32. Lucy
32
Lucy
N ote to self: hospital waiting room chairs are not designed for sleep. Or comfort. Or anything other than slowly crushing your will to live while you wait for potentially devastating news.
I think I managed about forty-five minutes of disjointed, anxious dozing before giving up and resorting to pacing the small private room Christopher had somehow conjured.
I finally convinced Christopher to go home sometime around 2 a.m.
Seriously, the man looked ready to personally wrestle my father’s heart back into perfect health if necessary, but even billionaire vigilantes need sleep.
Probably.
I check my watch. 8 a.m.
My phone buzzes on the table where it’s charging. A text from Christopher.
Victor is downstairs. Ready when you are. Remember what I said. Fight.
Right. Fight. Easy for him to say. He’s not the one walking into a den of skeptical board members, half of whom think I’m just Daddy’s little girl playing at business, while the other half are actively plotting my company’s demise, led by Chief Slimeball Morgan Weiss.
And now Dad’s massive secret, the SPE time bomb, is ticking under the table.
No pressure though.
I splash cold water on my face in the tiny bathroom, staring at my reflection.
Yikes.
I attempt to smooth my hair and straighten the clothes I wore yesterday. Thankfully, Ava had sent over a bag with toiletries and a spare, conservative-but-chic dress via Gideon’s ever-efficient network. Bless her organized heart.
Dressed, minimally made-up, and fueled by lukewarm coffee from the machine down the hall, I feel marginally more human.
But ready to fight?
Let’s just say I’m ready to show up and try not to throw up.
Victor is waiting downstairs, expressionless as ever.
The ride downtown is quiet. I stare out at the morning commuters, all looking so blissfully unaware that Hammond & Co. might be built on a foundation of potentially illegal corporate shenanigans.
Ignorance is bliss, people. Cherish it.
I wish Christopher was here. His solid presence, that unnerving calm he projects even when delivering terrifying news… it would help. But this is my fight.
I have to walk in there alone.
Stay focused, Lucy. And remember, you faced down the Executioner himself .
You can handle Morgan Weiss and a few grumpy old men.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
The Hammond & Co. lobby feels different today. Quieter. Subdued.
Carol gives me a worried look as I pass, whispering, “Good luck, dear. Give ‘em hell.”
I manage a weak smile. For some reason her words bring tears to my eyes, but I quickly blink them back. I blame it on the emotional rollercoaster of the last couple of days. That, and the lack of sleep.
The boardroom is already mostly full.
Jesus. Everyone had to come, didn’t they?
Of course they did. My father is hospitalized, and there’s ostensibly no one in charge of the company.
I can feel the tension in the room. Morgan is holding court at one end of the table, looking infuriatingly smug. He meets my eyes as I enter, offering a smile that doesn’t reach his cold, calculating gaze.
Oh, I’d love to wipe that smirk off your face.
I take my usual seat, arranging my tablet and notepad with hands that are only shaking a little.
The meeting starts with perfunctory expressions of concern for Dad, led by Morgan, naturally, laying the sympathy on thick.
Then he pivots.
“Of course, Richard’s regrettable and sudden incapacitation leaves a significant leadership vacuum,” Morgan says smoothly, steepling his fingers. “While Lucy has certainly been… involved… lately, the complexities facing the company now require a steady, experienced hand at the helm. Especially considering certain… legacy risks inherent in our portfolio that demand careful navigation.” He glances around the table meaningfully.
Translation: I know about the SPEs, you idiots, and only I can handle the fallout without landing us all in court. Put me in charge.
Anger wars with anxiety. Christopher’s words echo in my head. Fight.
“Thank you for your concern, Morgan,” I say, forcing my voice to remain calm and steady. I meet his gaze directly. “Dad’s situation is serious, and his recovery is our top priority. However, Hammond & Co. is not without direction.” I glance around the table, making eye contact with each board member. “As you all know, I’ve been deeply involved in operations for some time now, managing the recent restructuring efforts, and addressing the Hammond Tower crisis directly.” I pause, letting that sink in. “And, crucially, negotiating the partnership with Blackwell Innovations. A partnership, I might add, that Mr. Blackwell himself has tied directly to my continued operational leadership.”
Okay, maybe I pulled the Christopher card there, but still, it seemed the right place to use it.
“A partnership that introduces its own complexities,” Morgan counters smoothly. “Perhaps an interim CEO, someone with extensive experience in crisis management and financial restructuring… would be prudent? Someone like myself. Someone who could fix things without having to rely on an external partner like Blackwell. Just until Richard is back on his feet, of course.” He gives a modest little shrug, as if the thought of himself in the role just magically popped into his head.
Right. And I spontaneously sprout wings.
This is it. He’s making his move.
Time to fight back.
“An interim CEO is indeed necessary,” I agree, surprising him. His eyebrows shoot up. “And I appreciate the board’s need for stability during Dad’s recovery. Which is why I’m putting myself forward for that role.”
A murmur goes around the table. Morgan looks momentarily stunned.
“I know the challenges ahead,” I continue quickly, pressing my advantage. “Including the ‘legacy risks’ Morgan alluded to. I’ve been working closely with Dad, and now with Christopher Blackwell’s team, to address all aspects of our financial situation proactively.”
Okay, Christopher’s team isn’t involved just yet, but they will be. Close enough.
“I have a clear plan, the backing of our primary investor, and the dedication to see this company through. I will serve as interim CEO,” I meet Morgan’s furious gaze, “focusing on stabilization and executing the integration of Project Nightingale. And,” I add, remembering my condition, “I will, of course, step aside when Dad is fully recovered and ready to resume his duties.”
I hold my breath. Did I sound convincing? Did I sound like I knew what I was doing?
Or did I sound like I was reading from a script titled ‘How to Fake It Till You Make It While Internally Hyperventilating’?
There’s a long silence. Then Mr. Abernathy, one of the older, more traditional board members, clears his throat. “Lucy has demonstrated considerable initiative lately. And Blackwell’s endorsement carries weight.”
Others murmur agreement. Morgan tries to argue, citing my ‘lack of experience,’ but the tide has turned. Christopher’s backing, framed correctly, was the ace up my sleeve.
The vote is called. It’s close, but I win.
Interim CEO.
Me, Lucy Hammond.
Holy crap.
I thank the board, trying to project calm authority while inside I’m a nervous wreck. The meeting wraps up quickly after that, thankfully.
Morgan glares daggers at me as he leaves.
Challenge accepted, Weiss.
Walking out of the boardroom, I feel shaky but exhilarated. I did it. Actually did it.
Now I just have to, you know, actually DO it. Run the company. Fix the potentially illegal mess Dad made. Keep Morgan from slitting my throat in the hallway.
Easy peasy.
I head straight back to the hospital, courtesy of Victor, who was waiting outside for me.
When I arrive, I already know Christopher is here, because his security detail loiters outside the private waiting room.
Christopher looks up from his tablet as I enter.
“How did it go?” he asks immediately, his eyes searching mine.
“Interim CEO Hammond, reporting for duty,” I say, managing a slightly wobbly grin.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. The kind that reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. It hits me harder than any boardroom victory.
He stands up, closing the distance between us. “I knew you could do it.”
“Only because you practically shoved me into the arena,” I admit. “And I made it clear it’s temporary. Until Dad’s back.”
“One battle at a time,” he murmurs, pulling me into a hug. It’s not overtly passionate, but it’s solid. Safe.
I lean against him, just breathing for a second, letting the stress of the morning seep away. His hand rubs my back soothingly.
Okay, maybe billionaire hugs are a thing.
“You visited Dad yet?” I ask, pulling back slightly.
“Briefly. Dr. Finch updated me. He’s resting comfortably.”
I nod, relieved. “I should check on him.”
Dad is asleep when I peek into his room, looking peaceful for the first time in ages. The steady beep of the monitor is a reassuring rhythm.
I lean down and kiss his forehead gently.
“We got this, Dad,” I whisper. “Just get better.”
Back in the waiting room, Christopher is seated at the small table, his tablet open again. Back to business.
“What did he say?” Christopher asks.
“He’s sleeping,” I tell him. “Didn’t have the heart to wake him.”
“Have a seat,” Christopher says, his tone shifting back to strategic focus, though the warmth remains in his eyes. “So. Neutralizing the SPEs. My forensic accounting team is on standby. We need to authorize their engagement, give them access. Quietly. The sooner they map the extent of this, the sooner we control the narrative.”
We spend the next hour talking strategy. Real strategy. Not adversaries sizing each other up, but partners dissecting a shared problem. He listens to my insights on Hammond’s internal structures, I absorb his ruthless efficiency in planning the financial deep dive. It feels… right. Working alongside him, tackling this mess to gether.
Looking at him now, focused and intense as he outlines the steps for unwinding Dad’s disastrous creations without triggering alarms, I realize how far we’ve come. From that disastrous tech expo encounter with the humping robot dogs, through suspicion and takeovers and unexpected kisses, to this. Sitting in a hospital waiting room, planning how to save my family’s company while navigating my father’s potentially criminal mistakes.
Somehow, impossibly, Christopher Blackwell has become the person I trust most. With Hammond & Co.’s precarious future. With my father’s vulnerable secrets. And, terrifyingly enough, with my own heart.
The thought should send me running for the hills.
Instead, looking at the man who chose loyalty over leverage, who believes in me more than I believe in myself…
It just makes me want to lean in closer.
We still have a mountain to climb, littered with landmines planted by Morgan and maybe even Mark Blackwell, his father.
But for the first time, it doesn’t feel insurmountable.