21. Christopher
21
Christopher
S unlight slices through a gap in the curtains, hitting my eyelids.
My usual state upon waking is immediate assessment. You know, check my schedule. Do a quick market analysis. Go over and threats or anything else requiring my immediate attention.
But today…
Today is different.
There’s a warmth pressed against my side. Soft breathing tickles my shoulder. The scent of her , fills my senses.
Lucy.
She’s curled against me, head tucked under my chin, one arm slung across my chest. Still asleep.
She’s so fucking angelic, even after the debauchery of last night.
My arm is possessively wrapped around her waist, holding her close. When did that happen?
I don’t do cuddling.
I don’t do sleeping beside someone .
My bed is a solitary domain. Out of tactical necessity I’ll occasionally allow an exception, and of course, sometimes I need release, but never… comfort .
And yet, this feels… comfortable. An unfamiliar contentment settles in my gut, pushing aside the usual coiled tension. It’s disconcerting. Weakening.
Sentiment is weakness.
My father’s voice, the eternal fucking ghost in the machine.
I should move. Detach. Put space between us before she wakes up, before this comfortable silence gets misinterpreted. But I don’t.
Instead I lie there, watching the sunlight catch the honey gold strands of her hair, listening to the soft sigh of her breath, the rhythmic crash of waves outside the open balcony doors. This quiet intimacy is more dangerous than any corporate battleground. It bypasses defenses I didn’t even know were penetrable.
Her eyelashes flutter. She stirs, nuzzling closer for a second before her eyes blink open. Blue eyes, slightly unfocused, meet mine. Recognition dawns, followed by a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
So adorable.
Fuck.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep.
“Morning.” My own voice sounds rougher than usual. Less clipped. Less controlled.
She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just watches me, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. The memory of last night hangs between us... the raw honesty, the crazy-intense pleasure, the shift from adversary to… whatever the hell this is.
“So,” she says softly, tracing a light pattern on my bare chest with her fingertip. The simple touch sends an unwelcome jolt through me. “No Ice King routine this morning?”
I scowl slightly. “Don’t get used to it.” But there’s no real heat behind the words. The walls are still there, but… there’s definitely a crack in the ice.
We lie together for a while longer, the silence comfortable now, punctuated only by the ocean. It’s uncharted territory. Usually, the morning after involves a swift, silent exit. Mine or hers. No lingering. No conversation beyond logistical necessities.
But not today.
Not with her.
Eventually, hunger or propriety makes her shift, starting to untangle herself. “I should probably… find coffee.”
“Emilia will bring something,” I say, stopping her movement with a hand on her arm. “Stay.” The command slips out, more urgent than I intended.
She hesitates, then settles back against the pillows, pulling the sheet higher around her bare shoulders.
And we talk.
Not about Morgan Weiss.
Not about Hammond & Co.’s precarious financials.
Just… talk.
She asks about the art in the house, her art history background making her observations insightful, not just polite. I find myself telling her about the artists, the stories behind the acquisitions, things I rarely discuss.
Then she gets quieter, her gaze thoughtful as she looks around the vast, beautiful, yet somehow solitary room. Her gaze drifts to the balcony, and the ocean beyond.
“It’s beautiful here, Christopher. Peaceful. But…” she hesitates. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”
The question hangs in the air. Most people are too intimidated by the wealth, the power, the reputation, to ask anything remotely personal.
They see the billionaire, the Executioner.
Not the man trapped inside the gilded cage.
“I don’t have time to get lonely,” I reply. “I’m married to my work.”
She nods slowly, patiently.
Even though it’s a lie.
Yes, it’s a deflection. A non-answer. Something I’ve said a million times.
I want to give her the truth.
And seeing the genuine curiosity, the empathy in her eyes… the truth feels somehow less dangerous than usual.
Or maybe I’m just getting careless.
“That’s not entirely true, well it is, but there’s more to it,” I concede, my voice carefully neutral as I stare up at the ceiling, avoiding her direct gaze for a moment. Easier to talk to the plaster. “Wealth creates barriers, Lucy. Or maybe it just illuminates the ones that are already there. People approach you with agendas. Always. They want something. Money. Access. Status.” I pause, then turn my head slightly to look at her. “Even you, initially. You came to me wanting something specific. A deal. A lifeline for Hammond.”
I see a flicker in her eyes. Maybe defensiveness, maybe just acknowledgment.
“But,” I continue, trying to articulate the distinction, something I haven’t bothered doing before, “it felt… different almost immediately. Most people who want something from me strategize how to get it with th e least resistance. Flattery, manipulation, appealing to ego… it’s transparent. Predictable.” I shift my gaze back to the ceiling. “You came in fighting. Not for personal gain, not trying to cash out. You fought for the company. For your father’s legacy, flawed as it is. For the employees. You were willing to sacrifice your own pride, maybe even your principles, to save something you valued more than the money itself.”
I think back to her arguments, her determination, even her infuriating optimism. And I wonder if I’m saying this for her, or for myself.
“You didn’t treat me like a walking bank account or a stepping stone. You treated me like… well, initially like the enemy,” a small, wry twist touches my lips, “but an opponent to be negotiated with, challenged, not just placated. You argued ethics. You pushed back. That’s… rare. Most people just calculate the angle.” I shrug, a minimal movement, bringing my walls back up slightly. “But the fundamental principle holds. Genuine connection is treacherous territory when everyone has a potential agenda. Lonliness... isolation... it’s just a side effect of self-preservation. The cost of doing business at this level.”
She’s quite for several moments. Finally:
“So you just accept it?” she asks quietly. “Being alone?”
“Acceptance is irrelevant,” I reply flatly. “It simply is.” It’s the reality my father hammered into me, the reality my mother’s departure confirmed. Attachments are liabilities. People leave. Trust is a fool’s game.
I always believed that reality.
Until now.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Lucy doesn’t offer pity. Doesn’t argue. She just absorbs my words, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe,” she says softly, “you just haven’t met the right people willing to climb the walls.”
Before I can process that, my secure phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand. Not the burner. My main line. With an urgent, priority tone. Only Tatiana or Elijah use it.
I snatch it up. “Blackwell.”
“Sir,” Tatiana’s voice is crisp, efficient, but underscored with urgency. “Apologies for the intrusion. There’s an emergency at the Hammond Tower site on West 57th. Partial scaffolding collapse. Multiple injuries reported among the crew. Emergency services are en route, but the situation sounds chaotic. I thought you’d—”
Fuck. Hammond Tower.
One of Richard Hammond’s overly ambitious legacy projects.
Already plagued by delays and budget overruns.
Now this.
I sit up immediately, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Problem solving mode engaged. The brief interlude of intimacy evaporates, replaced by ingrained command protocols. “Injuries confirmed? How many? What’s the structural risk to the main tower?”
“Details are still incoming, sir. Initial reports suggest three seriously injured, possibly more with minor injuries. Structural integrity unknown. Ms. Hammond’s father is reportedly on his way to the site, but Ms. Hammond is listed as the primary emergency contact.”
I glance at Lucy. She’s already sitting up, sheet clutched to her chest, her face pale, eyes wide with alarm. She’s looking at her own mobile phone, which must have buzzed at nearly the same time as mine.
“Understood. Mobilize air transport. Wheels up in fifteen minutes. Notify Elijah, I want full security protocol online. Get me direct comms access to FDNY incident command and NYPD onsite lead. Patch me through to Gideon King at King Enterprises, I need his best structural engineering team on standby. And get me everything on the Hammond Tower project specs, contractor safety records, recent inspection reports. Now , Tatiana!”
“Yes, sir.” The line clicks dead.
I stand up, heading towards the closet, already mentally running through checklists. Resources. Logistics. Damage control.
Lucy scrambles out of bed, grabbing her dress from the floor. Her face is drained of color. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You heard?”
I nod grimly. “I did.”
“The crew…” She fumbles with her dress, her hands shaking. “Dad… he’ll be devastated. Those men…”
“We need to get back to the city,” I say, grabbing a shirt. “Helicopter will be ready in fifteen. Victor will take your bags to the landing zone.”
“Your helicopter?” She looks startled.
“Fastest way,” I state flatly. No time for arguments.
I make two more quick calls. One to a contact high up in the city’s emergency management office, ensuring priority access and accurate intel flow. Another to the head of the construction firm Hammond contracted, a firm I happen to have significant leverage over due to past dealings, and demand immediate accountability and full cooperation.
Power. Used effectively.
Lucy finishes dressing quickly, her earlier vulnerability replaced by anxious energy. The businesswoman is back online, worry etched onto her features.
As we head towards the landing pad at the edge of the property, Elijah Reeves and Maya Chen fall into step beside us, alert, professional. Their presence is a grounding reminder of my world.
Security. Distance. Control.
The helicopter blades whip the air into a frenzy as we lift off, the Hamptons coastline shrinking below. Lucy sits beside me, staring tensely out the window towards the city skyline, already on her phone, trying to reach her father and her site manager.
I watch her profile. The determined set of her jaw. The worry in her eyes. The way she’s already shifting into crisis management mode. That innate strength of hers, which I always find so compelling, is on full display again.
A thought hits me, then, with the force of a physical blow.
She’s become important.
Not just a target. Not just a complication. Not just a temporary lapse in control.
Important.
Her problems feel like my problems.
Her company’s crisis triggers my protective instincts, my need to deploy resources, to fix it for her .
Fear, cold and sharp, cuts through the adrenaline. This is exactly the vulnerability my father warned about. Emotional investment. Attachment. It makes you weak. It makes you predictable. It makes you easy to hurt. My mother proved that. My father reinforces it daily .
Yet… here I am. Racing back to the city, mobilizing my empire, not for a hostile takeover, but to help her .
To support her .
Still, I’m wondering if I told her too much when we were cuddling together in bed. Revealed too much, showed my hand.
And I’m almost grateful for the timing of this crisis, terrible as it is.
Because most likely, the shock and adrenalin and the effort of dealing with the aftermath will ensure she forgets every word I said back there.
We land on the rooftop helipad of a building near the crisis site. Emergency vehicle sirens wail below.
As we descend in the private elevator, Lucy turns to me, her eyes searching mine.
“Christopher… thank you. For this. For helping.”
“Standard operational procedure when a potential investment faces a significant crisis,” I reply, my voice deliberately devoid of emotion. The walls are back.
As the elevator doors open onto the street level chaos, the flashing lights, the emergency crews, the frantic activity around the base of the Hammond Tower, I step out beside her.
I should hand her off to her own people.
Return to my sterile office.
Analyze the situation from a distance.
Protect my investment.
Protect myself.
But I don’t. I stay. Standing beside her on the edge of the chaos, watching her immediately start coordinating with her team, watching her take charge with a calm authority that belies the situation’ s gravity.
I’m uncomfortable.
Out of my element.
Too close to the emotional fallout.
Too invested.
And yet… pulling away feels impossible right now.
Fucking impossible.