43. Christopher
43
Christopher
T he silence from Lucy’s side is a fucking roar in the back of my mind.
Days have bled together since she stood in that chaotic Hammond boardroom, drew her line in the sand, and became CEO Hammond, separate and distinct from the woman who cried in my arms at the hospital hours earlier.
I haven’t called.
She hasn’t called.
Stalemate.
A professional courtesy that feels like scraping sandpaper over raw nerves.
Doesn’t mean I’m sitting on my hands.
My team is working around the clock, dissecting my father’s hostile takeover bid for Hammond & Co. like vultures picking clean a carcass. Only this time, we’re identifying the weaknesses to defend the prey, not deliver the killing blow.
Every resource Blackwell Innovations has is quietly focused on shoring up Hammond’s defenses, anticipating Mark’s next move, feeding anonymized intel to Lucy’s legal team through the comprehensive defense plan I already sent over.
My demeanor in the office? Glacial. My instructions to everyone else? Clipped, bordering on brutal.
Patience is nonexistent. Weakness is not tolerated.
Anyone not directly involved in countering Mark Blackwell’s attack on Hammond or advancing Project Nightingale gets the bare minimum of my attention.
The old Christopher.
The Executioner.
He’s back in full force for the rest of the world. Necessary when you’re fighting a war on multiple fronts, especially when one front is your own goddamn father.
It’s illogical, I suppose. Defending a company whose CEO politely but firmly kicked me to the curb. Pouring resources into protecting an entity my father is actively trying to destroy.
But logic feels increasingly irrelevant where Lucy is concerned.
Dominic Rossi catches me late one afternoon, finding me staring broodingly out my office window at the city below. He’s one of the few people who are allowed to come and go unannounced.
He pours himself a drink from my bar without asking.
Some things never change.
“Burning the midnight oil fighting a war you didn’t start?” he asks, swirling the scotch. “Or perhaps one you inadvertently fueled?”
“My father started this war decades ago,” I reply curtly, not turning around.
“Maybe,” Dominic concedes. “But this current offensive? It has a specific target. I heard about the board meeting drama. Heard Lucy Hammond drew a professional line. So why the hell are you mobilizing your entire arsenal to save a company whose leader just put you firmly in the friend zone… or maybe the ‘conflicted business associate’ zone?” He takes a sip. “Seems like a waste of resources, fighting for someone who chose her career over you.”
I finally turn, fixing him with a cold stare. “She didn’t choose her career over me. She chose to do her job . The job I encouraged her to take. She established a necessary boundary to maintain her authority and avoid a blatant conflict of interest while fighting off a takeover bid launched by my fucking father.” I take a breath, reigning in the anger. “Her doing that, proving she has the backbone to lead, especially against that kind of pressure? That deserves respect. And support. Regardless of our personal relationship status.”
Even if respecting it feels like chewing on fucking glass.
Dominic studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “All right, Chris. Didn’t think you had it in you. Respecting boundaries instead of just blowing through them.” He raises his glass slightly. “To evolution, I guess.”
Respecting her boundaries doesn’t mean rolling over for my father, though. His using Lucy’s appointment as justification, his deliberate, personal attack… it requires a more direct response. He thinks he can use his position on my board to hamstring me while launching attacks from his own company? Fine. Two can play that game. I still hold a significant minority stake, and a board seat, in his company as well. A legacy arrangement from years ago.
Time to leverage it.
I call my father. “We need to talk. Your home office.”
Predictably, he tries to brush me off. Equally predictably, I don’t let him. An hour later, I’m standing in his ostentatious study again.
“Changed your mind about Hammond?” he sneers as I walk in.
“Hardly,” I reply coolly. “I’m here to talk about your fiduciary duty to Blackwell Holdings.”
His eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your hostile takeover attempt of Hammond & Co.,” I state flatly. “Launched using the resources of Blackwell Holdings, based on flimsy justification regarding their new CEO, timed precisely to inflict maximum damage not just on them, but on the Blackwell Innovations partnership agreement already in place. An agreement I presented to our board, an agreement vital to our long-term strategy.” I let the accusation hang there. “It reeks of personal vendetta, Father. Not sound business judgment. Pursuing this vendetta using company resources, potentially damaging a key strategic partnership for Blackwell Innovations where you also sit as a board member… is reckless. It exposes Blackwell Holdings to unnecessary risk and potential legal challenges.”
“Are you threatening me with my own company?” he scoffs, though a flicker of uncertainty enters his eyes.
“I’m pointing out facts,” I counter. “And I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Blackwell Holdings board to discuss whether this personal crusade is an appropriate use of company assets.”
Checkmate, you old bastard.
I don’t even wait for a response. I just leave.
I smile grimly on the way out .
I can almost hear the wheels of my plan, grinding, and in motion.
The emergency board meeting at Blackwell Holdings is even more tense than the one at my company. I lay out the case clinically. Mark’s long-standing animosity towards Richard Hammond. The timing of the takeover bid immediately following Lucy’s appointment. The potential damage to the synergistic Project Nightingale partnership. The reputational risk of launching such an aggressive, seemingly personal attack.
Meanwhile Mark fumes, argues business opportunity, Hammond vulnerability. But his arguments sound thin, transparently motivated by spite.
The vote is surprisingly decisive. They side with me. A formal resolution blocking the allocation of any further resources towards the Hammond takeover attempt. It doesn’t kill the bid entirely. Mark has personal wealth, other avenues, but it cripples his primary engine.
This is a major victory and another nail in the coffin of his influence over my company.
This move weakens his standing, adds ammunition to the case I’m building to eventually force him off the Blackwell Innovations board altogether.
But one step at a time.
Back in my office, adrenaline still humming, Tatiana enters with a data slate.
“The resolution from the Blackwell Holdings board has been formally logged, sir. A strategically effective maneuver.”
“Neutralizing a threat, Tatiana. Nothing more.”
She places the slate on my desk. “And Ms. Hammond?” she asks quietly. “You’ve crippled your father’s primary attack vector against her company. But the professional distance remains.”
“That was her decision,” I state curtly. “I respect it.”
Tatiana tilts her head slightly, regarding me with that unnervingly perceptive gaze. “Perhaps respect isn’t all that’s required now, Mr. Blackwell. You sent the defense analysis. A valuable asset, professionally delivered. But the silence since then…” She pauses. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but in these types of dynamics… are you not the dominant partner?”
The question startles me. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Dominant partners typically initiate,” she says simply. “They lead. They don’t wait passively. You told her you’d be there when she was ready. Perhaps she needs a reason to be ready. A push. An indication that you have a plan not just to defend her company, but to navigate the complexities between you. Waiting for her to bridge the gap first, given her new position and the pressures she’s under… it might be misinterpreted.”
“Since when do you give relationship advice, Tatiana?” I grumble, though her words hit a nerve. Waiting passively isn’t my style. But I thought respecting her boundary required it.
A rare, fleeting smile touches Tatiana’s lips. “I don’t give relationship advice, Mr. Blackwell. But after years of managing your schedule and observing your interactions… I know how billionaires think. And how they operate when they truly want something.” She picks up the data slate. “Sometimes, taking control requires making the first move towards re conciliation, not just waiting for surrender.” She leaves me alone with the unsettling accuracy of her observation.
Fuck. Is she right?
Have I been so focused on respecting Lucy’s professional boundaries that I’ve inadvertently reinforced the separation on a personal level?
Waited passively when I should have been strategizing a solution for us ?
Fuck.
My mind races. The takeover attempt, while crippled, isn’t dead. The SPE issue still needs careful handling. Lucy is still under immense pressure. But maybe… maybe there is a way. A structure. A set of protocols that allows us professional separation where necessary, but doesn’t demand complete personal amputation. A way for me to support her, be with her, without compromising her hard-won authority as CEO.
I spend the next hour sketching out ideas. Not just deeper defense tactics against Mark, but frameworks for communication. Firewalls between certain business aspects. Clear lines that protect both Hammond’s independence and our personal connection.
It’s complex. Requires trust. But it’s possible.
I won’t just send her another plan. Tatiana is right about that. She needs to meet me. To talk. To see that I’m not just waiting, but actively working on a solution for us .
I pick up my phone, pulling up her contact. My thumb hovers over the screen. Taking the first step. Initiating. Reasserting… not dominance in the way I did in her office, but leadership in bridging the gap she felt forced to create.
My message is carefully worded. Professional, yet implicitly personal.
Lucy. Strategic considerations regarding Project Nightingale and external pressures require discussion. Propose a private meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss a potential solution to our current situation. -C.
I hit send, the simple action feeling weighted with significance.
The ball is in her court, but I’ve just given it a firm push back towards her side of the net.
Now… I wait.
And hope like hell she’s willing to return the serve.