23. Christopher
23
Christopher
F uck!
Why is it so hard to fucking focus?
The voice on the conference call drones on about quarterly projections. Numbers. Data points. Strategic alignment. My usual fucking playground.
But today, my fucking mind keeps drifting. To salt air, tangled sheets, the curve of Lucy Hammond’s hip under my hand. The way she looked at me after… I let the mask slip.
Again.
Damn it.
I’m sitting in my office, the speakerphone projecting the meeting into the room. My door is deliberately left ajar. Tatiana is on the call, too, so there’s no point in shutting it. She’s taking notes while ostensibly managing workflow. My Praetorian Guard in tailored pantsuits.
“…and the integration timeline for the Berlin subsidiary remains aggressive but achievable, Mr. Blackwell,” says a disembodied German accent.
“Fine,” I bite out, trying to recall the specifics of the Berlin deal. It feels like ancient history. “Maintain projected cost efficiencies. Report any deviations immediately.”
What the hell was I doing checking on her with a text?
Offering help?
Acting like some kind of goddamn knight in shining armor?
Weakness.
“Yes, Mr. Blackwell.”
The call drags on. Logistics. Market penetration strategies. Competitor analysis. Standard operational bullshit.
But every pause, every flicker of silence, my thoughts snap back to her. Her resilience at the disaster site. Her quiet strength. The way she confronted me in the Hamptons, demanding honesty. The way she fucking surrendered to me on that sofa, in her office, then again in my bed.
The way she tasted so fucking good...
Stop it. Business. Focus on the business.
Finally, the call ends. Silence descends, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.
Tatiana appears in the open doorway moments later, tablet in hand, expression perfectly neutral. But I know that look. She’s processing. Analyzing.
“The Frankfurt projections require your final sign off, sir,” she says, her voice crisp. “And the updated risk assessment for Project Nightingale is ready for review.”
Project Nightingale.
The name makes me think of her.
Again.
“Send them through.” I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples.
Tatiana doesn’t move. “Mr. Blackwell,” she begins, her tone still professional but with an underlying edge I rarely hear. “Forgive me for observing, but your focus during the European acquisitions call seemed… divided.”
Divided. That’s one fucking word for it.
Shattered is more like it.
Or maybe compromised.
“The call was tedious,” I deflect. “Bureaucratic nonsense.”
She raises a single, impeccably shaped eyebrow. The Tatiana Cole equivalent of screaming ‘Bullshit!’
“Perhaps, sir. Or perhaps your attention is increasingly directed towards… other acquisitions?” She lets the implication hang there. She knows. Of course she knows. She probably knew about the Hamptons trip before my helicopter even cleared city airspace. She knows about the flowers. The late night visit to Hammond & Co. The unscheduled trip to the disaster site. Tatiana knows everything. It’s her job.
Fuck it. Denying it is pointless. And frankly, insulting to her intelligence.
“It’s… complicated, Tatiana,” I admit, the words feeling foreign, grating. I don’t do complicated personal entanglements.
“Complicated how, sir?” she presses gently, but firmly. “The optics of the CEO of Blackwell Innovations becoming personally involved with the primary stakeholder of a potential multi-million dollar acquisition target are… challenging. It presents significant conflict of interest vulnerabilities.”
There it is. Laid out cold. Conflict of interest. Vulnerability. Everything my father warned about. Everything my instincts scream against. “I’m aware of the optics, Tatiana.”
“Are you also aware of the potential legal and financial ramifications should this relationship unduly influence the terms of the Hammond deal? Or be perceived as doing so?” she counters, ever the pragmatist. “Your father…” she trails off, but the unspoken threat is clear. Mark Blackwell would exploit any perceived weakness, any hint of impropriety, to undermine me or the deal itself if it suited his agenda.
She’s right. Of course she’s fucking right. Getting involved with Lucy isn’t just personally risky, it’s strategically idiotic. It hands my enemies ammunition. It compromises the very deal I’m trying to structure, the deal meant to save her company, not exploit it.
What was I thinking? That I could compartmentalize? That I could fuck her senseless one night and negotiate across a boardroom table the next without consequences?
Amateur. Fucking amateur.
“Your concerns are noted, Tatiana,” I say, my voice all cool authority, when inside I’m reeling. “Manage the schedule accordingly. Project Nightingale remains the priority. Ensure all protocols regarding potential conflicts are strictly adhered to.”
She nods, satisfied for now. “Of course, sir.” She turns to leave.
“Tatiana,” I stop her. She pauses, looking back. “Thank you.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her features before it’s smoothed away. “Just doing my job, Mr. Blackwell.” She disappears back into the outer office.
Doing her job. Which includes protecting me from my own goddamn stupidity. I stare out the window, the city spread below like a circuit board. Complex. Interconnected. Full of potential short circuits.
Speaking of which, Lucy Hammond is a short circuit I can’t afford. A vulnerability I deliberately exposed myself to.
So what now? Cut it off? Retreat fully behind the walls, treat her like any other business contact?
The thought leaves a cold, hollow ache in my chest that has nothing to do with market analytics.
Or… do I try to navigate this minefield? Acknowledge the conflict, manage the risk, but refuse to let my father’s manipulations or my own ingrained fears dictate my choices?
My secure line buzzes again. Not Tatiana this time. The direct line from building security downstairs.
“Mr. Blackwell,” the security chief’s voice is tight. “Mark Blackwell is in the lobby. He’s demanding access.”
Since the last time my father showed up unannounced, I’d decided that allowing him unfettered access to my office was no longer something I’d put up with, and I’d given security specific instructions not to let him up without my explicit permission.
I consider turning down his request, but decide against it, for the moment.
“Let him up,” I say grimly. Might as well get this over with.
Mark Blackwell storms into my office moments later, his face thunderous. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Never does.
“So,” he spits out, stopping in front of my desk. “I no longer have access to your office, boy? I’m a fucking board member of your company, too.”
“And so you are,” I agree. “But other board members don’t have unfettered access to my office, either. Going forward, you’ll have to get direct approval from me for each visit.”
He glares at me for a moment, seething. Finally: “My investigators have confirmed what I already suspected. You spent the weekend in the Hamptons. With the Hammond girl.”
Investigators.
Of course.
He’s having me watched. Paranoia and control, his twin guiding stars.
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “My personal life is not your concern, Father.”
“It is when your personal life involves fucking the key principal in a nine-figure deal!” he roars, slamming his hand on my desk. The sound echoes my own frustration from earlier, but his is laced with fury, not conflict. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? I told you you’d end up fucking her and fucking the deal. Letting sentiment, letting her , cloud your judgment? I fucking warned you, but you didn’t listen!”
“My judgment remains perfectly clear,” I reply, keeping my voice dangerously low. Showing anger is showing weakness. Never show weakness to him. “Project Nightingale proceeds based on strategic merit, not personal connection.”
“Bullshit!” he sneers. “You torpedoed a perfectly good liquidation strategy. My strategy, implemented through Weiss, because of her! Because you got soft! You think I don’t see it? You’re choosing her pathetic legacy over the Blackwell way!”
“I’m choosing the approach that maximizes long term value for my company,” I counter, standing up slowly, meeting his furious gaze. “Your personal vendetta against Richard Hammond is irrelevant. Your attempts to sabotage the deal through Weiss were transparent and frankly, amateurish.”
His eyes narrow into slits. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Playing white knight. But you’re just repeating history. Letting a woman make you weak. Your mother—”
“ Do not ,” I interrupt, my voice dropping to absolute zero, a tone even he recognizes as a final warning, “bring her into this.”
He recoils slightly, surprised by the ferocity. But he recovers quickly, shifting tactics. “Fine. Don’t talk about your mother. Let’s talk about your little blonde project. You think this ends well? You think you can have her and the company? Don’t be naive, Christopher. Business and pleasure… they don’t mix. One always poisons the other. You’ll either destroy her company trying to keep her, or she’ll cost you everything when you inevitably have to cut her loose. Choose.”
He stands there, radiating smug certainty, convinced he’s backed me into a corner. Convinced he can still control me through threats and manipulation.
But something inside me snaps. Not into rage this time. Into… clarity. Cold, hard clarity.
He’s wrong.
Not about the risks. The risks are real. Tatiana laid them out clinically.
But he’s wrong about the motivation. He thinks this is weakness. Sentiment.
Maybe it started that way. But listening to him now, seeing his ugly, manipulative tactics laid bare… it’s not about weakness anymore.
It’s about refusing to be him.
Refusing to let his bitterness, his control, dictate my life, my business, my choices.
“I’m not choosing , Father,” I say quietly. “I’m building. Something. My way. Project Nightingale will proceed, as approved by the board. And my personal life,” I hold his gaze, unwavering, “remains none of your goddamn business. Now get out of my office.”
For a moment, I think he might actually explode. His face mottles with rage. But he sees something in my eyes. Something implacable. Something that won’t bend to his will this time.
With a final, contemptuous glare, he turns on his heels and storms out.
The silence he leaves behind feels strangely heavy. Charged, even.
I sink back into my chair, the adrenaline slowly draining, leaving me feeling hollow.
He laid it all bare. The threats. The surveillance. The assumption that I’d choose ruthless business over any personal connection.
My dinner with Lucy is in less than two hours. My first instinct is to cancel. Retreat. Protect her from this. Protect myself from the inevitable fallout my father will engineer.
But… no. That’s his way. Manipulation. Secrecy. Using people as pawns.
I won’t do it.
If I’m choosing a different path, it starts now. It starts with honesty.
Even when it’s hard.
I need to tell her. Lay the cards on the table. Let her see the full picture of what she’s stepping into by getting involved with me.
It’s the only way this… whatever this is… has any chance.
It’s the only way I save myself from becoming him.