33. Christopher
33
Christopher
T he glare off the polished surface of the boardroom table is fucking blinding. Or maybe it’s just the collective heat radiating from my executive team.
Hostility disguised as prudent concern.
Fucking predictable.
“With all due respect, Christopher,” Sarah Chan begins, her voice tight despite its usual smooth modulation, “these revised terms for the Hammond partnership… they’re exceptionally generous. Too generous. The equity split alone gives them far more leverage than their current financial position warrants. The operational autonomy granted to Ms. Hammond, while she’s only interim CEO…” She trails off, letting the implication hang there.
She’s implying Lucy is unqualified, a temporary placeholder we shouldn’t be betting the farm on.
“It exposes Blackwell Innovations to significant downside risk,” David Smith, chimes in immediately. Always eager to prove his worth by identifying problems. “If Hammond & Co. can’t stabilize quickly under her leadership, or if further… legacy issues… emerge during due diligence…” Legacy issues. A nice corporate euphemism for Richard Hammond’s creative accounting.
The board hasn’t found out about the potentially fraudulent SPEs, as far as I can tell.
Not yet, anyway. That would end the deal right here, right now. But my father won’t pull that card, not until he’s milked Hammond & Co. dry.
“The terms reflect a strategic investment in long term value, not a short term asset strip,” I reply calmly, my voice cutting through the murmurs of agreement around the table. I meet each of their gazes. Coldly. Letting them see the resolve. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Hammond & Co. possesses unique historical assets, deep market knowledge, and under Lucy Hammond’s leadership, a clear path towards modernization and profitability within the Project Nightingale framework. I’m not sure how many times I need to say this until it’s drilled into your fucking heads. ”
“But the cost , Christopher,” Sarah pushes back, leaning forward. “The capital injection required, the favorable debt restructuring… it deviates significantly from our standard acquisition protocols. The old Nightingale was bad. This is ten times worse. We won’t see a profit for at least ten years. If we ever see a profit at all.”
“I’m not worried about when we’ll see a profit on this one,” I state flatly. “This is different. This is a partnership. A strategic synergy. Sometimes sustainable growth requires investment and cultivation, not just brute force.”
Who the fuck am I? Some kind of goddamn corporate environmentalist? The words sound foreign even to me, yet they feel… right.
Even necessary.
The silence that follows is thick with skepticism. They aren’t buying it. They see the numbers, the risk profile, the deviation from the Blackwell playbook. They don’t see Lucy’s grit, her vision, the potential I see. Or maybe they do, and they just don’t give a shit.
Profit over potential. That’s the old way.
And I know exactly who’s pulling their strings. Who’s whispering doubts in their ears, reminding them of the ‘true’ Blackwell way.
My father.
Mark Blackwell.
He may not be in this room, but his goddamn influence lingers like a bad smell. Giving him that seat on the Blackwell Innovations board years ago, a concession meant to appease him, to prove I wasn’t entirely rejecting his world… that has to be the fucking worst mistake I’ve ever made. He uses it not for governance, but for interference. For undermining me whenever my path diverges from his poisonous ideology.
“The decision is final,” I conclude, my voice leaving no room for argument. “Project Nightingale proceeds under the revised terms. Your departments will execute accordingly. Focus on the integration plan, not on second guessing the strategic direction. Am I understood?”
Reluctant nods around the table. They know better than to argue further, not to my face. But the dissent is palpable. My father’s seeds of doubt have taken root.
This isn’t over.
“Meeting adjourned,” I snap, rising before anyone else can speak. I need to deal with the source of the rot directly.
Right now.
As usual, the drive out to the Blackwell estate feels like descending into the underworld. The stone lions standing guard at the entrance, the perfectly manicured lawns, the ostentatious fountain, the imposing stone facade… it’s all designed to project power, legacy, impenetrable wealth.
To me, it just feels like a gilded cage filled with bad memories.
Alfred greets me at the door and let’s me inside.
My father is in his study, naturally. Surrounded by dark wood and portraits of smug-looking ancestors. He looks up as I enter, no surprise on his face. He’s still watching me, then.
Of course he is. He has eyes and ears everywhere.
“Christopher,” he greets me, his voice devoid of warmth. He gestures towards a chair I don’t take. “Come to reconsider your… sentimental attachment to the Hammond disaster?”
“I came to make something clear,” I reply, standing my ground. “Your attempts to undermine the Hammond partnership through my executive team and the board end now.”
He chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. “My attempts? I merely shared prudent financial concerns with fellow board members. Concerns about your… unusual generosity towards a failing competitor, led by an inexperienced young woman who clearly has you compromised.” His eyes narrow. “Is it true you refused to use the information Morgan Weiss provided? The proof of Richard Hammond’s fraud? That’s leverage , boy! ”
“The SPE information is irrelevant to the strategic merits of the partnership,” I lie coolly.
Its strategic merit is Lucy . But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Irrelevant?” He slams his hand down on the antique desk. “It was the perfect leverage! A killing blow handed to you on a silver platter, and you threw it away! For her! Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“My mind is perfectly clear,” I retort. “Unlike yours, it’s not clouded by a decades-old vendetta. Project Nightingale is proceeding as planned. With Lucy Hammond as interim CEO. And you will stop interfering.”
“Or what, Christopher?” he sneers, rising to face me across the desk. The resemblance between us is stark in moments like this. The same jawline. The same cold eyes. But I will not become him. “You’ll remove me from the board? The board I helped establish connections for? The board where several members still value my experience, my perspective, over your increasingly erratic decisions?”
The threat hangs heavy in the air. He’s not bluffing. He has allies on the board, old-guard types who trust his ruthless calculus more than my evolving vision. He can make trouble. Serious trouble.
“Try it,” I challenge him, holding his gaze. No fear. Just ice. “Rally your support. Make your move. See what happens when you try to wrest control of the company I built.” Let him see the steel he himself helped forge, now turned against him.
His face twists in fury. He knows I’m not the same son who used to crave his approval. That power dynamic has shifted. Irrevocably.
“You’re choosing her, and that train wreck of a company, over loyalty? Over family? Over everything I taught you?” His voice trembles with rage.
“I’m choosing my own path,” I reply evenly. “Something you never had the courage to do.”
I turn and walk out, not waiting for his response. The weight of his anger follows me, but it doesn’t touch me. Not anymore. Just a cold resolve settles in its place.
He wants a war?
He’ll get one.
But it will be on my terms.
My battlefield.
Back in the city, the adrenaline from the confrontation leaves me wired, restless. The victory feels hollow. Defying him is necessary, but it doesn’t bring peace. Only the prospect of more conflict.
I find myself calling Lucy’s number before I consciously decide to.
“Hammond,” her voice answers, sounding tired but steady. Interim CEO Hammond.
Fuck, I like the sound of that, even if she doesn’t yet.
“Busy?” I ask.
“I’m at the hospital. Why?”
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s doing well,” she replies. “He’s more awake now. We were able to talk. It was nice. I think he’s actually going to get through this.”
“I’m so happy to hear that,” I tell her. “I mean that.”
“I know you do.” I can almost hear her smile over the line .
“Do you fell like dinner. At my place? Emilia’s left something. Staff’s gone for the night.”
A pause. “Okay,” she says softly. “Give me an hour.”
She arrives looking… professional but weary. The weight of her new role, her father’s health, the SPE Sword of Damocles hanging over her head… it’s etched around her eyes. But she still manages a small smile when she sees me.
We eat in the kitchen. Not the formal dining room. Just leaning against the huge marble island, picking at the gourmet meal Emilia left meticulously prepared in the fridge.
It feels strangely domestic. Comfortable.
We talk about her day, the board meeting, the initial steps she’s taking as interim CEO.
She complains about the sheer volume of paperwork, the endless meetings.
She doesn’t complain about the responsibility, though. She’s rising to it, just like I knew she would.
Then the conversation shifts. She asks about my day.
And somehow, standing here in the low light of the kitchen, the city glittering outside, the usual defenses feel… burdensome.
I tell her.
Not everything.
Not the raw fury, the decades of bullshit packed into that confrontation.
But I tell her about the board meeting pushback. About my father’s threats. About his intention to fight me over Project Nightingale, over her.
“He really intends to try and force you out? Over this?” she asks, her eyes wide with concern.
“He intends to maintain control, or inflict maximum damage trying,” I clarify. “It’s not just about you, or Hammond. It’s about me defying him. Choosing a different path. He can’t tolerate that.”
“Christopher, I don’t want my company, my problems, to cause a war between you and your father,” she says earnestly, stepping closer.
“This war started long before you, Lucy,” I assure her grimly. “You just happen to be the territory we’re currently fighting over.” I look down at her, at the genuine worry in her eyes. “But know this. He won’t win. I won’t let him interfere with the partnership. Or with you.”
The air crackles with unspoken things. The vulnerability of the admission hangs there. I didn’t say the words.
Love.
Fuck, I can’t even think it directly. But she has to know. She has to feel it.
“You’ve become… important, Lucy,” I finally admit, the words feeling thick, inadequate. “More important than I anticipated. Or planned for.”
Her eyes soften. She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on my chest, right over my heart. A simple gesture that feels like a brand.
And suddenly, the vulnerability is too much. The lack of control it represents. The echo of my father’s accusations.
Weakness .
I need to reclaim the dynamic. Reassert the order. My order.
The raw, physical tension that’s been simmering since the confrontation with my father, mixed with the need to possess the woman who’s somehow breaching my defenses, surges through me.
My hand covers hers on my chest, gripping it perhaps a little too tightly. Her eyes widen slightly at the sudden intensity.
Good.
“I need you, Lucy,” I growl, my voice low, rough. “Right fucking now.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I back her against the kitchen counter, my body pinning hers, trapping her between the cold marble and my own heat. Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken with a mixture of surprise and dawning arousal.
She doesn’t fight.
She never fights this.
I kiss her hard. Not gentle. Not exploring. A kiss that claims. Demands. My tongue plunges into her mouth, taking possession. She moans softly, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders.
I break the kiss only to trail my mouth down her neck, biting lightly at the juncture of her shoulder. She gasps. My hands are already pushing up the skirt of her sensible CEO dress, finding the silk of her panties beneath. She’s wet. Already fucking wet for me.
The knowledge fuels the fire in my blood.
With one swift movement, I lift her, sitting her on the edge of the counter. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist. I slide her panties aside, not bothering to take them off completely. My fingers find her slick folds, plunging inside her without preamble. She cries out, arching against my hand.
“Christopher…”
“Mine,” I grind out against her skin. I fumble with my belt buckle, the zipper of my pants. My cock springs free, hard and aching. The head is already slick with pre-cum.
I sheath myself in a condom ripped from the box I keep stashed, ridiculously, even in a kitchen drawer.
Always prepared.
I position myself between her legs spread wide on the counter. Lifting one of her thighs higher, hooking her leg securely over my arm, tilting her hips for deeper access.
My cock head presses against her entrance. She’s so fucking hot. So ready.
I look into her eyes, seeing the anticipation, the surrender.
“Hold onto me,” I command.
Then I thrust into her. Hard. Deep. Burying myself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful motion.
“ Christopher! ” She screams my name, her nails digging into my back. The feeling of her tight, wet heat clenching around my cock is pure fucking agony and ecstasy.
I don’t give her time to adjust. I start moving immediately. Fast. Hard. Brutal. Each thrust is deliberate. Controlled. Driving into her again and again, slamming her back against the counter’s edge. This isn’t finesse. This isn’t seduction. This is raw need. Possession.
The reassertion of my dominance over my world, over my emotions, by dominating her body.
“Fuck, Christopher!” she gasps out, her head thrown back. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me!”
“Look at me,” I order, gripping her hips.
She forces her gaze to mine. Her eyes are unfocused, her pupils blown wide.
“Watch me fuck you, Lucy.”
Her breath comes in ragged sobs. I change the angle slightly, hitting that spot deep inside that makes her shatter. Her inner muscles clench violently around my cock, nearly sending me over the edge. But I hold back.
Control.
Always control.
“Tell me what you feel,” I demand, maintaining the relentless pace.
“Hard… deep… please…” she gasps, incoherent.
“Please what? ” I growl, thrusting harder, faster. “Tell me.”
“Please don’t stop!”
I give her what she wants. What I need. I fuck her like she’s the only thing anchoring me, the only release valve for the pressure building inside.
Each thrust is a statement.
Mine.
Control.
Power.
Her moans fill the kitchen, echoing off the cold steel appliances.
It’s the only sound I want to hear.
Ever hear.
I feel her climax building, her body trembling under my assault. I push her right to the edge, then hold her there, letting the tension build until she’s begging.
“Please Christopher please please...” she gasps.
“Please what? ” I repeat.
“Please let me cum!” she begs.
I pound her relentlessly, driving her over the edge.
When her pussy clenches my cock, my own release finally tears through me with a guttural roar. I empty myself inside the condom, collapsing against her, burying my face in her hair, my body still shuddering with the force of it.
We stay like that for long moments, tangled together on the kitchen counter, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.
My grip on her is tight.
Possessive.
Grounding.
Eventually, she stirs, her hand coming up to stroke my hair, a gesture surprisingly tender after the raw intensity of what just happened.
“Wow,” she whispers, her voice shaky but laced with a satisfied purr.
I pull back slightly, looking down at her flushed face, her kiss-swollen lips.
My control is back.
Settled.
The storm inside me momentarily quelled.
“Thank you,” she says softly, meeting my gaze. There’s no fear there now. Just a deep, trusting warmth. “For that.”
I raise an eyebrow. An unusual response.
“Seriously,” she continues, a small smile playing on her lips. “I spend all day trying to project control, making impossible decisions, holding everything together at the office. Sometimes…” she traces the line of my jaw with her finger, “it’s just… amazing… to finally let go. To let someone else be completely in charge. Especially when they know exactly what they’re doing.” She blushes slightly. “And you definitely know what you’re doing.”
Her words hit me unexpectedly. She isn’t intimidated by my dominance. She welcomes it. Needs it, even. A release for her, just as it is for me, albeit for different reasons. The thought creates another crack in the armor. A shared understanding beneath the power dynamics.
Fuck. She’s perfect for me.
This is getting complicated.
I lift her off the counter, setting her gently on her feet. She sways slightly, leaning against me. I hold her close, breathing in her scent, the lingering evidence of our joining.
The war with my father is far from over.
The risks surrounding Hammond & Co. are immense.
But right now, holding Lucy in my arms, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine… this feels like the only battle worth fighting.