Page 114 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Bless his grumpy, controlling, surprisingly supportive heart.

So here I am, in Dad’s massive office. Which still smells faintly of his old pipe tobacco. I’m trying to project an aura of calm competence while internally Googling ‘How to run a company built on potentialfraud without having a panic attack.’ Results: your search did not match any documents.

The past few days have been a blur. Hospital visits, endless meetings, reassuring nervous employees. Sex with a super hot, super freaky billionaire.

But mostly? Trying to get a handle on the frigging Special Purpose Entities. The SPEs. Dad’s secret shame, and potentially Hammond & Co.’s death knell.

Working under the extremely cautious guidance of our outside counsel and a very discreet, very expensive accounting firm (paid for out of what little operating budget isn’t already earmarked for debt servicing), I’ve started the terrifying process of untangling this mess. It feels like performing reconstructive surgery with tweezers and a prayer.

We’re starting small, identifying the least complex entities, figuring out how to quietly unwind them or consolidate their hidden debts onto the main books without setting off regulatory alarms or alerting Morgan we’re onto his game. Every email feels like handling nitroglycerin. Every phone call makes my palms sweat.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Just casually dismantling potential evidence of financial crimes while keeping a legacy company afloat.

My phone buzzes, making me jump. It’s Christopher. Of course it is. He seems to have a sixth sense for when my anxiety levels reach critical mass.

“Interim CEO Hammond,” I answer, trying to inject a breezy confidence I absolutely do not feel.

“How’s the view from the throne?” His voice is low, that familiar gravelly rumble sending an involuntary flutter through my stomach.

Get a grip, Lucy. He’s your business partner slash complicatedlove interest slash co-conspirator in potential financial cover-ups.

Keep it professional.

“Slightly terrifying,” I admit. “And the chair doesn’t swivel as much as I’d like. Mostly, I’m drowning in paperwork and trying not to accidentally trigger an SEC investigation.”

“About that,” he says, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more focused. “My forensic accounting team. They’re still waiting in the wings, ready to deploy. Top tier experts in untangling exactly these kinds of complex, off-balance-sheet structures. They can accelerate this process considerably, Lucy. Map the full exposure, identify the weak points Morgan might exploit, giving us actionable data within days, not weeks.”

I hesitate. My stomach clenches for a different reason now. His team.Hisresources. The offer hangs there, tempting and terrifying.

God, I need the help.

The SPEs are a hydra; every document I review seems to sprout two more complications. Trying to handle this with our current, stretched-thin resources feels like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon.

But… accepting his team? Letting Blackwell Innovations auditors burrow deep into the heart of Hammond & Co.’s darkest secrets? It feels… like surrender. Like admitting I can’t do this on my own. Like proving Morgan and all the other doubters right. That I’m only in charge, only surviving, because of Christopher Blackwell’s money and influence.

“That’s… a very generous offer, Christopher,” I say carefully. “But we have our own accounting firm engaged already. They’re making progress.”Slow, agonizing, terrifyingly expensive progress, but progress nonetheless.

“Are they the best?” he asks bluntly. “Are they equipped to handle counter-maneuvers if Morgan or my father try to weaponize specific details during the audit? My team deals with this level of corporate warfare daily. They anticipate attacks before they happen.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. My pride feels childish compared to the stakes. But the fear of dependency, of losing Hammond’s identity, maybe even myownidentity, within the orbit of his immense power… it’s a powerful counterweight.

“Let me think about it,” I hedge. “I appreciate the offer. Really. I just need to consider the best path forward for Hammond’s independence.”

There’s a pause on his end. I can almost picture his expression. tThat slight frown, the intense analytical gaze.

“Independence requires survival first, Lucy,” he says quietly, but without pushing. “The offer stands. Let me know.”

He disconnects, leaving me staring at the phone, feeling torn.

Lunch with Avais a welcome escape. We’re tucked into our usual corner booth at a little Italian place downtown. The smell of garlic and basil is comforting. As usual, I can see her private security detail hovering outside the front doors. And for a moment I wonder vaguely if I should get my own.

No. When you’re running an almost bankrupt company, you don’t really need a security team.

Ava listens patiently while I unload my anxieties between bites of pasta.

“…so he offers his crack team of financial ninjas, and part of me is like, ‘Yes! Please! Slay the SPE dragon!’ because honestly, Ava, this is way over my head,” I confess, swirling linguine around my fork. “But the other part is screaming, ‘No! Don’t do it! You’ll become a subsidiary of his heart!’ Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but you know what I mean. If I rely on him for this, for the biggest, ugliest problem we have, where does it stop? Am I just Lucy Hammond, Interim CEO, or am I Lucy Hammond, Christopher Blackwell’s Pet Project?”