27. Christopher
27
Christopher
T he knot in this fucking tie feels like a goddamn noose. I adjust it for the tenth time, staring at my reflection. The suit is bespoke, naturally. Impeccable. Worth more than most people’s annual salaries. Usually, I throw these things on without a second thought. Armor for the battlefield of bullshit galas and performative philanthropy.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, the armor feels far too insufficient.
Or maybe my tailor pulled a fast one.
Nah, he wouldn’t dare sell me an ill-fitting suit.
Why the fuck do I care if the pocket square sits exactly right anyway?
Since when do I give a damn about the precise angle of my cufflinks?
It’s absurd.
It’s only because she’ll be there. Beside me.
And the entire viper pit of New York society will be watching. Judging. Speculating.
My father will be watching. That alone is reason enough to project absolute control, absolute indifference.
But the meticulousness isn’t just about control. It’s about… something else.
Something I refuse to name.
My reflection stares back, cool blue eyes betraying nothing. Good. Keep it that way.
This isn’t a date. It’s a strategic deployment. A public statement. Project Nightingale isn’t just a business deal. It’s a partnership. And Lucy Hammond is integral to it. Showing a united front, especially under my father’s glare, is tactically sound. Necessary, even.
It reinforces my position. It signals my independence from his corrosive influence. It protects her, shields her from the fallout I know he’s capable of orchestrating.
Protecting her.
Where the fuck did that come from?
Since when is she something to be protected instead of a target to be acquired?
Fuck. This is complicated.
The intercom buzzes. “Mr. Rossi is here, Mr. Blackwell.” Elijah’s voice, crisp and efficient as always.
“Send him up.” I give the tie one final, savage tug.
Dominic strides into my penthouse a few minutes later, already looking annoyingly relaxed in his tux. He helps himself to the bar without asking, pouring two fingers of scotch.
“Ready to face the lions, Chris?” he asks, that familiar mocking glint in his eyes. “Or should I say, ready to present your lioness?”
“It’s a business event, Dominic,” I snap, grabbing my own glass. Maybe the alcohol will dull the edges of this unfamiliar anxiety. “A necessary appearance. ”
“Right. Business.” He takes a sip of his scotch, surveying me with amusement. “That explains why you look like you’re about to face a firing squad instead of accepting an award for pretending to care about starving artists or endangered pigeons or whatever the hell this gala is for.”
“It’s the City Preservation Fund ,” I correct him automatically. “And it’s about reinforcing the Blackwell Innovations brand commitment to responsible development.”
Bullshit mostly, but it’s the company line.
“Ah, yes. Responsible development.” Dominic grins. “Is that what we’re calling your hostile takeover of Lucy Hammond’s affections now?”
“Fuck off, Rossi.” I down the scotch in one go. The burn is almost welcome. “It’s not a takeover. And it’s not… that.”
“Isn’t it?” He leans against the bar, swirling his glass. “Because from where I’m standing, the ‘Executioner’ looks suspiciously like a man falling head over heels for his supposed adversary. You’ve shifted your entire business strategy for her. You’re publicly defying your father for her. You’re wearing a tie that looks like it cost more than my first car, and you actually care how it looks. Everything points to ‘more than business’, my friend.”
“My strategy shift makes long term financial sense,” I counter, keeping my voice level despite the irritation crawling up my spine. “Defying my father is long overdue. And this tie was a gift.” Which is true. I just omit the part about the giver being Lucy, a thank you for the Hammond Tower incident, and I hadn’t ever planned on wearing the fucking thing until tonight.
Dominic just smirks. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Executioner.”
The ride downtown is tense. Dominic keeps up his light needling, which I mostly ignore, staring out at the city lights blurring past. The stretch SUV limo feels ostentatious, but necessary tonight. It accommodates me, Dominic, and the essential members of our security details without looking like a rolling fortress. Elijah Reeves sits opposite me, looking like just another impassive executive in his tailored suit, but his eyes miss nothing. Maya Chen is beside him, scrolling through something on a tablet, easily passing for an associate handling last minute details. They blend. That’s their job. Tonight, blending is paramount. Beside them, Dominic’s own security detail blend equally well.
Victor isn’t driving; Marcus Bell is. He handles transportation security and defensive driving. Another layer of security for tonight. Victor will handle Lucy’s transport.
Wait. Shit. I changed the plan. Victor isn’t collecting her. We are.
I pull out my phone, check the text chain.
Victor will collect you at 7.
Fuck. My message from earlier. I never updated her. She’s expecting Victor, not this rolling command center.
“Problem?” Dominic asks, noticing my expression.
“Minor logistical oversight,” I mutter, texting Tatiana. Inform Ms. Hammond change of plans. We are collecting her directly. Now.
Too late. We’re already pulling up to her apartment building. She’s standing under the awning, a vision in emerald green silk that clings to her in ways that should be illegal. She looks poised, stunning, and completely surprised to see this behemoth instead of my usual vehicle.
Reeves opens the door and I step out onto the pavement. Her eyes take in the SUV, then me, then Dominic leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.
“Change of plans?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral, though I see the flicker of confusion.
“Efficiency,” I reply curtly. “Consolidating transport.” I offer her my hand. Her fingers are cool against mine, sending an unwelcome jolt straight up my arm. She steps into the limo, her scent, that damn bergamot and jasmine perfume, momentarily overriding the smell of expensive leather and my own cologne.
I introduce Dominic. “May I present Dominic Rossi. Close friend and occasional business partner. He specializes in sustainable architectural innovations.”
She nods a polite greeting to Dominic. “Mr. Rossi.”
“And you must be Ms. Hammond,” Dominic replies smoothly. “I’ve heard so many good things. Looking quite radiant tonight.” Ever the charmer. I shoot him another glare.
Thankfully, he holds his tongue, and the ride to the gala venue is quiet.
Lucy stares out the window, seemingly lost in thought. I watch her reflection in the darkened glass. The curve of her neck. The determined set of her jaw.
Dominic was right.
This is more than business. It’s becoming… central.
This woman, who crashed into my meticulously controlled world, is rapidly becoming the axis it spins around. And that terrifies me more than any market crash or hostile board meeting ever could.
The arrival is exactly the circus I expected.
Cameras flash. Voices murmur. Heads turn as Lucy and I step out together.
I feel the weight of dozens, hundreds, of eyes. Assessing. Calculating. Gossip igniting like wildfire through the crowd.
Let them look. Let them talk.
My hand finds the small of her back, a possessive gesture I don’t consciously plan. It feels… right. Anchoring.
Her skin is warm beneath the silk. She glances up at me, a question in her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away.
We move through the throng, Reeves and Chen flanking us at a discreet distance, blending seamlessly into the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. Dominic follows with his own security detail, looking thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.
Inside, the ballroom is a glittering cavern of old money and new ambition. Chandeliers drip crystals. Champagne flows like water. The air hums with forced laughter and strategic networking.
I scan the room automatically. Identifying threats. Potential allies. Noting who’s talking to whom.
Old habits.
“Quite the entrance,” Lucy murmurs beside me.
“Standard operating procedure for these events,” I reply, guiding her towards the main reception area.
We’re immediately intercepted by Arthur Kensington, a banking magnate whose firm handles a significant chunk of my liquid assets. His gaze flicks between Lucy and me, his curiosity barely veiled .
“Christopher. Good to see you.” He extends a hand. “And who is your lovely companion?”
“Arthur,” I incline my head. “This is Ms. Lucy Hammond, operational lead of Hammond and Company and direct liaison with Blackwell Innovations.” I emphasize her title deliberately. She’s not just a date. She’s a player. My partner.
Lucy handles the introduction with practiced grace, offering a firm handshake and a composed smile. “Mr. Kensington. A pleasure.”
Kensington’s eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly. Hammond and Blackwell. Together. The implications ripple through his understanding of the current market dynamics.
Good.
Let the speculation begin.
We navigate more introductions. Each one reinforces the message. I watch Lucy, impressed by her poise. She’s holding her own in this shark tank, meeting powerful gazes without flinching, discussing business intelligently when required.
A quiet pride swells within me. Not just in her competence, but in the fact that she’s here. With me.
By my own choice.
A defiant counterpoint to the path my father laid out for me.
Then I see him. Holding court near the main bar. Mark Blackwell. Father.
His silver hair gleams under the chandelier light. His eyes, cold and calculating, sweep the room until they land on us.
He doesn’t approach immediately. He watches. Assessing.
Like a predator sizing up its prey.
I feel Lucy tense beside me. She’s seen him too.
“Easy,” I murmur, my hand tightening slightly on her back. “Don’t let him see it bothers you.”
He finally makes his move, gliding towards us, a condescending smile plastered on his face.
On cue, Morgan Weiss materializes at his side like a bad smell, looking smug.
“Christopher,” my father greets me with a fake grin. He completely ignores Lucy. A deliberate slight. “Good to see you supporting such a worthy cause.”
I smile blandly.
His gaze finally slides to Lucy. “And Ms. Hammond. How… unexpected to see you here. With my son.”
“Father,” I reply, my voice glacial. “Ms. Hammond is my guest.”
“Your guest ,” he repeats, savoring the word. “An interesting choice. Given the… delicate nature of your current business negotiations. One hopes personal entanglements won’t cloud your judgment, Christopher.” The threat hangs in the air, veiled but unmistakable.
Choose the deal, or choose her.
He’s repeating his warning, publicly this time.
Fury, cold and sharp, coils in my gut. He’s trying to intimidate her. Trying to intimidate me.
Using this public stage to assert his dominance, to remind me of the leverage he thinks he holds through Weiss.
I meet his gaze directly. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does.
I won’t let it reach mine, either.
“My judgment is perfectly clear, Father,” I state, my voice cutting through the surrounding chatter. Heads are turning. People are noticing the confrontation. Good. “Ms. Hammond’s presence here tonight reflects the strength of the partnership Project Nightingale represents. A partnership I am fully committed to.” I deliberately shift closer to Lucy, making my alignment undeniable. “Any attempt to undermine that partnership, from any source,” my eyes flick meaningfully towards Weiss, who flinches slightly, “will be dealt with decisively.”
The air crackles with tension. My father’s smile tightens. His eyes narrow. He sees the defiance. The public rejection of his authority. The choice I’ve just made clear to everyone watching.
“Strong words, Christopher,” he says softly. “Let’s hope your actions live up to them.” He gives Lucy one last dismissive look, then turns sharply, Weiss trailing in his wake like a suckerfish following a shark.
The immediate vicinity clears, people suddenly finding somewhere else to be, unwilling to get caught in the Blackwell family crossfire.
Lucy lets out a breath she was clearly holding.
“Well,” she says, her voice a little shaky despite her outward composure. “That was… intense.”
“That was predictable ,” I reply grimly. My father thrives on intimidation and control. But he miscalculated. He thought threatening me through her would make me back down.
It did the opposite.
I need to get her away from prying eyes. Away from the toxic atmosphere my father always leaves in his wake.
“Come on.” I take her elbow, steering her away from the main crowd, towards the nearby French doors.
We find ourselves standing upon a stone balcony overlooking the gardens.
The air is cooler out here. Quieter. The distant strains of the orchestra drift from the ballroom. Below us, manicured hedges form intricate patterns under the moonlight.
Lucy leans against the stone balustrade, looking out at the view. The moonlight catches the curve of her cheekbone, the line of her throat.
She looks incredible.
Strong.
Resilient.
Beautiful.
We stand in silence for a moment. The confrontation with my father stripped away the pretense. The strategic rationale feels thin now, overshadowed by something far more potent.
This feeling… this pull towards her. This fierce, unexpected need to keep her safe, to stand with her against anyone, even my own blood.
“Christopher?” she asks softly, turning to look at me. Her blue eyes search mine, full of questions I don’t know how to answer.
I step closer. The space between us shrinks. All I can smell is her. All I can see is her.
The carefully constructed walls around my emotions feel like they’re crumbling, turning to dust under the intensity of her gaze.
Words rise in my throat. Words I haven’t said to anyone. Words about how she’s changing everything. About how this started as business but has become… more.
So much more.
About how looking at her right now feels like the only thing that makes sense in a world built on lies and manipulation.
“Lucy, I…” I start, the confession hovering on my lips, raw and terrifyingly real .
Suddenly, the doors behind us burst open. One of the event organizers, looking flustered, hurries towards us.
“Mr. Blackwell! Thank goodness I found you.” The man wrings his hands. “They’re ready for you. The donation announcements. Your speech…”
The moment shatters. The confession dies unspoken. The walls slam back into place, rebuilt in an instant.
The public persona reasserts itself and I turn away from Lucy, away from the vulnerability I almost showed her, back towards the ballroom, towards the waiting microphone and the expected performance.
“Duty calls,” I say, my voice once again cool and controlled. I offer Lucy my arm, the perfect picture of a powerful man and his strategically advantageous partner.
But as we walk back into the light and noise, back into the heart of the viper pit, my unvoiced confession hangs between us, heavier than any unspoken words.
Fuck.