Page 27 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

She stares at me, processing the ultimatum. The implications. Reporting directly to me. The intimacy of that professional arrangement. The power dynamic shift. I can almost see the gears turning behind those intelligent eyes. Relief warring with resentment. Pragmatism battling pride.

“That’s… an unusual arrangement,” she says slowly.

“It’s the only arrangement on the table,” I reply coolly. “Ensures my investment is protected. Ensures you have a direct line to implement the changes Hammond & Co. desperately needs. Changes your father has proven incapable of making.”

She looks away, towards the glittering city skyline visible through the ballroom windows. A long moment passes. The sounds of the gala fade into a dull roar.

“You mentioned Morgan Weiss,” she says eventually, her voice quieter now, turning back to face me. “What do you know about him?”

"Why?" I ask.

She studies me a moment, as if unsure she should speak. Then she opens up: “I don’t trust him. Something feels off.”

Interesting. She senses it too. Weiss is playing a deeper game. Probably my father pullingthe strings, trying to undermine my approach. The old bastard always preferred scorched-earth tactics.

“Weiss is ambitious,” I offer, keeping my tone neutral, analytical. Giving her just enough rope. “He likely sees liquidation as the quickest path to cashing out his shares. Or perhaps,” I pause, watching her reaction closely, “he’s getting pressure from an outside party who benefits from Hammond & Co.’s failure.”

Her brow furrows. “Like who?”

“Think, Ms. Hammond. Who hates your father? Who benefits from seeing the Hammond legacy dismantled? Who has a history of… aggressive acquisitions?” I let the implication hang there. Let her connect the dots back to Mark Blackwell.

She absorbs this, her expression troubled. We’re no longer just discussing the deal. We’re sparring, circling each other, testing defenses. The line between business adversary and… something else… blurs.

“Your methods are ruthless, Mr. Blackwell,” she says, a spark returning to her eyes. “You talk about saving the company, but your terms are designed for absolute control. Is there any room for partnership in your world? Or just domination?”

“Partnership requires trust,” I retort, irritated by her idealistic bullshit. “And trust is earned. Your company is failing. My ‘ruthless methods’ are offering it a lifeline. A chance to survive, to modernize. Is clinging to outdated ideals more important than saving jobs? Than preserving even a fraction of your father’s legacy?”

“There’s a way to do business ethically!” she insists, her voice rising. Color floods her cheeks. God, she’s magnificent when she’s angry. “Without sacrificing people for profit! Without treating everything like a hostile takeover!”

“Hostile?” I scoff, stepping closer still. The space between us shrinks, charged with sudden, unexpected heat. Her scent, that bergamot, jasmine, vanilla, is intoxicating. “This isn’t hostile, Ms. Hammond. This is realism. The world isn’t fucking rainbows. It’s sharks like me, and sharks like my father, and you’re bleeding in the water. I’m offering you a life raft. Stop pretending it’s a cage.”

“And you’re thebenevolentshark?” she shoots back, tilting her head up to meet my gaze, refusing to back down. “Forgive me if I don’t find that comforting.”

Her defiance, her fire, the way her eyes flash… it cracks something inside me. The rigid control I maintain with iron discipline. The strategic calculation. All of it fractures. In its place surges a raw, primal impulse. To silence her arguments. To taste that defiance. To close the unbearable distance between us.

Fuck it.

Before conscious thought can intervene, I lean down and capture her mouth with mine. It’s not gentle. It’s hard, demanding. A collision of frustration, anger, and an attraction so potent it burns. Her lips are soft, yielding for a stunned second before she gasps against my mouth. The scent of her, the unexpected heat, the sheer shock of the contact, it slams through me, short-circuiting every rational thought.

Her hands come up, pushing against my chest, but there’s no real force behind them. Not yet. For a dizzying moment, there’s only the press of her lips, the sharp intake of her breath, the chaotic thunder of my own pulse in my ears.

Then, as abruptly as I started it, I pull back.

We stare at each other, breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Her lips are slightly swollen, red. My reflection swims in the darkcenters of her eyes. Shock. Confusion. And something else… something mirrored in the frantic hammering in my own chest.

What the actual fuck did I just do?

The noise of the gala rushes back in, loud and intrusive. We’re standing in the middle of a crowded room. Anyone could have seen. My security detail is probably having kittens.

A wave of cold realization washes over the heat.

Control. I lost control. Crossed a line I swore I never would.

Business and personal. Never mix them.My father’s voice echoes dimly.Weakness, Christopher. Sentiment is weakness.

I feel a sudden wave of irritation. At myself. At her for making me react this way.

“I…” she starts, her voice barely a whisper, touching her lips with trembling fingers.