Page 10 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

My blood runs cold. Offer? Blackwell made a formal offer? Not just back-channel feelers? My father hadn’t mentioned a formal offer. He’d just looked… haunted.

I push the door open wider, stepping inside. “Excuse me, Morgan. What offer are you talking about?”

My father, Richard Hammond, looks up from his large mahogany desk. He looks older than his fifty-eight years, the stress etched deeply around his kind blue eyes. He’s wearing one of his usual impeccably tailored but slightly dated suits. He clears his throat, a nervous habit. “Lucy, darling. Morgan was just discussing options.”

Morgan Weiss turns, his smooth, practiced smile firmly in place. He’s all polished surfaces and emptycharm. “Lucy. Just reviewing the preliminary proposal Blackwell’s people sent over. Standard acquisition terms. Quite aggressive, actually. But perhaps necessary, given the circumstances.” He gestures vaguely towards a folder on Dad’s desk.

My eyes narrow. “A proposal Dad failed to mention when I told him I was meeting Christopher Blackwell this afternoon to discuss apartnership?”

Stay calm. Don’t punch the smarmy board member.

Bad optics.

My father flinches slightly. “I was going to tell you. It literally just came in. I haven’t even fully processed…”

“Processed what, Dad?” My voice is sharper than intended. “That the guy I’m trying to negotiate with in good faith has already put a price tag on dismantling everything?” I step further into the room, ignoring Weiss. “Or were you planning to tell me after you’d already agreed to sell?”

Weiss smirks. “Perhaps your father recognizes the inevitable, Lucy.”

I turn my glare on him. “You’ve been pushing for a fire sale since day one, Morgan. Don’t pretend this is about saving the company.”

“Lucy, please,” my father says, standing up. He looks weary. “Morgan is just trying to be pragmatic.”

“Pragmatic or predatory?” I challenge, my hands balling into fists at my sides. I resist the urge to fidget with my bracelet.

My eyes fall on a different folder partially hidden under some blueprints on Dad’s desk. A different color file tab. One I recognize from our accounting department. That would be the internal projections, not the sanitized versions prepared for the board. Acting on instinct, I reach past my fatherand grab it.

“Lucy!” he protests, but it’s too late.

I flip it open. Rows of figures swim before my eyes. Debt schedules. Projected losses. Creditor warnings. It’s… staggering. Far, far worse than the already grim picture Dad had painted for me. The numbers I’d based my entire partnership proposal on? They were optimistic fiction. We aren’t just bleeding; we’re hemorrhaging. He’d actively hidden the sheer scale of the disaster. Fromme.

The folder trembles in my hand. A hot flush crawls up my neck, burning my cheeks. Betrayal stings sharp and bitter, momentarily eclipsing the panic.

He lied. Deliberately lied to me.

“Dad… what is this?” My voice is barely a whisper.

He avoids my gaze, sinking back into his chair. He fiddles with the vintage fountain pen he always carries. “Just… contingency planning, Lucy. Worst-case scenarios.”

“Worst-case?” I slam the folder down on the desk, making Weiss jump. “This isn’t worst-case, Dad, this looks like reality! The reality you hid from me while sending me into a negotiation completely blind!”

Weiss watches the exchange with undisguised satisfaction. Bastard.

Tears prickle behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of Weiss. “How could you?” I direct the question solely at my father, my voice thick with hurt. “All this time… I’ve been killing myself trying to find a way, trying to protect your legacy… and you didn’t trust me with the truth?”

He looks up then, his expression anguished. “I didn’t want to burden you, Lucy. I thought I could still fix it… shield you from the worst of it.”

“Shield me? Dad, I’m not a child! I’m supposed to be your partner in this! How am I supposed to negotiate with Blackwell now? My entire proposal is based on numbers that are complete bullshit!” The anxiety I’d been suppressing surges, cold and terrifying. I feel exposed, stupid. Christopher Blackwell probably already knows these real numbers. He has teams of analysts. He knew I was walking in there with nothing but wishful thinking.

No wonder he looked amused yesterday. And that wasbeforethose demonic robot dogs ruined everything.

Weiss clears his throat and licks his lips eagerly. “This changes things, wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps Blackwell’s offer isn’t so unreasonable after all.”

I whirl on him. “Get out, Morgan.”

“Now, Lucy…” my father starts.

“No, Dad. He needs to leave. Now.” My voice is low and shaking with fury.