Page 31 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

The waiter pours water, offers menus we both ignore, and melts away again.

Silence stretches, taut and awkward.

Christopher watches me, those sharp blue eyes analytical, unreadable.

Is he waiting for me to crack? To bring it up?

Not happening.

“Project Nightingale,” I begin, forcing my gaze to stay level with his, focusing on the business. “My board is still deliberating, as before. Your condition, the liaison role…”

“Is non-negotiable,” he finishes coolly. “As I stated.”

“It’s highly irregular.”

“These are irregular circumstances.” He leans back slightly, steepling his fingers. God, even hishandslook expensive. “Hammond & Co. requires significant restructuring. Oversight is essential. My oversight. Delivered through someone I believe capable of executing the necessary changes and reporting honestly.” He pauses, his gaze intensifying fractionally. “Thatsomeone is you.”

Is that… a compliment? Wrapped in an ultimatum? With him, it’s hard to tell. “My father—”

“Will retain his title,” Christopher interrupts again, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “As agreed. But operational control and strategic direction require… fresh perspective. Your perspective. Filtered directly to me.”

The implication hangs there.I trust you more than him.It’s flattering and infuriating all at once. And intensely complicated by the memory of his mouth on mine.

“About last night—” I start, deciding maybe ripping off the Band-Aid is better.

“Was regrettable,” he cuts in smoothly, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. “A lapse in judgment. Unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”

Oh, okay. Just a ‘lapse’. Glad we cleared that up.

He probably just didn’t like my breath.

Not that I care.

My temper, never far from the surface with him, begins to simmer. “I see. So, crossing boundaries is fine, as long as you’re the one doing the crossing?”

A muscle tightens in his jaw. “I initiated it. I take responsibility. That’s why we’re here. To ensure it remains strictly professional moving forward.”

“Right. Professional.” I can’t help the sarcastic edge in my voice. “Like demanding I become your personal informant within my own company?”

“Liaison,” he corrects, his tone like ice. “To facilitate the turnaround. Or would you prefer I install my own interim management team? Believe me, Ms. Hammond, that option is far less palatable for your father’s legacy. And for your employees.”

He’s got me cornered. Again. He knows thepower he wields. The life raft versus the cage, as he put it.

The waiter returns to take our order. We both request salads, neither of us apparently having much appetite. The brief interruption diffuses some tension, but it settles in quickly once we’re alone again.

I push my water glass around, watching the condensation bead. “Why Hammond & Co., Christopher?” The question slips out, more personal than I intend. Using his first name feels… strange. Risky.

He raises an eyebrow, surprised perhaps by the shift. “It’s undervalued. Significant assets. Poorly managed. Ripe for optimization.” The standard corporate raider answer.

“No, I mean…why?” I press, meeting his gaze directly. “Your reputation precedes you. Blackwell Innovations swoops in, strips assets, dismantles companies, lays off hundreds. People call you the Executioner. Is that what you plan for us? For my father’s life’s work? For the people employed by us, some of whom have been with us for three generations?”

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers deep in those blue eyes. Defensiveness, maybe?

He takes a slow sip of water before answering.

“My reputation,” he says, his voice quieter now, “is often… simplified. By competitors. By the press. By people who resist necessary change.”

“Necessary change, or destruction?” I challenge.