaire romance slash corporate warfare.
I need Ava.
“So, he went full Ice King after playing Tarzan in your office?” Ava asks, swirling her iced matcha latte. We’re sitting outside her favorite SoHo cafe, enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that feels completely at odds with my internal storm clouds. As usual, her private security detail stands watch outside.
“Pretty much,” I sigh, poking at my croissant. “One minute, intense connection, shared confessions, mind blowing sex. The next? ‘Did you bring the updated analysis on Weiss?’ What the fuck! Like nothing happened. Like I was just another agenda item he checked off.”
Ava takes a thoughtful sip. “Definitely reminds me of Gideon in our early days. Guys like that, they’re wired differently than normal people. It’s that wiring that made them billionaires in the first place.”
I nod. “I get that he’s different. But what exactly is going on? What do I do?”
“Okay, possibility one: He’s a sociopath who gets off on emotional manipulation and power plays. ”
“Definitely on the table,” I concede.
“Possibility two,” she continues, ignoring my interruption, “he’s terrified.”
I blink. “Terrified? Christopher Blackwell? The man who probably negotiates nuclear treaties before breakfast?”
“Terrified,” Ava repeats firmly. “Think about it, Lucy. You saw behind the mask. He showed you vulnerability. That story about his mom when you found the photo? For a guy like him, that’s huge. Like, DEFCON 1 level emotional exposure. And the same thing with the sex. He can’t allow himself to open up after that. It makes him too vulnerable. What do guys like that do when they feel exposed? They slam the door. Build the walls higher. Retreat to what they know: control, distance, business.”
I chew on my lip, considering this. It… actually makes a weird kind of sense. The sudden coldness wasn’t necessarily about me , but about him . His fear of whatever that connection represented.
Okay, maybe I’m not a complete idiot. Maybe just partially an idiot for sleeping with my emotionally damaged maybe-enemy.
“So what do I do?” I ask. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Send him a passive aggressive memo about workplace boundaries?”
“Or,” Ava suggests, a familiar glint in her eye, “you could call him on his bullshit. Instead of ignoring it. Instead of pretending it didn’t happen. That’s the only way to get through to guys like him. Ask me how I know. I spent weeks not saying a word. Bottling everything up... it was the worst thing I ever did. Trust me. Call him on his bullshit.”
Before I can process that terrifying thought, my phone buzzes. A text. From that familiar secure number.
Oh, fantastic. More cryptic breadcrumbs?
I read it:
Hamptons. This weekend. We need to finalize the Morgan strategy without interruptions. Car will pick you up Friday 5pm unless instructed otherwise. -C.
My jaw drops. The Hamptons? Like, polo ponies and ridiculously overpriced lobster rolls Hamptons? With him? An entire weekend? After he basically ghosted me emotionally?
Is this guy bipolar? Or just fluent in Advanced Level Mind Games?
Or Ava is completely right.
“What is it?” Ava asks, leaning closer.
I show her the text. She reads it, then looks back at me, eyebrows raised. “Well. He’s not subtle, is he? ‘Work without interruptions.’ Translation: ‘I want to get you alone somewhere ridiculously expensive where I can control the environment and maybe apologize slash seduce you again.’”
“Or,” I counter nervously, “More accurate translation: ‘Let’s lock ourselves away and stare awkwardly at spreadsheets while pretending I didn’t just rock your world and then treat you like a contaminated lab sample.’”
“Either way, you have to go,” Ava declares.
“Go? Ava, he totally shut me out!”
“Exactly! He’s running scared. This,” she gestures at the phone, “is him trying to regain control, probably of himself as much as the situation. Go. Corner him. Make him deal with it. And,” she adds with a grin, “get some answers. Plus, Hamptons.”
I hesitate. Going feels like playing his game. Like letting him dictate the terms after he acted like a complete jerk. But… staying away feels like letting him win. Letting him retreat behind those walls without consequence. And damn it, I do want answers. I want to understand. And we do need to figure out this Morgan mess. Plus… a tiny, rebelling part of me wants to see him again. Wants to see if that connection was real, or if I just imagined it in a haze of lust and late night spreadsheets.
Okay, Lucy. Keep your dignity intact and your head held high. March into the billionaire’s beach lair and demand satisfaction. Emotional satisfaction, preferably.
Though other kinds would be accepted as well...
“Fine,” I sigh, typing a terse reply.
Acceptable. LH.
“But if he pulls the Ice King routine again,” I continue. “I’m commandeering his helicopter and flying straight back to the city.”
Ava laughs. “Just make sure you pack a good swimsuit. And maybe a black lace bra this time.”
My cheeks flame. “Ava!”
Friday arrives faster than I’d like. The sleek black town car materializes outside my apartment building precisely at 5:00 PM. Victor, Christopher’s driver, nods politely as he holds the door. The ride out east is smooth, silent, and gives me way too much time to second-guess my decision.
What am I doing? This is crazy.
He’s probably got spreadsheets laid out on the beach towels.
Christopher’s Hamptons house isn’t the ostentatious monstrosity I might have expected. No gleaming gold fixtures or fifty foot statues of himself. It’s… surprisingly tasteful. Modern lines, lots of weathered wood and glass, nestled discreetly behind grass-topped dunes, facing directly onto a private stretch of white sand. It feels less like a billionaire fortress and more like… a home. Albeit a ridiculously luxurious, Architectural Digest-worthy home.
Christopher meets me at the door. He’s dressed down. Or rather, his version of dressed down, wearing tailored linen trousers and a soft looking grey Henley that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. No suit today.
He looks… relaxed? Ish? His eyes are still guarded, but maybe less arctic.
“Lucy. Welcome.” His voice is polite. Formal. Great. We’re back to Ms. Hammond level formality after I saw him naked. Awesome.
Well, at least he didn’t actually call me Ms. Hammond.
I flirt with calling him Mr. Blackwell, but decide against it.
“Christopher.” I keep my tone equally professional, stepping inside. The interior is minimalist, full of calming neutrals, and there’s more art. It’s different art than in his penthouse, more abstract landscapes and seascapes than anything else. Meanwhile, the floor-to-ceiling windows offer staggering ocean views.
“Your room is upstairs. First door on the left,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “We can start working in the study whenever you’re ready. I’ve had the relevant files uploaded to the secure server.”
Okay. Straight to business then. No awkward small talk about the weather or the fact that we had sex on my office furniture three days ago. Perfect. Just perfect.
We set up in his study, which, like the rest of the house, overlooks the ocean. It’s less intimidating than his city office, warmer, with comfortable chairs and shelves filled with actual novels alongside the business books.
Still, the atmosphere between us is painfully stiff, and full of tension. We maintain a careful physical distance, passing documents back and forth like we’re handling hazardous goods.
Which we probably are.
We dive into the Morgan strategy. Or lack thereof. The evidence we compiled is damning, yes. It strongly suggests sabotage, collusion with Mark Blackwell. But is it ironclad? Enough to force him off the board without him unleashing hell? Probably not.
“The problem remains the leverage he has over your father,” Christopher states, tapping a highlighted section in a file. He’s all business again, sharp, analytical. “Even if we present this evidence of sabotage to the board, Morgan can retaliate by exposing Richard’s past financial… irregularities. It could trigger investigations, panic investors, potentially do more damage than Morgan’s sabotage itself.”
“So we’re stuck,” I say, frustration mounting. “We can’t move against him until we defuse the bomb he’s holding.”
“Precisely.” Christopher leans back, steepling his fingers. That intense gaze is back, but directed at the problem, not at me. Mostly. I catch him looking sometimes, when he thinks I’m focused on the screen, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he looks away. It’s driving me crazy.
“We need two things,” he continues. “One: definitive, irrefutable proof of Morgan’s collusion with my father. Something concrete enough to force his resignation quietly or ensure the board backs his removal without question. Financial forensics, perhaps tracing direct payments or communications.”
“Can we get that?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “I have resources. People who specialize in finding things that don’t want to be found. It will take discretion. And time.”
“Okay. And the second thing?”
“Neutralizing his leverage,” Christopher continues. “We need to get ahead of whatever secrets Morgan thinks he has on your father. Understand the full extent of the exposure. Prepare Hammond & Co.’s narrative. Maybe even initiate our own controlled disclosure to key stakeholders before Morgan can weaponize it. Take away his power by controlling the release.”
It’s a solid strategy. Logical. Ruthless in its own way. But incredibly complex and risky. It requires deep diving into Dad’s mess, exposing it internally, and hoping we can spin it convincingly. All while secretly gathering enough dirt on Morgan and Mark Blackwell to take them down.
A part of me wonders if Christopher will be able to go through with it, when the time comes. I mean going against his father like that... it’s not something I can ever imagine doing against my own dad. But then again, my dad has been one of my biggest supporters, my biggest heroes. While Christopher’s? He comes off as the exact antithesis of everything a father should be.
Anyway, we work for hours, mapping out potential scenarios, identifying resources, assigning tasks. The professional collaboration clicks again, that same synergy we found in my office. But the underlying sexual tension remains, a low hum beneath the surface of spreadsheets and strategic planning.
He keeps his distance physically, but his eyes…
His eyes keep finding mine.
And there’s hunger in them.