Page 47 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“My methods are my own,” I say, turning towards the door. “Stay out of my deal, Father. Call off yourdog Weiss. Or I will handle him myself. And you won’t like the consequences.”

“Is that a threat, Christopher?” His voice follows me, sharp as broken glass.

“It’s a statement of fact.”

I walk out without looking back, the oppressive atmosphere of the estate clinging to me like grave dirt.

The ride back to the city feels like crossing into a different world. Away from the suffocating weight of the past, towards… what? Uncertainty. Conflict. But maybe, just maybe... something cleaner.

The needle has shifted. Exploiting the Hammond situation feels… distasteful now. Helping Lucy, genuinely helping her stabilize the company before finalizing any deal… that feels right. Necessary. Even if it means open war with my father.

Later that evening, back in the lonely quiet of my penthouse, I find myself pulling up files on Hammond & Co. Not the financials this time. Not the asset valuations.

The historical archives.

Old photos of buildings they constructed decades ago. Landmark projects. Architectural plans showing thoughtful design, quality materials.

A different era of development. A different definition of legacy.

Maybe Lucy’s right. Maybe there is a way to do business without sacrificing everything to the bottom line. Maybe rebuilding something is more satisfying than just acquiring and dismantling.

The thought is unsettling. Foreign. It goes against years of training, years of instinct. But it resonates.

When I sent her the flowers, I left amessage indicating I’d help her with no strings attached. And I meant it.

Project Nightingale. Definitely wasn’t a random name after all. I realize now it represents a flicker of something I didn’t even recognize in myself.

A desire to nurture something back to health, instead of just picking over the carcass.

Lucy Hammond is the key. Not just to the deal. But to figuring out what the fuck I actually want to build.

And if I’m being truly honest with myself, I’m not just talking about business...

16

Lucy

Project Nightingale.

More like “Project Nightmare Fuel.”

My office is ground zero for a Red Bull-fueled battle against financial Armageddon. I’m drowning in spreadsheets, legal clauses, and the faint, lingering scent of panic sweat.

Christopher Blackwell’s preliminary proposal sits on my screen, mocking me with its cool, calculated precision. It’s a lifeline, sure, but one tangled with enough strings to puppet the entire Hammond dynasty.

My mission, should I choose to accept it (and let’s be real, what choice do I have?), is twofold. First: Craft a counter-proposal. One that accepts the unavoidable infusion of Blackwell cash but claws back some semblance of control, protects Dad’s legacy (and his nominal CEO title), and prevents us from becoming just another soulless subsidiary stamped with the Blackwell brand. This involves intricate financial modeling that makes my art history brain weep, outlining synergies that sound plausible, andidentifying non-negotiables that don’t make me seem completely delusional.

Second, and arguably more terrifying: Damage control. Dad’s tearful confession about his ‘creative accounting’ and Morgan Weiss’s snake-like threats hang over me like twin guillotines. If Blackwell’s team dives deep for due diligence, and theywill,they’ll find the skeletons. I need to understand theexactextent of the rotbeforethey do. I need to find the questionable loans, the fudged numbers, the skeletons Dad buried, and figure out how to present them, mitigate them, or at least brace for the explosion when they’re inevitably discovered. It feels like trying to tidy up after a hurricane using only a dustpan and sheer willpower.

My desk is littered with crumpled draft pages, and it’s pushing ten pm. The building is deserted except for the security guard downstairs and me. The deadline isn’t justapresentation tomorrow, it’s the ongoing, crushing pressure to salvagesomethingbefore the wolves descend.

And the lead wolf? While he might be offering help, he’s still a wolf.

My eyes feel gritty. My brain feels like mush. I stare at a slide comparing potential restructuring scenarios, and the options blur into equally unpalatable shades of disaster. Maybe I should just replace all the charts with pictures of kittens?

Yes. Kittens are very persuasive.

Probably more persuasive than my current plan to negotiate with a billionaire while simultaneously hiding my father’s financial sins.