Page 6 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Her name echoes in the quiet hum of the car. An unexpected variable in a predictable equation. Hammond & Co. is circling the drain. A wounded animal ripe for the picking. My preliminary feelers confirmed it weeks ago. Richard Hammond’s mismanagement has run the legacy company ragged. Debt piled high. Assets undervalued. A classic case of sentimentality trumping sense. My father would gut it for parts and piss on the ashes. Standard Blackwell operating procedure.

But the daughter.

Lucy Hammond.

She wasn’t supposed to be part of the calculation. Not like this. I expected a desperate plea maybe. Lawyers sending stiff letters. Not… well, notthat. Not a chaotic, flustered entrance followed by a dry-humping by a malfunctioning cyberdog. One humping her leg behind the counter, which explained the strained expression I initially mistook for pure nerves, and the other attempting to violate my Savile Row trousers in front of half the goddamn expo.

What stands out even more than that, to me, is the fact she fucking stood up to me. After her friend’s ridiculous prank almost derailed everything. Most people would have fled in tears or hysterics. But not her. She managed to argue her cause while being utterly humiliated. There was steel under that mortification.

“A strategic arrangement.”

Yes, she refused to break.

And fuck me did she look good doing it. Even flustered and mortified, flushed pink, there was something… compelling about her. A curvy powerhouse in a blazer. Honey blonde hair catching the light. And that scent.

Bergamot and jasmine. Professional. Approachable.

Deceptive.

I shift in my seat, annoyed. Annoyed that I noticed. Annoyed that it registered beyond tactical assessment. Annoyed that the image of her trying to subtly kick away a humping robot while talking business is now permanently etched in my brain. Annoyed that I found it all… slightly amusing, despite the rip in my thousand-dollar trousers. I mean, come on, the sheer absurdity of being dry-humped by a metal dog while trying to project ruthless dominance? Of course it’s fucking hilarious.

But I digress. And I’m cutting myself too much slack.

Business is business.

Acquisitions are warfare.

And there’s simply no room for noticing the enemy’s fucking perfume.

“Mr Blackwell?” Victor’s voice is quiet. Respectful, but never intrusive. “Straight back to the office?”

Fuck. I only realize just now that I’ve been so distracted I haven’t even told my driver where to take me.

“Yes, Victor.”

He nods and adjusts the mirror slightly.

The rest of the ride passes in silence. My mind runs algorithms. Hammond & Co.’s assets versus liabilities. Market position. Potential synergies. Liquidation value versus restructuring potential. The usual cold calculus.

But her face keeps intruding. That stubborn set to her jaw. The slight tremble in her hand when she tucked her hair back before making her point. Vulnerability wrapped in defiance. A dangerous combination.

The car slides into the private underground garage beneath Blackwell Tower.Mybuilding. My empire built stone by stone and by sheer fucking will. A middle finger to my father and his archaic real estate dynasty.

Elijah Reeves, my head of security, is waiting by the private elevator. He nods once: a silent confirmation that the path is clear.

“EveningElijah.”

“Mr. Blackwell. Smooth exit from the event.”

“As smooth as a three ring circus can be.”

The elevator ascends silently and the doors open directly into my penthouse office. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering sprawl of Manhattan. Power laid out like a feast for the taking.

And Iwilltake it, mark me.

Tatiana Cole is already standing by my desk with a tablet in her hand. Her expression is perfectly neutral. She’s efficiency personified.

“The preliminary financials on Hammond & Co. updated as of closing bell,” she says, handing me the tablet. No preamble. No wasted words. Exactly why I hired her.