Page 55 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Fucking fantastic. He couldn’t wait for the board meeting. Needs to apply pressure beforehand.

Father sweeps into my office moments later, radiating disapproval and smug calculation. “Christopher. Preparing for your little passion project presentation?”

I don’t bother to rise from my desk. “Project Nightingale offers significant long term value.” I say the words as if by rote, not sure if I even believe them myself anymore.

“Nightingale?” He scoffs. “Sounds sentimental. Like its primary negotiator.” He fixes me with a knowing stare. “You seem… distracted. Spending late nights at the Hammond offices, I hear?”

My jaw clenches. He knows. Or suspects strongly enough to use it as a weapon. “I conduct thorough due diligence.”

“Do you now?” A smirk plays on his lips. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Just be careful your ‘due diligence’ doesn’t compromise your judgment, son. Sentiment is poison in this business.” He straightens up. “I’ll see you at the board meeting. Expect… robust discussion.”

He leaves as abruptly as he arrived.

The Blackwell Innovationsboardroom is cold, imposing, designed for ruthless decision making. Steel chairs surround a glass table, and surrounding that are panoramic views reminding everyone just how high the stakes are. My board members are sharp, seasoned players. They respect results, not sentiment.

And sitting right there, where he hasn’t sat in over a year, is Mark Blackwell my father. Playing the ‘concerned founder.’ Bullshit. He’s here to gut Project Nightingale.

I present the revised proposal. Incorporating the terms Lucy and I hammered out. Partnership structure, capital infusion tied to performance milestones. The Hammond family retains the brand, Richard Hammond stays as nominal CEO, Lucy Hammond acts as direct liaison and operational lead. I lay out the financials, the strategic rationale, the turnaround potential. My voice is steady, my arguments logical. But my focus keeps snagging on the memory of tangled limbs on a leather sofa.

Get your head in the game, Blackwell.

As expected, my father leads the opposition. “A partnership? With a failing company run by a sentimental fool? Preposterous. Hammond & Co. is ripe for acquisition and liquidation. Strip the valuable assets, discard the rest. Maximum return, minimum risk. That’s the Blackwell way.” He looks directly at me. “This… Nightingale project… smells of emotion, not strategy. Perhaps Christopher’s personal involvement with Hammond management is clouding his judgment?”

The implication hangs there, thick and ugly. A few board members shift uncomfortably.

“My judgment is perfectly clear,” I state, meeting my father’s gaze, my voice ice. “Project Nightingale maximizes long term value by leveraging existing brand equity and restructuring for efficiency. A hostile takeover and liquidation destroys that potential value for short term gain, driven by,” I pause deliberately, “outdatedpersonal grievancesrather than sound financial strategy.”

The debate volleys back and forth. It’s tense. I counter every argument, stick to the data, refuse to get drawn into personal attacks. My father smirks the entire time, utterly confident he can sway the board back to his familiar, brutal tactics.

At one point, during a lull, he leans towards me and murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, “You think they don’t know? I knew you were fucking her the moment you started defending that sinking ship.”

Rage flashes, hot and quick, but I suppress it instantly.

Don’t show any reaction.

The vote is called. It’s close. Closer than it should be. But in the end, Project Nightingale passes. By a single, deciding vote. A narrow victory. It should feel triumphant.

But it feels… empty.

After the board members file out, my father remains. His eyes are chips of ice. “You won this round, Christopher. But don’t think for a second this is over. You chose the girl and her pathetic legacy over sound business. Over the Blackwell way. You’ll regret it.”

“My business decisions are myown,” I reply, gathering my papers, refusing to meet his furious gaze.

“Are they?” he sneers. “Or are they hers now?” He walks out.

Always has to get the last word.

I stand alone in the boardroom, the approved proposal feeling like lead in my hands. I won. I defended the strategy I believe in, the one that inexplicably involves saving Lucy Hammond’s company.

But the victory feels hollow, tainted by the methods I had to use, the lines I crossed, and the undeniable fact that my father’s taunts about Lucy hit far too close to home.

Yes. I fucked her. Yes. That was a mistake. I...

I retreat. Emotionally. Shut down the part of me that felt… something… in her office last night. Compartmentalize it, and focus on the objective, on executing the plan.

Morgan Weiss. Yes. That’s the next step.

Pure strategy. No emotion.