29. Christopher
29
Christopher
T he morning light slanting through the penthouse windows feels different today. Less harsh. Warmer, maybe.
Or maybe that’s just the residual heat from the woman still asleep in my bed.
Lucy.
Curled on her side, honey-blonde hair fanned out across the obscenely high thread-count pillowcase, lips slightly parted. She looks peaceful. Innocent. And so beautiful.
The memory of last night floods back. The feel of her skin under my hands. The taste of her mouth. The sounds she made when I finally lost control and took her properly against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights painting patterns on her bare skin.
Her complete surrender.
Her quiet strength.
The way she looked at me afterwards, like she actually saw something worth seeing beneath the Blackwell bullshit.
Contentment. It’s a foreign sensation. Unsettling .
I don’t do contentment.
I do conquest. Acquisition. Control.
Yet, waking up beside her… it doesn’t feel like a victory march.
It feels… quiet.
Stable, almost.
Fuck that.
Stability is stagnation. Quiet is vulnerability.
My thoughts? Or my father’s?
I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. I need coffee. Need distance.
Need to get my head straight before the day devours me.
I pull on sweats and head for the kitchen. Emilia already has the espresso machine humming, a small smile playing on her lips as she hands me a cup. She doesn’t say anything. She never does.
But she knows.
Staff always knows.
The thought is irritating. My private life shouldn’t be fodder for kitchen gossip.
“Emilia,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry back to the bedroom. “Ms. Hammond is still asleep. When she wakes, make her breakfast, and inform her Victor will return for her immediately after dropping me off at the office. He’ll take her wherever she needs to go.”
“Of course, Mr. Blackwell,” she replies smoothly, her expression unreadable again.
Efficient. Discreet.
Exactly why she’s lasted longer than any other chef I’ve employed.
I grab my usual pre-packed gym bag and head for the private elevator.
In the underground parking garage, Victor Harmon is already waiting by the gleaming black sedan, door open, posture impeccable.
He nods almost imperceptibly as I approach. Behind my car, a black SUV waits, engine idling. Elijah Reeves sits in the passenger seat, scanning the area. My ever-present shadow detail.
Necessary evil.
“Morning, Victor.”
“Mr. Blackwell.”
I slide into the back seat. The familiar scent of expensive leather and Victor’s faint, unobtrusive cologne fills the space. It smells like control. Predictability. Something I desperately need right now.
As we pull away from the curb, the SUV follows, maintaining a precise distance.
The drive downtown is swift. I stare out at the city waking up, the concrete canyons indifferent to the turmoil churning inside me.
Last night feels like a lifetime ago. A dream state fueled by adrenaline, defiance, and Lucy’s surprisingly potent effect on my system.
Now, reality bites back. Blackwell Tower looms ahead, a monument to my ambition, my isolation, my father’s legacy I both fight against and am inevitably shaped by.
We pull into the private underground entrance. Victor kills the engine. The SUV parks in a stall nearby, Elijah and Maya emerging, scanning the underground garage before nodding towards the private elevator bank.
“Usual protocols, Victor,” I say as I get out.
“Understood, sir. I’ll return for Ms. Hammond as soon as you’re secure upstairs.”
The elevator whisks me upwards in silence. No buttons. Just seamless ascent to the top floor.
My floor.
The doors slide open onto the hushed reception area outside my office suite. Tatiana is already there, standing near her minimalist desk, reviewing something on a tablet. Her sleek blonde bob is immaculate, her tailored pantsuit radiating competence.
She looks up as I approach, her expression neutral, but her eyes sharp.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she greets me, her voice perfectly modulated.
“Tatiana.” I nod curtly and stride past her towards the heavy oak doors of my inner sanctum.
She calls after me and I pause to listen: “Your schedule for today is confirmed. Executive team call at nine regarding the Petrov acquisition. Site visit at eleven for the Hudson Yards redevelopment proposal. Preliminary meeting with the legal team re: Project Nightingale at two. Your father requested a…”
“Denied,” I cut her off. “No visits from my father. Not today.”
A beat of silence. “As you wish, Mr. Blackwell. Regarding the Petrov call at nine…”
“Pipe it through here. And Tatiana?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwell?”
“Hold all non-essential calls until after the site visit. I need to focus.”
“Of course.”
I step into my office, closing the door firmly behind me. The view from here is spectacular, a panoramic sweep of the city I conquered. But I ignore it.
I momentarily close the blinds, then set the gym bag down on the floor. I open it. Inside, my suit awaits, meticulously folded .
I change out of my sweats and into my power suit, but even in my business armor, I still don’t quite feel like me.
Not today.
I open the blinds with a sigh and take a seat.
My desk is clear, precisely organized by Tatiana before she left last night. On my monitors await spreadsheets and market analysis reports.
That’s my reality. Numbers don’t lie. They don’t whisper confusing promises in the dark.
They don’t make you question every damn thing you thought you knew about yourself.
I stare at the screen, but the numbers blur. My focus keeps drifting.
Back to the bedroom.
Back to emerald silk pooling on the floor.
Back to the look in her eyes when I handed her that revised proposal.
This is exactly what my father warned me against, exactly what cost me millions in the past.
Vulnerability. Weakness.
No. She’s not a vulnerability. She’s strength.
Fuck, don’t think about her. Concentrate on work.
The nine a.m. conference call is a fucking disaster, internally at least. I let Tatiana listen in, as is usual for the critical calls I take.
The Petrov deal is stalling. Bureaucratic red tape, unexpected environmental regs. Standard shit.
But my team sounds hesitant. Unsure. Looking for decisive direction. Direction I usually give without blinking.
But today? My mind keeps wandering.
I hear myself giving instructions, dissecting the problems, assigning tasks, but it feels disconnected.
Like I’m watching myself perform from afar.
My answers are sharp enough, the strategy sound, but the usual edge isn’t there.
“Anything else?” I ask, forcing impatience into my tone.
“No, Mr. Blackwell. We’ll action these points immediately.” Sarah Chan, my Head of Strategy, sounds slightly uncertain.
She knows my usual rhythm.
And this isn’t it.
“Good. Report back by end of day.” I disconnect, rubbing my temples.
“Everything all right, Mr. Blackwell?” Tatiana’s is standing at my open office door. She’s holding a tablet, her expression carefully neutral.
But her eyes. Her eyes are sharp.
She misses nothing.
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Just a complex deal.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t push it. Just raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You seemed… distracted.”
“I’m handling it.”
“I’m sure you are. Is there anything concerning Ms. Hammond that I should be aware of, operationally speaking?” Subtle. Always subtle. But the question hangs there.
She knows. Or she suspects.
Fuck it. Denial is pointless with Tatiana.
“My relationship with Ms. Hammond,” I state, keeping my voice cold, devoid of emotion, “has become personal as well as professional.”
Tatiana’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker. Concern? Disapproval? “I see. Does this present a conflict of interest regarding Project Nightingale that requires mitigation? ”
Conflict of interest. The corporate jargon sounds obscene applied to… this. To Lucy.
“My personal life does not interfere with my business judgment, Tatiana. Period. Project Nightingale proceeds as planned. The revised terms stand.”
“Understood.” She makes a note on her tablet. “Just ensuring all potential risk factors are logged.” Risk factor. Is that what Lucy is now? A risk factor on a spreadsheet? The thought leaves a bitter taste. “Your car is ready for the site visit at ten forty-five.”
She turns and leaves, her footsteps silent on the hardwood floor.
The Hudson Yards site visit is even worse. It’s a prime piece of real estate, a potential flagship development. High end condos, retail space, state of the art amenities. Exactly the kind of project Blackwell Innovations usually eats for breakfast.
But walking the site with the developers, listening to their pitch about maximizing square footage and minimizing green space… it feels… hollow. Soulless.
I find myself thinking about Hammond Tower. The history. The architectural details Lucy pointed out. Her passion for blending legacy with modernity. Her arguments for prioritizing community space, for sustainable design.
Arguments I initially dismissed as sentimental bullshit.
Now? This developer’s slick presentation, all chrome and glass and profit margins, feels… cheap. Unsustainable in a way that has nothing to do with environmental ratings.
“Impressive yield projections, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Blackwell?” the lead developer is saying.
“The numbers are adequate,” I reply distractedly. “But the vision lacks depth.”
I see the confusion on his face. Blackwell, questioning profit potential for ‘depth’?
Unheard of.
I cut the visit short, leaving the developers looking bewildered.
Back in the car, Victor drives silently, expertly navigating Midtown traffic while my security detail follows in their SUV.
I stare out the window, brooding. This deviation from the norm, this questioning of the relentless acquisition model… it’s her influence.
And it’s dangerous.
My phone buzzes. Building security. “Mr. Blackwell. Your father and Mr. Weiss are here. They insist on seeing you.”
Just fucking perfect. The architect of my misery and his pet snake.
I gave explicit orders. No paternal visits today. Tatiana wouldn’t fuck that up.
Which means the old man railroaded security, probably threatened their jobs or charmed his way through until they buzzed me directly anyway.
Predictable fucking power play.
I glance at my watch. It’s just after one. I’m due back at the office anyway. “I’m five minutes out. Let them wait in the lobby. When I arrive, let them through.”
I disconnect before security can reply. Let them cool their heels. Let them know who’s in charge now.
I forgo my usual private entrance in the underground parking garage, and, ignoring the curious glances, stride directly into the lobby of Blackwell Tower with my security entourage.
My father and Weiss are standing near the elevator bank. Weiss looks nervous, shifting his weight. My father looks impatient, radiating that familiar aura of barely contained fury and entitlement.
“Cutting it close, Christopher,” he snaps as I approach.
“My schedule is my own, Father,” I reply coldly. “Shall we?” I gesture towards the elevator bank, then glance at my security detail. “That will be all, Elijah.”
He nods, and takes up a position in the lobby with Maya.
The ride up is silent, suffocating. Weiss avoids my gaze. My father stares straight ahead, jaw tight.
We walk past Tatiana’s desk. She offers us a weak smile before wisely returning her attention to her tablet.
In my office, I don’t offer them seats. I remain standing behind my desk, a barrier of polished steel and glass between us. “This is unexpected. And unwelcome. State your business.”
“We have information,” my father says, his voice clipped. “Information pertinent to Project Nightingale. Information that changes everything.”
Weiss steps forward nervously, placing a thin file on my desk. “Mr. Blackwell, we’ve uncovered… irregularities. In Hammond & Co.’s historical financials. Beyond the questionable loans and creative accounting Richard Hammond has already admitted to.”
I don’t touch the file. “Irregularities?”
“Fraud might be a more accurate term,” my father interjects, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “It seems dear Richard was far more creative than anyone knew. Morgan?”
Weiss clears his throat. “We found evidence of a network of off-balance-sheet Special Purpose Entities. SPEs. Set up years ago. Used to hide significant debt, inflate asset values, secure funding under false pretenses.” He pushes the file slightly closer. “Documentation is thorough. Bank records, incorporation papers, internal memos signed by Richard himself. It’s damning, Christopher. Proof of deliberate, systematic misrepresentation to lenders and investors.”
SPEs. Fuck. That’s not just creative accounting. That’s serious. Potentially criminal. This goes way beyond the messy financials Richard told Lucy about.
This is the kind of shit that destroys reputations, triggers investigations, forces bankruptcies.
This is the silver bullet.
“And you propose?” I ask, keeping my face impassive, though my mind is racing.
“We use it,” my father says, his voice low and vicious. “We leak this to the right people. The lenders. The regulators. The press. Hammond & Co. collapses under the scandal. We swoop in, pick up the pieces for pennies on the dollar. Richard Hammond is ruined, publicly disgraced. Exactly as he deserves.” His smile is pure venom.
This isn’t business.
This is revenge, decades in the making.
He expects me to jump at the chance. The old Christopher would have. Ruthless efficiency. Maximum leverage. Eliminate the competition.
The Blackwell way.
The way he taught me.
But all I see is Lucy’s face. Her pride in her family’s legacy, flawed as it is. Her determination to save it. The trust in her eyes last night when I gave her that revised proposal.
Using this information wouldn’t just ruin Richard Hammond. It would destroy Lucy. It would betray everything that’s starting to build between us. It would make me… him.
My father.
“How do I know you haven’t planted this evidence?” I ask, though mostly I’m stalling for time.
“Read the documents,” Weiss says. “Everything’s there. Along with the proof.”
I open the thin file. He’s right. There are bank statements. Corporate cutouts. All traceable back to Richard Hammond.
The choice hangs there, stark and absolute. The path of ruthless acquisition, the path paved with my father’s approval and littered with the wreckage of others.
Or… another path.
An unknown path.
One defined by… what? Integrity? Loyalty?
Feelings I barely understand for a woman who should be my target, not my… whatever she is.
“No,” I say. The word is quiet, but absolute.
My father stares at me, disbelief warring with fury. “No? What do you mean, no?”
“No,” I say again.
“But this is everything we need!” My father is shouting now. Spitting as he talks. “It guarantees the acquisition on our fucking terms!”
“I said no.” My voice hardens. “Project Nightingale proceeds according to the partnership agreement I negotiated. The revised agreement. We are not acquiring Hammond & Co. through blackmail or engineered scandal. We are partnering with them. We are investing in their future, not burying their past.”
“Are you insane?” Mark sputters, his face a bright red. “After everything? Because of that Hammond girl? You’d throw away a guaranteed victory for… for what? Sentiment? Love? Because she sucks your dick real good?”
I squeeze my fist in barely controlled rage. “I’m throwing away your outdated, vindictive tactics, Father,” I retort. “This is my company. My deal. My fucking decision . We will not use this information. Is that clear?”
Weiss looks like he wants to disappear into the carpet. My father looks like he wants to strangle me. His fists clench at his sides, just like my own.
For a moment, I think he might actually lunge across the desk and we’ll come to blows. The air crackles with decades of resentment, of manipulation, of this endless, toxic power struggle.
“You’re making a grave mistake, Christopher,” he finally spits out, voice oozing contempt. “A mistake driven by weakness. She’s made you weak.”
“Get out,” I say.
“You’ll regret this.”
“Get. The fuck. Out! ”
He turns abruptly and storms out, Weiss scrambling after him like a whipped dog. The door slams shut, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
I wait until I hear the elevator doors open and close in the room outside. Until I know they’re gone.
And then I finally let my fists relax.
I stand there for a long moment, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving behind a hollow ache.
I refused him.
I chose… something different.
I chose Lucy .
But the file still sits on my desk. A ticking time bomb. Richard Hammond’s fraudulent SPEs.
What the fuck do I do now ?
Transparency. Trust.
That’s what I offered Lucy.
But this? Revealing this… it will shatter her. It will confirm her worst fears about her father, about the precariousness of everything she’s fighting for.
It might destroy any trust she has left in me, seeing me as the bearer of devastating news, inextricably linked to her family’s potential ruin.
Keeping it secret feels like a betrayal. Another layer of manipulation in a game already rife with it. If she finds out later, if Morgan or my father find another way to leak it… the fallout would be catastrophic. For the deal. For us.
But telling her now? While we’re just starting to build something real?
I don’t know if I can do it.
There’s no good option. Only varying degrees of disaster.
I pick up the file. The weight of it feels immense. The secrets inside are poison.
I have to tell her. At some point.
She deserves the truth.
Needs it to navigate what’s coming.
But when? How? How do I deliver a blow like this without becoming the Executioner she always feared I was?
Fuck.