Page 25 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Three fucking days.

Seventy two hours since Tatiana fired off Project Nightingale.

Does she think playing hard to get works in multi-million dollar negotiations? Is she stalling? Or is her board, full of Hammond loyalists and goddamn dinosaurs, dragging their feet?

My fingers tap an irritable rhythm on the polished obsidian surface of my desk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

This shouldn’t bother me. It’s business. Deals like these take time. Weeks, months even. But I have no patience. Not for this one.

Seeing Lucy navigate that space, defending her father’s crumbling legacy while simultaneously showcasing its hidden value… was unexpected. And the way she handled her father’s barely concealed hostility towards me was… intriguing.

Which is precisely the problem. Intrigue has no place in a deal like this. Especially intrigue centeredon the woman whose company I’m poised to absorb. My father would laugh his ass off.

Sentiment, Christopher? In business? Have I taught you nothing?

The intercom buzzes. Tatiana’s voice. “Mr. Blackwell. A moment?”

“Proceed, Tatiana.”

The door glides open. Tatiana enters, a tablet held precisely in one hand. Twenty six years old and runs my life with terrifying precision. Future CEO material, if she plays her cards right.

“Ms. Hammond’s office acknowledged receipt of the proposal, sir,” Tatiana reports, her voice perfectly neutral. “No official response has been provided. Their internal channels suggest the board meeting was… inconclusive.”

Inconclusive. Fucking fantastic. More delays. “And Ms. Hammond herself?” I clip out the words.

“My sources indicate she is attending the Children’s Literacy Foundation gala tonight. The St. Regis rooftop ballroom.” Tatiana offers the information without inflection, but she knows me. Knows I prefer direct action to waiting games.

A charity gala. Of course. Diamonds and desperation. Schmoozing for donations while her company teeters on the edge of oblivion. The irony is almost thick enough to taste. Perfect.

An idea sparks. Cold, calculated. A power play dressed up in a tuxedo. Corner her on neutral ground. Public space, limited escape routes. Force the issue. See how she handles pressure outside the boardroom. And maybe… maybe satisfy a growing curiosity that gnaws at the edges of my strategic thinking.

“Excellent work, Tatiana,” I say. “Clear myevening schedule. Have Victor bring the car around at eight. And inform Elijah I’ll require discreet accompaniment.” Posing as a business associate, as usual. Maya Chen, another member of my security detail, can blend in easily as well.

Tatiana raises a single, perfect eyebrow. The only sign of surprise she ever permits herself. “Sir?”

“I believe,” I say, standing and walking towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city sprawl, “it’s time for a face-to-face about Project Nightingale. Seems Ms. Hammond requires a personal nudge.” My reflection stares back, all sharp angles and tailored suit. Impassive. Controlled. Exactly as it should be.

The St. Regisrooftop ballroom is exactly what I expected. A suffocating crush of old money, new money, and people pretending to be both. Overpriced champagne flows like water. The air hums with forced laughter and the clink of jewelry designed to signal status. It’s a stage, and everyone here is playing a part. Including me.

Elijah melts into the background near the entrance, looking like just another bored executive, while Maya drifts towards the bar, easily mistaken for someone’s assistant. Their ever-vigilant gazes will never leave me.

My eyes scan the room, methodical, dismissive. And then I find her.

Lucy Hammond.

And fuck me. She’s not just ‘cleaned up well’. She’s… incandescent. Standing near a cluster of potted palms, talking to some silver haired fossil. Her dress isn’t ostentatious. Simple, elegant silk the color of a stormy sea, cut low enough to hint, high enough to command respect. It clings to curves I can’t take my eye off. Honey blonde hair swept up, revealing the delicate line of her neck.

She laughs at something the old man says, a genuine sound that cuts through the room’s artificial buzz.

My gut clenches. An involuntary, unwelcome reaction. It’s the dress. The setting. The unexpected vulnerability of seeing her outside the corporate battlefield. That’s all it is. Strategic assessment.

Our eyes meet across the glittering expanse. A jolt, sharp and unexpected, like static electricity, passes through me. Her smile falters for a fraction of a second. Then composure snaps back into place. She gives a polite nod, cool and distant, before turning back to her conversation.

Game on.

Let her stew. Let her feel my presence. I take a glass of champagne I don’t want from a passing waiter. I circulate slowly. Exchange meaningless pleasantries with a few industry faces I recognize. All the while, my attention remains tethered to her.