44. Lucy
44
Lucy
“ S o, Mark Blackwell’s initial financing seems… constrained.” Mr. Davies, our lead external counsel, leans back in his chair, looking almost pleased. Which, for Mr. Davies, is the emotional equivalent of doing cartwheels. After all, he’s a man whose steely gaze and astronomical hourly rate are equally terrifying. “Their usual lines of credit through Blackwell Holdings aren’t materializing for this specific bid. We suspect internal board resistance there.”
I blink, processing this. Internal resistance? At Mark Blackwell’s own company? That seems… unlikely. Unless…
Christopher? Could he have…?
No, that’s crazy.
Still, any hurdle in Mark’s path is good news. Maybe my frantic juggling act is actually working? Maybe we can actually fight off this hostile takeover?
Just then my phone vibrates discreetly on the conference table. A text message.
From him .
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.
My breath catches. A potential solution. To our current situation. Not just the company’s situation.
Ours .
My heart does a stupid, hopeful leap, immediately followed by a nosedive of anxiety.
What kind of solution? Does he want to try again? Does he regret respecting my boundary?
Am I really ready for this conversation?
“Lucy?” Mr. Davies prompts, eyebrow raised.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, forcing my attention back to the meeting. “That’s… promising news, Mr. Davies. Let’s explore how we can leverage that constraint.”
While I simultaneously try to figure out how to leverage my own constrained heart back into some semblance of working order.
Despite the good news from the lawyers, despite the mountain of work still waiting, despite the professional wall I so dramatically erected… there’s no question.
I text back a simple: This evening?
His reply is instantaneous. 7 PM. La Fenice. Private room reserved.
La Fenice. Small, ridiculously exclusive, known for its privacy.
Smart.
And terrifying.
I manage to get through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, my mind racing. What solution could he possibly have? How can we bridge this gap between CEO Hammond and CEO Blackwell without one of us getting metaphorically electrocuted by the conflict of interest?
Before heading out, I swing by the hospital. Dad is awake, looking better than yesterday, already complaining about the food. A good sign.
We chat for a bit, and I give him the positive (and heavily edited) update on the takeover defense, while he gives me unsolicited advice about managing the board (”Don’t trust Abernathy further than you can throw him, Lucy”).
Knowing he’s stable, safe, and not attempting any secret jogging missions allows me to leave with a slightly clearer conscience.
Tonight, for a few hours at least, I can focus on… us.
Or whatever ‘us’ is now.
Getting ready feels like preparing for diplomatic negotiations and a blind date simultaneously. Do I wear the ‘I am a competent CEO’ power suit? Or the ‘Please still like me even though I threw you under the bus’ slightly softer blouse?
What’s the dress code for potentially reconciling with the billionaire you’re falling for while simultaneously fighting his father for corporate survival?
I settle on tailored black trousers and a silk blouse. Professional, but not entirely fortress-like.
My own security guys, Frank and a quiet woman named Maria, follow me down in the elevator.
I arrive at La Fenice fifteen minutes early, because apparently my anxiety has its own schedule. Frank and Maria exchange subtle nods with the ma?tre d’, then melt discreetly into the background near the entrance.
I’m shown to a small, elegantly appointed private room in the back.
It’s quiet, dimly lit, and smells a little like expensive wine and beeswax (the latter would probably be the candles).
I sit down, fiddle with my napkin, and try to remember how to breathe normally.
Stay calm. Be professional. Be open.
And maybe try not to blush too much.
Right on time, the door opens.
And Christopher enters.
My breath catches all over again.
He looks… gorgeous. But tired.
There are faint shadows under his eyes I haven’t seen before, and the usual tightly controlled energy around him feels banked, somehow weary.
His gaze is as intense as ever. Behind him, Elijah Reeves lingers for a second before taking up a position down the hall.
“Lucy,” he greets me, his voice carefully neutral. He doesn’t smile.
“Christopher.” My voice sounds ridiculously formal.
At least I didn’t call him Mr. Blackwell.
He stands there for an awkward moment, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken things.
Then he sits, taking the chair opposite me.
A knock, and a waiter enters, pours water, and offers menus we both ignore. He excuses himself.
More silence.
Okay, this is excruciating.
Someone has to break it. Might as well be me.
I already broke us , didn’t I?
“Christopher, about the other day,” I begin, my cheeks already starting to feel warm. Damn it. “In the boardroom. When I asked you to leave…”
He holds up a hand, stopping me. “It’s fine, Lucy. It really is. You did what you felt you had to do as CEO. I understand.”
His calm acceptance somehow makes it worse.
“No, let me finish,” I insist, leaning forward. “I need you to understand why . It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. God, Christopher, I believe you completely about the takeover. I always did. You had no involvement.” My voice trembles slightly. “But sitting there as permanent CEO, facing that crisis… I panicked. All I could think about was how everyone was watching me, waiting for me to fail, waiting for me to make an emotional decision like they always accused Dad of doing. I felt like I had to draw the clearest possible line, create this… impenetrable professional boundary, just to prove I could. To prove I was worthy of the position, that I wouldn’t let personal feelings compromise the company.”
I look down at my hands, twisting my napkin. “And I was terrified, honestly. Terrified of messing up, of letting everyone down. Dad, the employees, the legacy… even you. Especially you. It felt safer, somehow, to push you away.”
He listens intently, his expression unreadable. When I finally run out of steam and look up, his eyes hold a surprising depth of understanding.
“You were put in an impossible position, Lucy,” he says quietly. “By my father. By your father’s history. By the circumstances. Establishing your authority, especially in that moment, was critical.” He pauses, then continues, his voice dropping slightly. “Which is why I took steps to reinforce it.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“After I spoke with you at the gala, after your father threatened you…” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I knew Mark wouldn’t stop. I suspected he was already maneuvering against me on my own board, using our relationship as leverage. So, I preempted him. I called an emergency meeting of the board at his company, Blackwell Holdings.”
My eyes widen. “You did what?”
“I presented evidence that his hostile bid against Hammond was driven by personal vendetta, not sound business strategy,” Christopher explains calmly. “That it jeopardized Blackwell Holdings’ reputation and resources, and potentially damaged the synergistic value of the Project Nightingale partnership with Blackwell Innovations.” He meets my gaze. “The Blackwell Holdings board agreed. They voted to block further company resources from being used for the takeover attempt.”
I stare at him, stunned. He went head-to-head with his father, on his father’s own turf, and won ? Not just for himself, but effectively hamstringing the attack on my company? Because he respected my leadership? Because he wanted to protect me?
The sheer audacity, the strategic brilliance, the underlying loyalty… it takes my breath away.
“Christopher…” I whisper, unsure what else to say.
“My father’s threat isn’t entirely gone,” he cautions. “He still has personal resources, other avenues. But his primary weapon has been significantly weakened. It gives you breathing room. Time to implement your strategy. Time to deal with the… legacy issues.” He means the SPEs.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion. “I… I had no idea.”
“You didn’t need to,” he replies simply. “You needed to focus on being CEO.” He leans forward slightly, the intensity back in his eyes. “Which brings us to the ‘potential solution’ I mentioned in my text.”
My heart gives another nervous flutter.
Here it comes.
“I meant what I said in my note, Lucy. I understand why you drew the line. I respect your position too much to ask you to compromise it, especially now.” His gaze holds mine. “But I’m not willing to lose what we have to corporate politics or my father’s bullshit, either.”
He slides a single sheet of paper across the table. It’s not a legal document. Just a few concise bullet points.
- Communication Protocols: Designated channels for business discussions (via liaisons like Tatiana/your counsel for sensitive matters) vs. personal communication (direct, private).
- Conflict Recusal: Formal recusal by both parties from any direct negotiation or board vote where Hammond & Co. and Blackwell Innovations have clearly opposing interests.
- Transparency: Mutual agreement to disclose potential conflicts immediately to relevant legal counsel.
- Project Nightingale Oversight: Joint steering committee with clearly defined roles, focusing solely on partnership execution, insulated from other business conflicts.
It’s… thoughtful. Practical. It acknowledges the real conflicts but proposes clear structures to manage them, allowing for professional integrity while creating space for… something else.
For us .
“This framework,” he explains quietly, “allows us both to perform our duties as CEOs without compromising our companies or ourselves. It creates firewalls where necessary. It demands transparency. It respects the boundaries you need.” He pauses, his expression surprisingly vulnerable. “But it keeps the door open, Lucy. For us. If that’s something you still want.”
Relief, sharp and overwhelming, floods through me. He’s not demanding I choose. He’s offering a way to have both. Acknowledging the complexity, respecting my role, but fighting for us in his own strategic, controlled way.
He found the middle path Ava talked about.
“Yes,” I breathe out, and smile, chasing away the shadows of the past few days. “Yes, Christopher. That’s definitely something I still want.”
The tension finally breaks. He lets out a slow breath, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in that rare, devastating half-smile. The weariness seems to lift from his eyes, replaced by a cautious hope that mirrors my own.
The path forward is still treacherous.
Mark Blackwell is still out there.
The SPEs still need defusing.
Being CEO is still terrifying.
But looking across the table at Christopher, seeing the respect in his eyes and the future he’s carefully, strategically offering… it doesn’t feel quite so impossible anymore.
Maybe CEO Hammond and Lucy Hammond can coexist after all.