37. Christopher
37
Christopher
T he final draft of Project Nightingale sits on my desk, a thick stack of paper bound in unassuming blue covers. Legally airtight. Strategically sound.
And generous.
Exceptionally fucking generous, by any objective market standard applied to a company teetering on the edge like Hammond & Co.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I smile, thinking of my father’s apoplectic fit when he realizes he couldn’t stop this. And I have to wonder for a moment if I’m doing this to piss him off, or for Lucy.
To be honest, I’m not actually sure anymore.
Maybe a mixture of both.
Or neither.
But honestly, it just feels... right .
Tatiana stands opposite my desk, tablet in hand, awaiting final sign-off before transmitting the execution copies to Hammond’s legal counsel. Her face is, as always, a mask of professional neutrality .
But I know her.
After all these years, I know the subtle shifts. She disapproves. Not overtly. She wouldn’t dare. But the slight tension in her jaw, the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes… she thinks I’m making a mistake.
Maybe I am.
“Everything appears in order, Mr. Blackwell,” she states, her voice clipped and precise. “Final review required before initiating the signing protocols.”
“The terms stand as drafted, Tatiana,” I say, meeting her gaze. Let her see the resolve.
A flicker of surprise crosses her features before she suppresses it.
“Understood, Mr. Blackwell,” she replies, making a note. “Protocols initiated.”
She turns and leaves, silent and efficient as ever.
I stare at the document after she’s gone.
Project Nightingale.
So it’s almost done, then.
I shove it into a suitcase, and head down.
My security detail meets me downstairs. Elijah Reeves gives me a curt nod as I slide into the back of the sedan. He joins Maya to follow as usual in their SUV, while my driver, Victor, head towards the Plaza, the venue for Hammond & Co.’s 50th Anniversary Gala tonight.
A necessary evil. These corporate dog-and-pony shows are usually a tedious waste of time, but tonight feels different. It’s Lucy’s public debut as interim CEO. A chance for her to project stability, to reassure stakeholders rattled by Richard’s collapse and the underlying financial tremors only a few of us truly understand yet.
I need to be there .
A visible sign of the Blackwell partnership.
A silent ‘fuck you’ to anyone doubting her, including my own father, should he actually show his face.
And even though its still several hours away yet, I want to check in with her, see how things are going.
I glance at the suitcase.
And maybe get Project Nightingale finally signed.
The Plaza ballroom is a hive of activity. Caterers bustle. Florists arrange obscene quantities of white roses. Technicians check lighting rigs.
And in the middle of it all, Lucy stands talking animatedly with Liam O’Connell, the Hammond architect, Carol, the Hammond receptionist, and the hotel’s event manager.
Lucy is wearing a simple but elegant navy blue dress today, professional and commanding. And around her neck, a thin, strategically draped silk scarf. Hiding the marks I left on her skin yesterday in her office.
A faint smirk touches my lips.
Mine.
The visible proof of my mark, even hidden, sends a possessive thrill through me. My cock grows painfully hard, and I have to remain very still until it relaxes again.
Still, she’s incredible to watch. Moving with newfound confidence, fielding questions, making decisions, directing the controlled chaos with a calm authority that wasn’t there just weeks ago.
She still carries that underlying anxiety. I see it in the slight tension around her eyes, the way she occasionally fiddles with her bracelet. But she’s channeling it into focused energy. She’s owning this role, temporary or not.
Pride, sharp and unexpected, swells in my chest.
As I approach, flanked by Elijah, her own security detail as assigned by me comes into view. Darius Wade, looking like a bored fitness consultant in casual clothes, stands near a service entrance, alert despite his relaxed posture. Rebecca Torres, clipboard in hand, blends seamlessly with the event staff near the main stage.
Lucy catches my eye and offers a brief, grateful smile before turning back to the event manager. Elijah breaks away to confer with Darius as I get closer.
Lucy dismisses Liam, Carol, and the hotel manager, then turns to face me full on.
“Everything under control, Interim CEO?” I ask, stopping in front of her.
She smiles. “Mostly. Just finalizing the flow for tonight. Trying to make sure everything screams ‘competence and solvency’ and not ‘dear God, please don’t pull your investments’.” She lowers her voice. “Dad got discharged this morning. Dr. Finch gave him the all-clear, with strict instructions to rest at home.”
“Good news,” I say. Dr. Finch is the best. Richard is in good hands.
“Yeah, massive relief,” she sighs. “I’m planning to stop by his place for a bit before heading back here tonight. Make sure he’s actually resting and not trying to, you know, run a marathon or restructure the company from his armchair.” She glances towards Darius and Rebecca. “Still getting used to my entourage, though,” she adds quietly. “Feels very… excessive.”
“Necessary,” I state firmly. “Until my father demonstrates he’s no longer a threat, they stay close. ”
She nods, accepting it. Her gaze drops to the suitcase I’m carrying. “What’s in the briefcase?”
Before I can answer, hushed whispers echo throughout the plaza.
I turn, and spot a familiar figure entering the ballroom from a side entrance, moving slowly but with undeniable presence.
Richard Hammond.
Looking paler, thinner, but upright and dressed in one of his classic, slightly outdated suits.
“Dad?” Lucy gasps, her eyes widening in disbelief.
She rushes over, and I join her.
“What are you doing here? ” Lucy says. “ You’re supposed to be at home resting!”
“Well it’s nice to see you too,” Richard quips. He offers a weak smile. “Just wanted to see the preparations, Lucy. Seventy-five years… it’s quite the milestone.” He leans slightly on a stylish walking cane I haven’t seen before.
“You’re supposed to be taking it easy!” Lucy insists, her earlier calm evaporating into frantic concern. “Dr. Finch specifically said no stress, no exertion!”
“The doctor also said gentle exercise is good for recovery,” Richard counters stubbornly. “Thought I might take a short walk later. Maybe a light jog around the reservoir once I’m feeling up to it.”
“A jog? ” Lucy looks aghast. “Dad, are you insane? You just had a heart attack! The last thing you need is…”
“Lucy,” I interrupt quietly but firmly. “Relax.” She turns startled eyes towards me.
“You’re causing a scene,” I explain. “And yelling isn’t going to help his stress levels, is it?”
She looks around, sees the concerned eyes of staff members around us.
Her shoulders slump slightly, and she takes a shaky breath, visibly reining in her panic.
Sometimes, her fierce protectiveness needs a little… redirection.
Richard turns his attention to me, his expression complex. I think I see respect, gratitude, and maybe a little... resentment? “Christopher. Thank you for… everything. Your support for Lucy. The doctors. Nightingale.”
“Of course,” I acknowledge with a curt nod.
“But... could I have a private word with you?” he asks.
I glance at Lucy. She looks hesitant, but nods slightly. “Okay, Dad. But after you talk to Christopher, you’re going home. Doctor’s orders. And you’re not coming to the gala tonight.”
Richard waves a dismissive hand but allows Lucy to guide him towards a small, empty auxiliary room off the main ballroom.
“Good luck,” Lucy tells me, before departing.
I glance at Elijah, who has remained nearby, and give him a subtle nod, indicating for him to remain outside.
Inside the small room, Richard sinks onto a velvet armchair, looking suddenly frail.
He gestures for me to take the opposite chair.
I do.
The silence stretches for a moment.
“She’s doing well,” Richard says finally, his voice quiet but clear. “Lucy. Stepping up. Taking charge.”
“She is,” I agree.
He studies me for a long moment, his blue eyes so similar to Lucy’s. “I misjudged you, Christopher. Held onto old bitterness for too long. Let Mark’s poison cloud my view.” He sighs. “You could have destroyed us. Especially after finding out about… those damned SPEs. God, what a fool I was.” He shakes his head. “But you didn’t. You helped her. You’re helping the company. Why?”
The blunt question hangs in the air. Why? Because his daughter burrowed under my skin? Because I’m tired of my father’s destructive games? Because I see a chance to build something instead of just tearing things down?
“Because it’s a sound strategic investment,” I reply, falling back on business logic. The truth is far more complicated. “And because Lucy earned my respect.”
He nods slowly, accepting the partial answer. “She respects you, too. More than that, I think.” He leans forward slightly. “I know our families have… history. Bad blood. And I know Mark will never approve. But Lucy… she deserves happiness. Stability. Someone who sees her for who she is, not just the Hammond name.” He meets my gaze directly. “You seem to be that someone. Unexpectedly.” He gives a small, tired smile. “You have my blessing, Christopher. For what it’s worth. For the partnership. And for… her .”
His blessing. Offered freely. Earned, perhaps.
It lands with unexpected weight.
Approval from her father, the man whose legacy she’s fighting to save.
It stands in stark, brutal contrast to the vitriol and threats from my own.
The familiar ache of that broken connection surfaces, sharp and unwelcome.
I blink a few times, feeling unexpectedly emotional. But I don’t allow the tears to fall.
“Thank you, Richard,” I manage, keeping my voice neutral despite the complicated swirl of emotions inside.
Our conversation ends shortly after. I help him to the door, where Lucy is waiting anxiously. She herds him towards the exit, promising to visit him later before the gala, fussing over him like a mother hen.
He allows it, looking weary but somehow… lighter.
After they leave, I stand there for a moment, processing.
His blessing.
My father’s curse.
The duality of it all.
I find Lucy back in the ballroom, overseeing the placement of table centerpieces. She looks focused, back in CEO mode.
I walk up behind her.
“He okay?” I ask quietly.
She turns to me, a softer look in her eyes. “Yeah. Stubborn as ever, but okay. Safely dispatched home with strict instructions not to even think about jogging.”
“Good.” I watch her for a moment, gauge her mood. She seems relieved, steadier now that he’s home.
“What did he want to talk to you about?” she asks.
I pause, then set down my suitcase on a nearby table. I open it, and pull out the bound copies of the Project Nightingale agreement. “Richard gave his blessing, Lucy. To us. And to this.”
I hold the documents out slightly.
Her eyes widen slightly. A faint blush touches her cheeks. “He… he did? ”
“He did.” I nod towards the small office where Richard and I spoke earlier. “Shall we make it official?”
We walk into the quiet room, away from the bustle. I place the signed documents on the small table, next to my suitcase.
I hand her my pen. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine.
A spark, familiar and potent, travels down my arm.
I bury the sudden need that flows through my veins.
This isn’t the time, or the venue.
She sits down, skims the document, then flips to the signature page.
She takes a breath and signs her name.
Lucy Hammond,
Interim Chief Executive Officer,
Hammond & Co.
Then she pushes the documents towards me.
I countersign quickly, decisively.
Christopher Blackwell,
Chief Executive Officer,
Blackwell Innovations.
Done. The partnership is official.
Forged in crisis, cemented by unlikely trust, signed in a quiet room off a glittering ballroom.
A tangible symbol of our intertwined futures.
Professional.
Personal.
I pick up the signed agreement, the weight of it feeling somehow substantial.
A sense of accomplishment settles over me.
We did this. Against sabotage, against family history, against my father’s machinations.
There’s still a long road ahead of us, of course.
The SPEs. Morgan’s threat. My father’s.
But together... together , it feels like there’s nothing we can’t accomplish.