30. Lucy
30
Lucy
O kay, waking up alone in Christopher Blackwell’s bed, Take Two.
Apparently, the sleepy cuddling we managed in the Hamptons before that scaffolding emergency was a limited-time offer.
Or maybe there was another business fire requiring his immediate, brooding presence somewhere else this morning?
It’s hard to tell with him.
Maybe he just spontaneously combusted from excessive feelings?
At least this time he didn’t get yanked away by news of my company’s latest disaster… as far as I know. Still, just me again, tangled in ridiculously expensive sheets, with only the ghost of his intense cologne for company.
Maybe this is just standard billionaire operating procedure? Wake up, conquer the world, and leave the girl wondering if the Ice King persona has rebooted overnight?
Note to self: ask Ava if Gideon ever just… evaporates before dawn.
Still, could be worse .
He could have left a Post-it note saying ‘Thanks for the merger. Don’t call me.’
Emilia, his frighteningly efficient chef who probably knows all my secrets already just by analyzing my breakfast choices, informed me very politely that Mr. Blackwell had departed for the office but his driver, Victor, would return for me. Which he did, promptly.
The ride back to Hammond & Co. felt less like a walk of shame and more like a… strategic retreat?
Yeah, let’s go with that.
Since all I had was the dress I wore to the gala, I had to stop by my apartment first to pick up some proper clothes.
Now, safely behind my own desk, and dressed in a blouse, blazer and slacks combo, I’m trying to focus. Trying to ignore the memory of last night. The gala drama. The revised proposal sitting innocuously in my briefcase like a ticking time bomb of hope and potential disaster.
The way Christopher looked at me.
The way he touched me.
Okay, focus, Lucy. Less internal swooning, more saving-the-company-ing.
My intercom buzzes, startling me. It’s Carol, front desk receptionist and keeper of all Hammond secrets, probably including Dad’s sock drawer organization system.
“Lucy dear,” Carol’s voice crackles through, warm but with an undercurrent of warning. “Mr. Weiss just arrived. He’s heading towards his office now.”
“Thanks, Carol.” I’d asked her to buzz me the second Morgan Slimeball Weiss showed his perfectly groomed face. Time for round… what are we on no w? Five? Six? Of ‘Please Stop Trying to Tank My Company, You Obvious Asshole Saboteur.’
I grab a file. It’s mostly blank pages, but looks official, and head down the hall.
Morgan’s office door is predictably open. He’s standing by the window, admiring the view he’s actively trying to liquidate.
He turns as I enter, a smug, condescending smile already plastered on his face.
Punchable. So incredibly punchable.
“Lucy. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His tone suggests the pleasure is entirely mine and involves something unpleasant, like a root canal performed with rusty pliers.
Eww... gross metaphor. But apt.
“Morgan.” I keep my voice level, planting myself in front of his desk. “Funny you should ask about pleasure. I was just reviewing the documentation for the Astor Place redevelopment and the Tribeca lofts. Some key financial reports seem to be… missing. Again. Any idea where they might have wandered off to?”
He chuckles, leaning back against the window sill, radiating slimy confidence. “Lost paperwork? Happens all the time in a company under… stress .” He lets the word hang there. “Perhaps your father misplaced them during one of his more… creative accounting sessions?”
My stomach clenches.
Play it cool, Hammond.
“Dad’s already been very forthcoming about the recent financial difficulties, Morgan.” I don’t want to tip my hand too far by revealing we know the full extent of what my father has done. If I do, Morgan might decide to publicly release what he knows early.
Christopher and I have been actively working on trying to neutralize the leverage Morgan thinks he has, mostly by attempting to get ahead of the narrative. We’ve already started initiating our own controlled disclosure to key stakeholders regarding the accounting issues and bad loans.
But Morgan’s smile only widens at my words.
“Has he really told you everything , Lucy? Are you quite sure about that?” He pushes off the window, taking a step closer. He smells faintly of cheap soap and cologne. “Because I recall certain… entities. Special arrangements designed to make liabilities vanish into thin air. Things far more complex than simply juggling payroll funds. Things that don’t just bend the rules, they snap them clean in two.”
Entities? Special arrangements? What the hell is he talking about?
Dad admitted everything, didn’t he?
The bad investments, the desperate moves.
Unless… oh god, unless there’s more?
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Morgan,” I say, feeling a flush of anger creep up my neck. “But Dad told me everything .”
“Did he?” Morgan raises a skeptical eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Okay.”
He shrugs.
My blood runs cold. He knows something. Something specific. Something Dad didn’t tell me.
Before I can formulate a response, before I can even process the implications, my phone rings, shrill and urgent. It’s Carol’s extension.
“Lucy?” Carol sounds panicked, breathless. “There you are! It’s your father! He… he collapsed while visiting the Hammond Tower site! Paramedics are there. They’re taking him to Mount Sinai! ”
The world tilts. Morgan’s smug face blurs. The missing files, the cryptic threats, they all vanish. “Mount Sinai? I’m on my way!”
I’m running before I even hang up, pushing past a startled Morgan, ignoring his parting shot of “Do give Richard my best.”
I’ll give you something, you absolute fucking bastard.
I rush through the workplace and past Carol at the front desk. My hands are shaking as I push open the front door.
Collapsed? Dad?
He seemed stressed, sure, worn down, but… collapsed?
Please be okay. Please be okay. Please just be exhaustion. Or bad scotch.
Please.
I burst out onto the street, waving frantically for a cab. Traffic is jammed. Of course it is.
I start running towards the avenue, dodging pedestrians, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs that has nothing to do with exertion.
I finally flag down a cab, and when I’m sitting there alone in the backseat, I break down crying.
The cloying stench of antiseptic fills the hospital waiting room. Florescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on the worried faces scattered around the room.
I check in at the desk, my voice trembling. The nurse tells me Richard Hammond is in ER, undergoing tests, and someone will update me soon.
Soon. An eternity in hospital time.
I sink onto a hard plastic chair, wrapping my arms around myself.
Stay calm. Panicking won’t help.
Dad has to be okay. He’s stubborn. He’s a fighter.
He survived Mark Blackwell all these years, he can survive this.
Right?
My eyes sting.
Don’t cry again.
Not here.
Not now.
I focus on a water stain on a ceiling tile, tracing its edges with my eyes. Anything to distract from the scenarios playing out in my head.
“Lucy?”
I look up sharply. Christopher. Standing a few feet away, looking impossibly solid and calm amidst the hospital chaos. His usual impeccably tailored suit looks out of place here, yet somehow reassuring. Behind him, lurking near the doorway like very well dressed statues, are two familiar faces. Elijah Reeves, his head of security, and Maya Chen, the woman who looks like an admin assistant but probably knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a paperclip.
“Christopher?” My voice cracks and I finally burst into tears. I stand up and wrap him in a hug. “What… how did you know?”
“Elijah monitors emergency services dispatch frequencies as part of his standard threat assessments,” he says calmly, as if this is totally normal billionaire behavior.
And it probably is.
The thought makes me laugh. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear. “Thank you for coming.”
I finally pull away and wipe at my eyes .
When I manage some semblance of composure, I look at him again.
His intense blue eyes search mine. “How are you holding up?”
“I… I don’t know,” I stammer, feeling ridiculously grateful for his presence. Just him being here feels like an anchor in the storm. “They haven’t told me anything yet. Just said he collapsed.”
Christopher doesn’t offer empty platitudes. He just nods, his gaze steady. “I’m here. Whatever you need.”
I sit down, and gesture to the chair beside me.
He sits, not too close, respecting my space, but undeniably with me. His security detail discreetly positions themselves further down the hallway, visible but unobtrusive.
We wait. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s… supportive. He doesn’t pry or push. He just sits there, a quiet, grounding presence.
Occasionally, his hand brushes mine where it rests on the armrest between us, a small, accidental touch that sends an unexpected jolt of warmth through me.
Finally, a doctor appears, looking tired but kind. “Ms. Hammond? Your father had a significant cardiac event.”
I stare at him. Confused. “What does that mean?”
“A heart attack,” the doctor clarifies. “We were able to stabilize him, but it was serious. He’s conscious now, asking for you. You can see him for a few minutes.”
Relief washes over me, so potent it makes me dizzy. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.”
Christopher stands as I do. “Go,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here.”
Dad looks small in the hospital bed, tubes snaking around him, the steady beep of monitors filling the small room. His face is pale, etched with lines of pain and fear I’ve never seen before.
“Lucy-bug,” he whispers, his voice weak. He tries for a smile, but it falters.
“Dad.” I rush to his side, taking his hand. It feels frail. “Oh, Dad. You scared me.”
“Scared myself, too,” he murmurs. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, are clouded with something else now. Regret. Shame. “Lucy… there’s… something I didn’t tell you.”
“Is this about work?” I tell him. “Forget it now. It doesn’t matter! All that matters is that you recover.”
“No!” he insists. “In case anything happens. I need to tell you.”
I blink rapidly, barely holding back the tears. “Okay, Dad. Whatever you want.”
His grip tightens on my hand. “Years ago… things were bad. Worse than now. I was desperate. Cornered. I… I created some off-balance-sheet entities. SPEs. To hide debt. To make the company look healthier than it was. To get funding.” His voice cracks. “It worked, for a while. Got us through. But it was wrong, Lucy. Maybe… maybe illegal. If anyone finds out…” He closes his eyes, looking utterly defeated. “Morgan Weiss knows.”
SPEs. Off-balance-sheet entities. The technical terms slam into me, the weight of their meaning crushing. This isn’t just bad judgment. This is potentially fraudulent. The kind of thing that doesn’t just bankrupt a company, it sends people to prison.
Like my father.
Hammond & Co. could be Enron lite.
Morgan’s words echo in my ears. Things that don’t just bend the rules, they snap them clean in two .
“Oh, Dad,” I whisper, the room seeming to spin.
“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he says, tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want to… disappoint you more.”
I squeeze his hand, trying to project strength I don’t feel. “We’ll figure it out, Dad. Okay? We’ll figure it out. You just focus on getting better. Don’t think about that now.”
Leaving his room feels like walking through water. My legs are heavy, my mind numb. How do we possibly fix this? SPEs? This could unravel everything. Project Nightingale. Christopher’s investment. Everything.
I walk back towards the waiting area, dread coiling in my stomach. Christopher looks up as I approach, his expression questioning. He stands, waiting.
How can I tell him? How can I admit that the company he’s trying to save, the legacy he’s shown unexpected respect for, is built on foundations that might be rotten to the core? That my father, the man he’s grudgingly agreed to keep on as CEO, might have committed actual fraud?
This changes everything.
He’ll pull the deal. He has to. No sane businessman would touch this now.
And he’ll probably disown me.
I’ll never feel those gorgeous lips of his on my face ever again.
None of it matters though. Only that my dad gets better.
“Lucy?” he asks gently, seeing the devastation on my face.
I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. Where do I even start?
‘Hey Christopher, thanks for the support and the revised partnership offer, but funny story, my Dad might be a criminal and Hammond & Co. is potentially built on a house of very illegal cards?’
I can’t do it. I can’t. Maybe when my dad is better. But right now, I can’t deal with this.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Is it about the SPEs, Lucy?”
I freeze. My head snaps up. How…?
“How did you know?” I whisper, shocked.
His expression is grim, but his eyes hold… understanding? Not accusation.
“My father,” he says quietly. “He and Morgan Weiss brought the information to me earlier. Proof of the off-balance-sheet entities your father created years ago.”
He knew. He already knew.
“They wanted me to use it,” he continues, his gaze holding mine captive. “Leak it. Force the sale. Ruin your father. Take everything.”
My breath catches. Of course they did. Mark Blackwell’s revenge, served cold and final.
“And?” I barely breathe the word.
“And I told them no,” he states simply. “I told them Project Nightingale proceeds as a partnership. That I wouldn’t use their dirty secrets to destroy Hammond & Co. Or your father.” He pauses, his eyes searching mine intently. “I knew it would hurt you, finding out. I didn’t know when or how to tell you. But Lucy, I wasn’t going to use it against you. Ever.”
He knew the worst, the potentially company-ending, reputation-shattering secret. And he chose not to use it.
He chose partnership.
He chose… me .
Over the ruthless tactics his father champions. Over the easy, brutal win.
The relief is so immense, so unexpected, it feels like a physical blow. Tears well up again, but this time they aren’t tears of fear or despair. They’re tears of overwhelming gratitude. Of finally, truly, understanding the man standing in front of me.
He’s not the Executioner. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was, not underneath it all.
I pull him into a fierce hug and I weep on his shoulder.
The weight on my chest eases, replaced by a burgeoning warmth, a sense of trust so profound it settles deep in my bones.
We’re still facing a potential catastrophe with these SPEs. The problem hasn’t vanished. And my dad’s recovery will also be an uphill battle, no denying that. But now… now I’m not facing either alone.
I’m facing it with him. The man who knew the worst and chose loyalty anyway.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words thick with emotion. It feels inadequate, but it’s all I have.
When I pull away, he reaches out, his thumb gently brushing away a tear tracking down my cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle. Grounding.
“Your father’s health is paramount, Lucy,” he murmurs. “This SPE thing, while it’s important, it’s something in the background. Something we’ll figure out, eventually.” He echos the words I just spoke to my father, but infusing them with a quiet confidence I desperately need to hear. “Together.”
Together.
I hug him again.