Page 141 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“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 overwhelmingresponsibility.

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 likelyplans 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 wasinterimCEO, 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.