40. Lucy
40
Lucy
W alking into Hammond & Co. this morning feels… different. Less like I’m playing dress-up in Dad’s chair and more like… well, still playing dress-up, but maybe with slightly better accessories and a killer pair of heels.
I think I’m actually getting used to this CEO thing...
Or maybe I’m just running on residual adrenaline and the memory of being thoroughly and gloriously fucked last night.
Focus, Lucy. Spreadsheets, not sex.
But it’s impossible to focus. Last night was just… so intense. In every possible way.
The gala, Mark Blackwell’s creepy threats, Christopher’s raw possessiveness… and his offer.
Move in with me.
My first instinct was panic.
Too fast! Too soon! Too… permanent?
But waking up alone again this morning (seriously, does the man teleport?), I found myself wondering. Wondering what it would be like not to have to commute from my tiny apartment to his Bond villain lair or vice versa. Wondering if maybe ‘too soon’ was just my standard commitment-phobia talking.
Especially since Dad is doing so much better. I popped into his apartment on my way to work this morning, armed with coffee and bagels. He was sitting up, looking grumpy about the low-sodium diet but otherwise… steady.
We even talked, really talked, about his transition back.
He agreed to start working remotely later this week, easing back in slowly over the next few months. Soon, I could hand back the Interim CEO keys, and slide back into my less terrifying role.
Still, a part of me is a little disappointed. It was kind of cool being CEO for the little while I got to do it. Scary, but cool.
On the bright side, I’ll be able to reconsider Christopher’s offer once I’m not juggling a company, a recovering father, and a potential corporate sabotage plot all at the same time.
See? Responsible! Mature!
Totally not freaking out about cohabitation!
Back in my office... Dad’s office, I remind myself... I dive into the mountain of work. Contracts to review, personnel issues to smooth over, and the ever-present, terrifyingly complex task of dealing with the SPE fallout simmering beneath everything else.
Christopher’s forensic team started their deep dive yesterday, working remotely for now to maintain discretion, and their initial findings are already giving me hives. This mess is deeper and uglier than I imagined. But we have a plan. A terrifying, complicated plan, but a plan nonetheless.
I’m reviewing a preliminary report from the accountants, my head starting to throb, when my desk phone buzzes.
It’s Carol, her voice tight with panic. “Lucy! Oh, Lucy, thank God! It’s your father!”
“What do you mean?” Ice floods my veins. “I just saw him! What happened?”
“He… he went out! This morning! I guess after you left! Someone saw him jogging near the park… and he collapsed! They’re taking him back to Mount Sinai!”
Jogging. He actually went jogging. After I specifically told him not to. After Christopher specifically calmed me down about it yesterday.
Oh my god, Dad, I thought you were joking!
Bile rises in my throat. Horror and a sickening wave of guilt crash over me. I should have known. I should have stayed longer, hidden his running shoes, something!
Before I can process anything further, the door to my office opens. Darius Wade and Rebecca Torres, my ever-present shadows, are there. Their expressions are grim but professional.
“Ms. Hammond,” Darius says calmly, already holding my coat. “We were in the lobby. We heard what Carol said. The SUV’s waiting. Let’s go.”
“Thank you,” I manage before I burst into tears. I take the coat, and quickly rush outside with him.
The ride to the hospital is a blur of flashing lights and numb panic. Darius drives with terrifying efficiency, Rebecca murmuring updates into her phone in the front seat.
I just stare out the window, twisting my hands in my lap.
Please be okay please be okay please be okay.
This is my fault. I should have stopped him. I should have seen how stressed he still was about coming back, even remotely. The return-to-work plan was too much.
At the hospital, it’s déjà vu, but worse. The smell of antiseptic feels sharper, the fluorescent lights harsher.
Darius and Rebecca flank me, guiding me through the ER entrance, handling the check-in while I just stand there, numb.
They find us the same private waiting room as before, taking up unobtrusive positions outside the door.
Waiting.
Again.
This time, the wait feels longer. Colder.
I keep expecting Christopher to walk through the door, but he doesn’t.
When Dr. Finch appears, his kind face is etched with exhaustion and sympathy.
Not a good sign.
“Lucy,” he begins gently, pulling up a chair. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good. Your father suffered a second myocardial infarction. We’ve stabilized him, but there’s significant damage.” He pauses, his gaze meeting mine directly. “The stress… it was too much for his heart. He told one of the nurses he felt overwhelmed thinking about returning to work, even part-time. Said he needed to clear his head, and he went for a run…” Dr. Finch sighs. “Recovery from this one will be long and difficult. He can’t go back to work. Not ever again. Any significant work-related stress… is simply out of the question.”
He can’t go back to work.
The words hang in the air, heavy and final. No easing back in. No remote work. No CEO title waiting for him. His career, his identity… gone.
Just like that.
Because of Hammond & Co.
Because of me, pushing him?
Or maybe because he couldn’t let go?
Tears blur my vision.
“Can I see him?” I whisper.
“Yes. He’s weak, but he’s awake. And he’s asking for you. Insistently.”
Dad looks impossibly fragile against the starched white pillows. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors sounds more ominous today. His eyes find mine as I enter, filled with a weary resignation I’ve never seen before.
“Lucy-bug,” he rasps, his voice thin.
“Oh, Dad.” Fresh tears fall when I hear his endearment for me, and sink into the chair beside his bed, sniffling as I take his hand. It feels papery, cool. “I’m so glad you’re okay. So glad.”
He smiles sadly. “I’m sorry to put you through this.”
“Why did you go running?” The question bursts out, laced with anguish and guilt. “Why?”
He manages a weak, self-deprecating smile. “Old habits. Thought I could outrun the stress, I guess.” He squeezes my hand weakly. “Turns out, the stress won.” He takes a shaky breath. “Lucy… the doctor tells me I can’t come back. Not interim. Not ever. This job… it almost killed me. Twice.” His eyes hold mine, suddenly filled with a fierce, albeit tired, determination. “But Hammond & Co. needs a Hammond at the helm. Needs stability. Needs you .”
“Dad, no…”
“Yes,” he insists, the tightness of his grip surprising me. “Not interim, Lucy. Permanent. Effective immediately. I spoke to my lawyers. They’re drawing up the papers. It’s the only way. The board will accept you. The company needs decisive leadership. You’re ready. You’ve been ready. I was just too blind, too proud to see it all these years.”
Permanent CEO.
Me.
Not as a placeholder. Not until Dad gets better.
But forever.
The weight of it crashes down on me. The responsibility, the legacy, the SPE nightmare I now have to fix entirely on my own watch.
The escape route I’d secretly clung to, handing the reins back to Dad, just vanished.
I feel dizzy. Trapped. Honored.
And terrified.
All at once.
“Dad, I… I don’t know…”
“You do know,” he says firmly. “You can do this. You have to do this. For the company. For the family legacy. For me.” His eyes plead with me.
What choice do I have? Say no? Let Morgan Weiss swoop in and dismantle everything Dad, Granddad, I worked for? Let Dad worry himself into another attack?
“Okay, Dad,” I whisper. “I’ll do it.”
Relief floods his face. He sinks back against the pillows, exhausted but seemingly at peace.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
The door opens quietly.
Christopher steps inside, his presence instantly filling the small room. His face is red, and he’s breathing hard as if he ran all the way here .
His eyes take in the scene. Me crying, Dad looking relieved but utterly spent.
Then he walks over and places a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” he says, taking a seat beside me. “I came as soon as I was able. The traffic... I ended up jogging to the helopad.” He glances at Dad. “How are you?”
“Good, Christopher,” he replies.
“Liar,” I say, glancing at Christopher. “He had another heart attack.”
“Jesus,” Christopher says, his face growing pale.
“Dr. Finch thinks he’ll recover, but...” I swallow. “He can’t come back to work.” The words catch in my throat and my voice trembles. “So Dad... he wants me to take over. For good. Not interim. But permanent CEO. He’s having the lawyer draw up the papers right now.”
“She’s ready,” Dad says.
Christopher’s hand tightens slightly on my shoulder. His expression is serious, concern etched around his eyes as he glances towards Dad, then back at me.
“Permanent CEO,” he echoes softly. He searches my face for a moment, his gaze steady, intense. “I’m sorry about your father, Lucy. Truly. The stress finally caught up.” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “But... he’s right. You’re ready. More than ready. It’s where you belong.” He manages a small, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of something almost like approval in his eyes. “In a way... I suppose I should congratulate you. You earned this position, Lucy, even if the circumstances are shit.”
Congratulate me? The words clang strangely against the backdrop of fear and grief and overwhelming responsibility.
Happy that I’m being shackled to this potentially doomed company forever? Or happy because he genuinely thinks I can do it?
Probably the latter, knowing him. It’s meant as support, or his version of it.
Dad’s lawyer arrives shortly after with the documents. Signing my name beneath the title ‘Chief Executive Officer’ feels surreal. My hand is shaking so badly Christopher has to steady it.
It feels less like an achievement and more like a sentence.
I, Lucy Hammond, am now permanently responsible for this sinking, potentially fraudulent ship.
Congratulations?
When Christopher and I step out of Dad’s room, leaving him to rest, I can’t take it any more. I burst into tears and hug Christopher fiercely.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I don’t say anything. I just hold him, and cry.
Finally, I let him go, and then dab at my eyes and nose with a tissue. “Sorry. I—”
“Don’t be,” he says.
I nod slowly, grateful to have him at my side.
My phone suddenly explodes. A barrage of texts and email alerts.
My stomach plummets.
“What is it?” Christopher asks, noticing my expression.
“Morgan,” I say numbly, scrolling through the messages. “He’s already making his move. Calling an emergency board meeting for eleven o’clock this morning. Agenda item: Urgent discussion regarding the leadership crisis at Hammond & Co. He likely plans to shoot down my CEO bid. The board still needs to ratify it.”
“Son of a bitch,” Christopher mutters, his eyes hardening. “He’s not wasting any time trying to stage a coup now that Richard is permanently out.” He puts an arm around my shoulders. “We need a strategy. The waiting room?”
I lead the way. My security detail and his fall in discreetly behind us.
When we reach the private waiting room, Christopher immediately starts outlining potential countermoves, tactical board maneuvers, ways to leverage the Blackwell partnership agreement.
He’s brilliant. Focused. Supportive. Exactly what I need right now. But as he talks about aligning our companies’ interests, about presenting a united front, a strange unease settles in my gut.
Before, when I was interim CEO, leaning on him, accepting his help, his backing… it felt like a necessary alliance. A temporary measure born of crisis. But now? Signing that paper… it changed something.
Unless the board refuses to ratify it, I am now, officially and permanently, the CEO of Hammond & Co. And Christopher is the CEO of Blackwell Innovations.
Our companies are partners, yes, but also separate entities. Potentially competitors in certain markets down the line. His goals, ultimately, are Blackwell’s goals. Mine must be Hammond’s.
Can I really accept his strategic advice on how to run my company? Can I let his team continue their deep dive into our most sensitive financial data, data that could potentially be used against us later, however unlikely that seems right now?
Can our intense, intimate personal relationship survive the inherent conflicts of interest baked into our new professional reality?
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, right there in the sterile hospital waiting room. My new position. This permanent mantle of responsibility I just accepted out of love and duty… it might be the very thing that makes a future with Christopher impossible.
The conflict isn’t just external anymore... Mark Blackwell, Morgan Weiss.
It’s internal. It’s structural.
It’s us .
And staring at Christopher’s determined profile as he maps out our supposed joint strategy, I feel a fresh wave of panic rise.
What have I done?