35. Christopher
35
Christopher
“ S o,” Dominic Rossi says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
We’re in my office, the city lights beginning to prick the twilight sky outside. The workday is technically over, but mine rarely ends before midnight. He dropped by, ostensibly to discuss a potential joint venture on a sustainable development downtown, but mostly, I suspect, to probe.
“Interim CEO Hammond,” he continues. “Quite the coup for the supposed underdog.”
I take a sip of my own scotch. The peat smoke flavor burns, a familiar comfort. “She earned it. Stepped up when required.”
That’s an understatement. She walked into a goddamn minefield and came out holding the flag, even if she thinks it’s just temporary.
Dominic watches me over the rim of his glass, that annoyingly perceptive glint in his eyes. “She seems to be having quite the effect on you, Chris. First, you engineer a partnership instead of a kill shot. Then you publicly defy Daddy Dearest at the gala. Now you’re actively propping up her leadership. Even adjusted the deal terms in her favor, or so the grapevine whispers.” He raises an eyebrow. “The Executioner appears to have… mellowed.”
“My strategy has evolved,” I state coolly. “Long term value creation sometimes requires a different approach than slash and burn.”
The words sound almost convincing. Maybe because I’m starting to fucking believe them. Seeing Lucy fight, seeing the potential in Hammond’s legacy beyond just its real estate assets… it changes the equation.
“ Evolved ,” Dominic echoes thoughtfully. “Or influenced?” He leans forward slightly. “Come on, Chris. This is me. Since when do you prioritize ‘cultivation’ over conquest? Since when does Christopher Blackwell care about preserving legacy instead of maximizing profit extraction? This isn’t just evolution. This is… her .”
I stare into my glass, avoiding his gaze. Fuck him for seeing it. Fuck myself for letting it be so obvious. But denying it feels… pointless. Dishonest, even.
“She’s… different,” I admit, the words feeling unfamiliar. “She doesn’t operate from the same cynical playbook everyone else does. Challenges me. Doesn’t back down. Values things beyond the bottom line.” I swirl the scotch. “It’s… illuminating. Makes you question the assumptions you’ve operated under for years.” Like the assumption that ruthlessness is the only path to success.
Or that genuine connection is a liability to be avoided at all costs.
“Illuminating,” Dominic repeats softly, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Look at you. Using words like ‘illuminating’. Talking about values. Maybe there’s hope for you yet, you cold-hearted bastard.”
Before I can retort, my desk phone emits an urgent, piercing beep. Not a standard call. A priority tone.
Tatiana’s voice follows instantly, piped through the speaker, tight with controlled urgency.
“Mr. Blackwell. Apologies for the interruption. An emergency meeting of the Blackwell Innovations board has been convened. Effective immediately. In the main boardroom.”
My gut clenches. “My board? At this fucking hour? Convened by whom?”
But I already know the answer.
“Your father, sir. Through official channels, citing urgent concerns regarding fiduciary responsibility and recent strategic decisions impacting shareholder value.”
Son of a bitch. The veiled threats weren’t just bluster.
He’s making his move.
Now.
Fuck.
Dominic whistles softly. “Playing dirty. Right for the jugular.”
“His specialty,” I snarl, already shrugging on my jacket. Fury, cold and familiar, floods my veins. “Dominic—”
“Go,” he says, standing up. “Cut the head off the snake, Chris.”
I smile wanly. “If only it were so easy.”
I take the elevator down to the boardroom floor. When the doors open, the walk to the conference room feels like miles. Each step echoes the confrontation I knew was coming, the one my father has been building towards since I first refused to crush Hammond & Co.
He sees my refusal not as strategic difference, but as weakness. As betrayal.
And he intends to excise that weakness.
The boardroom is already full when I arrive.
Son of a bitch.
Of course it is. He convened it and made damn sure I was the last to know, walking in after everyone else.
Petty fucking dominance game.
It’s a game I know quite well, because I’ve pulled it numerous times myself.
I take my seat. The tension is thick enough to choke on. My father, looking grimly satisfied, sits at the opposite end of the long table from me, flanked by a couple of his old guard allies. The other members, a mix of venture capitalists, tech industry veterans, and financial analysts, look extremely uncomfortable, as if they’re caught in the crossfire.
Which they are.
“Christopher,” my father begins without preamble. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice. I invoked Article 7, Section 4 of the bylaws due to grave concerns regarding recent strategic decisions, specifically the revised terms offered to Hammond & Co., and the potential conflict of interest arising from your apparent personal relationship with the interim CEO, Ms. Lucy Hammond.”
He gestures to a screen at the end of the room. Financial projections appear. Skewed comparisons highlighting the risks of the Hammond deal, conveniently omitting the long term synergy potential. Then, ridiculously, paparazzi photos flash up showing me and Lucy leaving the gala and entering my apartment building.
Fuck me.
“As you can see,” Mark continues, his voice dripping with faux concern, “the terms offered to Hammond are significantly below market standards for a company in their distressed state. Furthermore, Mr. Blackwell’s judgment appears… compromised. This partnership, driven by sentiment and infatuation rather than sound financial strategy, puts shareholder value at unacceptable risk. It suggests a troubling deviation from the principles upon which Blackwell Innovations was built.” He looks around the table, appealing to the more conservative members. “I believe we need to seriously reconsider the Hammond deal, and perhaps Christopher’s unchecked authority in negotiating such matters.”
The implication is clear. He’s painting me as lovesick and irrational. Using my connection to Lucy to question my competence, to seize control.
I let the silence stretch for a beat, meeting my father’s gaze across the polished expanse of the table. No fear. Just cold, simmering rage.
“My relationship with Ms. Hammond,” I state clearly, my voice cutting through the tension, “while personal, does not compromise my business judgment. In fact, it has provided valuable insight into the operational realities and untapped potential of Hammond & Co.” I stand up, letting my gaze move from face to face. “The revised terms are not charity. They are not sentiment. They are a strategic investment . They secure a valuable partnership, access to unique assets, and position Blackwell Innovations to capitalize on the integration of Hammond’s legacy with our technological capabilities. This isn’t about infatuation. It’s about vision. A vision for sustainable growth, not just hostile takeovers.”
I continue to address the board directly, ignoring my father. “The ‘principles’ upon which Blackwell Innovations was supposedly built,” I say, my voice laced with contempt as I flick my eyes towards Mark, “were often short-sighted. Focused on immediate gain, scorched earth tactics, and inflated egos. That model is outdated. The market is evolving. Sustainable value, strategic alliances, integrating legacy with innovation... that is the future. Project Nightingale, under the current terms, is a cornerstone of that future. Rejecting it based on skewed data and personal vendettas,” another pointed look at my father, “would be the real failure of fiduciary responsibility.”
My defense hangs in the air. Passionate. More passionate than I usually allow in this setting. But every word is true. This is the path I’ve chosen. This is the future I’m building. With or without their fucking approval.
I return to my seat, and the debate that follows is tense.
My father’s allies argue risk, precedent, deviation from the norm. I counter with long-term projections, synergy benefits, the strategic advantage of the partnership. Sarah Chan, surprisingly, speaks up, defending the thoroughness of the due diligence my team performed, subtly backing my position without directly contradicting my father. Others remain quiet, waiting to see which way the wind blows.
Finally, the chairman calls for a vote. To formally review and potentially rescind the revised Hammond partnership terms.
My gut tightens .
This is it.
Hands are raised. Counted.
My breath catches.
The chairman clears his throat. “The motion to rescind fails. Six votes against, five in favor.”
Narrow. Too fucking narrow. But a victory nonetheless.
Project Nightingale stands.
For now.
Relief washes over me, quickly followed by cold fury. He forced this confrontation. He tried to use Lucy against me.
He almost succeeded.
The meeting dissolves quickly, the members eager to escape the toxic atmosphere.
I remain seated, watching my father. His face is a mask of barely subdued rage.
He approaches my end of the table as the others file out.
“This isn’t over, Christopher,” he hisses. Only I can hear him.
“Actually, it is,” I reply calmly. “The board sided with me. The partnership proceeds.”
“The board can be… persuaded further,” he counters. “But this is bigger than one deal now. This is about your judgment. Your loyalty. If you choose this path, choose her over everything I built, everything I taught you… then we are done . Completely. Consider our relationship, personal and professional, severed forever .”
The ultimatum.
Choose Lucy, choose this new path, and lose the last remaining tie to my family. The poisoned chalice he represents, but family nonetheless.
The eight-year-old boy inside me, the one whose mother walked away, flinches at the finality of it.
But the man I am today looks him straight in the eye with no hesitation. No regret.
Just cold certainty.
“I made my choice weeks ago, Father,” I say quietly. “When I decided not to become you.”
His face contorts, a flash of pain perhaps, quickly masked by fury.
He turns without another word and strides out of the boardroom, leaving me alone in the empty room.
Severed.
The cost is high. Higher than I anticipated.
A hollowness echoes where that toxic paternal bond used to reside. But strangely… there’s also a sense of release. Liberation.
I stand up, move to the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stay there for a long moment, staring out at the city lights.
My path is clear now. Forged in defiance. Defined by choices he cannot comprehend.
But the threat remains. He lost this battle, but he won’t give up the war.
His presence on my board is a disease. A vulnerability I can no longer tolerate. He forced my hand today. Tried to cut me out using the very structure I allowed him into.
The thought crystallizes, cold and sharp. He needs to be removed. Not just countered. Removed from the Blackwell Innovations board. Completely.
It won’t be easy.
It will certainly be bloody.
But it’s necessary.
To protect the company.
To protect Lucy .
To protect the future I’m finally starting to believe might be possible.
The fight isn’t over.
It’s just entered a new, more dangerous phase.
And I need to start planning my counter-offensive.
Now.