22. Lucy
22
Lucy
O kay, crisis mode.
The stench of dust, diesel fumes, and panic is everywhere. Flashing lights paint the surrounding buildings in strobing reds and blues. Sirens scream. Shouted commands echo off the steel frame of the half finished Hammond Tower.
It’s chaos.
Organized chaos, maybe, thanks to the FDNY and NYPD, but chaos nonetheless.
And right in the middle of it, somehow radiating an aura of infuriating calm, is Christopher Blackwell. Mr. ‘Standard Operational Procedure’ himself.
He’s on his phone, his voice low but carrying unmistakable authority. He’s not barking orders at the first responders, thank god, he’s not that arrogant, but he’s coordinating with his people, and resources I didn’t even know existed are suddenly materializing.
A top tier structural engineering team from Gideon King’s company (apparently billionaires have emergency speed dial). Extra lighting rigs. Some kind of specialized drone scanning the damaged scaffolding.
And his security detail, led by the silently competent Elijah Reeves, has secured the immediate perimeter, smoothly managing access. They look less like bodyguards and more like hyper-efficient event managers.
I should be annoyed. Resentful, even. Here he is, swooping into my company’s business, deploying his vast resources like it’s just another day at the office. But honestly? I’m mostly just… grateful. And ridiculously impressed. He’s not taking over my role, I’m still liaising with the site manager, talking to the union reps, trying to get updates on the injured workers (three serious, four minor, thank god no fatalities reported yet).
But he’s plugging the gaps, providing support systems Hammond & Co. simply doesn’t have. He’s acting like… well, like a partner.
A terrifyingly efficient, slightly scary, partner.
“We need eyes inside the damaged section before we clear anyone past the inner cordon,” the FDNY Battalion Chief is saying to me, his face grim under his helmet. “We need to assess the risk of secondary collapse.”
Before I can answer, Christopher is beside us. How does he move so silently?
“My drone team has thermal imaging capabilities,” he says to the Chief, his voice calm, level. “They can provide a live feed of structural stress points and temperature variations without putting any first responders at risk. Feed can be patched directly to your command post.”
The Chief looks surprised, then nods sharply. “Get it up there! ”
Christopher retreats once more, talking on his phone, and within minutes, a small, sophisticated drone lifts silently into the air, disappearing into the damaged structure.
We work side-by-side like that for what feels like hours. The initial chaos subsides into a tense, methodical process. Securing the site. Getting accurate information. Ensuring the injured are cared for. Coordinating with city agencies.
Christopher stays focused, analytical, providing resources and connections with quiet efficiency. He doesn’t hover over me, doesn’t second-guess my decisions regarding Hammond personnel, but he’s there . A solid, unexpectedly reassuring presence amidst the flashing lights and shouted updates. The intimacy of last night, the heart-to-heart conversation we were having this morning... all burned away by the adrenaline of the crisis. Or maybe just compartmentalized again.
With him, who the hell knows?
Then I see him. Dad. Pushing through the outer police line, his face etched with worry, looking older and more frail than I’ve ever seen him. Liam O’Connell, our sturdy head architect, is right beside him, looking equally grim.
Dad spots me, relief washing over his features, quickly followed by confusion as he takes in Christopher standing next to me, deep in conversation with the structural engineer from King Enterprises.
“Lucy! Thank god.” Dad rushes over, pulling me into a hug. “I came as soon as I heard. The men… are they…?”
“Three serious injuries, Dad, but stable for now. Four others minor. Everyone’s accounted for,” I reassure him quickly. “The site is secure. We’re assessing the structural damage now.”
His eyes flick towards Christopher, then back to me, a question mark hovering in the air.
When I don’t answer, he turns toward Christopher.
“Mr. Blackwell,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. He extends a hand, gratitude obviously warring with deep-seated suspicion in his eyes.
Christopher shakes his hand firmly, his expression unreadable. “Richard. Sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”
“Indeed.” Dad glances around at the controlled efficiency, the extra personnel, the high tech drone feed visible on a nearby monitor. He looks back at me. “Seems… you have things well in hand, Lucy. With Mr. Blackwell’s… assistance .”
The word hangs there, heavy with unspoken questions.
Like what the hell is the Executioner doing playing Good Samaritan at my disaster site?
“Christopher’s resources have been invaluable, Dad,” I say firmly, meeting my father’s gaze. No hedging. No downplaying. “His engineers, the drone imaging… have helped secure the site faster and potentially prevented further risk. He got here before I did.”
Okay, that last is a slight white lie maybe, but the point stands.
Dad looks from me to Christopher, then back again. The suspicion doesn’t entirely fade, but a grudging respect seems to dawn. Or maybe just resignation.
When your company is literally falling apart, you can’t always afford to be picky about who helps hold it up.
“Well,” he says gruffly. “Thank you, Blackwell. For your… prompt response.”
“Happy to assist a potential partner,” Christopher replies smoothly, the businessman firmly back in place.
Oh, right. The unsigned deal. The partnership. Project Nightingale. The thing that underpins this whole bizarre dynamic.
The crisis momentarily made me forget we’re still technically adversaries negotiating a very complex takeover slash rescue mission.
As did the mind-blowing sex.
But I digress.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of site inspections (from a safe distance), meetings with investigators, calls to worried families, and endless logistical wrangling.
Christopher stays until the immediate crisis is contained and a clear plan for the next 24 hours is established. He never once mentions Project Nightingale or uses the situation to leverage his position.
He just… helps.
Efficiently.
Effectively.
Then, with a brief nod to me and my father, he and his security entourage melt back into the city. Just like that.
Gone.
Leaving me standing there amidst the wreckage, and feeling strangely… be reft?
Exhaustion hits me like a physical blow the moment I unlock my apartment door hours later. I shed my dust-covered clothes, shower until the water runs cold, and collapse onto my sofa wearing nothing but an old, oversized t-shirt. My muscles ache. My brain feels like scrambled eggs.
But underneath the bone deep weariness, there’s a strange... hum. Like the adrenaline hasn’t fully faded.
And... I miss him.
Which is ridiculous. Utterly, certifiably insane.
But it’s true.
I miss the sex. I miss our conversations.
I miss... him .
Working beside him today, seeing that sharp mind focus on problem solving, witnessing his quiet command… it was so different from the dominant lover of the night before, so different from the cool negotiator, different even from the vulnerable man who admitted his barriers this morning.
There are just so many facets to the infuriatingly complex Christopher Blackwell.
I wonder if I’ll ever truly understand him.
And what about the shift between us? It’s undeniable. We started as enemies. Became reluctant collaborators. Then… lovers? And now today, partners in crisis.
It’s an emotional roller coaster on a grand scale.
Where do we even go from here? Can we untangle the personal from the professional? He’s poised to invest potentially millions to save my company, effectively becoming my boss slash partner slash savior. And I… I slept with him.
More than slept with him .
I surrendered to him in a way I never have with anyone. Not just once. But twice.
How does that not complicate things? He holds all the power, financially, and now, maybe, emotionally too?
The thought is terrifying. The inadequacy monster whispers nasty little doubts in my ear.
He helped today out of pity. Or strategy.
Once the deal is done, he’ll discard you.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, startling me. The secure number. Again.
My heart does that stupid lurch.
Site secured? Need anything? -C.
Short. To the point. Almost impersonal. Almost.
But he’s checking in. After everything.
That has to count for something.
I stare at the message for a long time. Every rational thought screams at me to shut him down now, while I still can.
This is too complicated.
Too messy.
But I’m already in too deep.
No, it’s not too late. I can still turn back.
He’s got walls higher than the Hammond Tower.
And getting involved personally is professional suicide and emotional hari-kari.
But… I remember the vulnerability in his eyes in the Hamptons. The unexpected honesty. The way he looked at me last night. The quiet competence today.
The way my body still aches in the best possible way.
Maybe… maybe Ava is right. Maybe sometimes you have to be willing to climb the walls.
Or at least peek over the top.
My thumbs hover over the keypad. I still hesitate. This feels like another point of no return.
Agreeing to see him again, outside of a crisis or a negotiation… it acknowledges that this is more . More than business. More than just sex.
Screw it.
What’s life without a little high-stakes emotional risk?
What was that Spiderman used to say?
With great risk comes great reward.
Actually no, that was Thomas Jefferson, or something. Well whatever, the sentiment still stands. I type my text:
Site stable for now. Thanks again for everything today. Really, I mean that. And no, don’t need anything. But… maybe I’ll see you soon? -L.
I hit send before I can overthink it. The reply comes back almost instantly.
Tomorrow. Dinner. My place. 7pm.
Not a question. A statement. Part of me should be annoyed. I’m used to being in control, after all. I have to be, working at my father’s company.
But another part? Another part feels a thrill of anticipation that has absolutely nothing to do with business strategy.
Okay, Lucy.
You’re officially off the grid, now, and heading into uncharted territory.
Time to peek over those walls.