Page 15 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Dinner.

Strategic advantage,I tell myself again firmly. Nothing more. Just gathering intelligenceon the enemy.

But as I stare out at the indifferent city skyline a sliver of something else cuts through the cynicism.

Intrigue.

Annoyance.

And just maybe, a reluctant flicker of anticipation.

Fuck. This is going to be complicated.

5

Lucy

Dinner?

Did I actually just agree todinnerwith Christopher Blackwell?

The guy whose idea of foreplay is probably a hostile takeover bid?

My hand is still gripping my briefcase handle like it’s a life raft, and the silent, buttonless elevator ride back down from Blackwell Tower feels like stumbling off a Broadway stage mid-performance, clutching a script written in crayon, having just discovered the play is actually a tragedy and you thought it was a rom-com until five minutes ago.

“Fine, Mr. Blackwell. Dinner,” I’d said.

What was I thinking? Strategic advantage? More like strategic suicide.

He probably plans to ply me with thousand-dollar wine until I accidentally sign over the company on a cocktail napkin.

No. Absolutely not. I cannot let him control this narrative. Dinner in his turf, his rules, his carefully chosen restaurant, no doubt designed to intimidate orimpress or whatever rich guys do when they’re trying to subtly assert dominance. I need to regain some semblance of control here, even if it’s just choosing the damn meeting location.

Back on the street, the noise of Midtown hits me like a physical force after the eerie quiet of Blackwell Tower. Taxis honk, sirens wail, the air smells like exhaust fumes and questionable street food. It’s chaotic, messy,real. Unlike the sterile perfection upstairs.

I need that grounding right now.

Pulling out my phone, my fingers fumble slightly. I don’t have his direct number, obviously. He probably changes it weekly to avoid peasants like me. But I have the main line for Blackwell Innovations.

“Blackwell Innovations, how may I direct your call?” The operator sounds like a pleasant robot. Maybe it is.

“Tatiana Cole, please. Lucy Hammond calling.” I try to inject crisp confidence into my voice, praying it doesn’t wobble.

A few clicks, a brief hold Muzak interlude that sounds suspiciously like a synthesized version of Vivaldi, and then a cool, calm voice answers. “Tatiana Cole.”

“Ms. Cole, hello. It’s Lucy Hammond.”Don’t sound desperate. Don’t sound desperate.“I’m calling regarding the dinner Mr. Blackwell proposed for this evening.”

A beat of silence. I can practically hear her processing, filing, assessing. “Yes, Ms. Hammond?”

“While I appreciate the invitation,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I believe a more productive continuation of our discussion would be best held at Hammond & Co. headquarters. Perhapstomorrow morning? It would allow me to better demonstrate the intrinsic value and potential Mr. Blackwell seemed… interested in.”

Okay, maybe ‘interested’ is generous. More like ‘vaguely intrigued while calculating liquidation value’.

Another pause. Longer this time. Is she conferring with him? Is she mentally drafting a polite ‘go screw yourself’? My knuckles are white again, this time gripping my phone.

Why is this so nerve-wracking? It’s just changing a meeting location!

“One moment, Ms. Hammond.” Her voice remains perfectly level. The line goes quiet, but not dead. I stare blankly at a passing bus plastered with an ad for anxiety medication.