Page 9 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Christopher Blackwell. Age thirty-five. Built Blackwell Innovations from the ground up, challenging his own father’s old-money real estate empire. Tech acquisitions, strategic investments. Ruthless reputation. Sharp blue eyes that, I swear, saw straight through my carefully constructed ‘I’m totally fine’ facade at the expo yesterday. Or maybe he was just trying to figure out if I always traveled with attack-humping robots.

That pretty much sums up everything. Okay, maybe I left out one teeny tiny thing. You know, the part about how he’sannoyinglygood-looking in that severe, ‘I could ruin you but make it look effortless’ kind of way.

Stop it. Focus.

He’s the enemy.

The very attractive, very wealthy, potentially company-destroying enemy.

I pull up the PowerPoint presentation I stayed up until 3 AM perfecting, and begin another reread.

Hopefully the font choice doesn’t scream ‘competent heiress desperately trying not to drown.’

My phone buzzes.

Ava.

My lifeline.

Ava:Battle prep going okay? Need emergency chocolate delivery? Or maybe just a pep talk involving swear words?

I smile,tapping out a quick reply.

Lucy:Armed with caffeine and crippling anxiety. Send backup profanity if meeting goes south. How’s the art world treating its newest superstar?

Ava:Trying not to get paint on Gideon’s ridiculously white couch. He keeps threatening to laminate my studio. Go slay the dragon! Remember who you are.

Remember who I am.Right. Lucy Hammond.Daughter of a legacy, trying not to become a cautionary tale.

I force myself back to the screen. Blackwell’s previous acquisitions. He targets companies with potential but poor management. Strips inefficiencies, injects capital and tech, integrates them. Sometimes he preserves the brand, sometimes he… doesn’t. It’s calculated. Strategic. Not the blunt force trauma my father associates with the Blackwell name, thanks to Christopher’s charming dad, Mark. But still devastating if you’re on the receiving end.

My plan is simple. Or simple-ish. Convince him a partnership is more valuable than outright acquisition. Hammond & Co. has history, brand loyalty, prime real estate assets currently undervalued. We need modernization, capital injection, expertise. He gets access to our portfolio without the messy hostile takeover drama, preserves the legacy (and saves me from epic family shame), and we both make money.

Win-win!

Except for the part where I have to trust a guy nicknamed the ‘Silent Executioner’ in some circles.

I glance at the clock. 8:25 AM. Time to face the music at Hammond & Co. headquarters before heading into the belly of the beast. I pack up and head down to catch a taxi.

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old paper hits me as I walk into the Hammond & Co. offices. It’s quieter than it should be. The energy feels subdued. Like everyone’s holding their breath. Our building is classic New York elegance, the whole marble floors, mahogany paneling thing, but lately it feels less grand dame and more faded glory.

Needs a serious facelift, and not just the architectural kind.

“Morning, Lucy.” Carol, my father’s longtime assistant, gives me a strained smile from behind her desk. Her eyes hold a worry that mirrors my own.

“Morning, Carol. Is my father in yet?”

“Just arrived. Morgan Weiss is waiting for him.” She lowers her voice. “Seems agitated.”

Great. Morgan Weiss. Board member extraordinaire, and slimy opportunist. He’s been sniffing around the financials like a bloodhound for weeks, pushing for a quick sale to cut losses.His losses, mostly.

I straighten my shoulders, trying to project an aura of ‘everything is under control’ that I definitely don’t feel.

Channel the confidence. Fake it till you make it, or at least until you don’t throw up from anxiety.

I stride towards my father’s office suite. The door is slightly ajar. I hear Weiss’s unctuous voice.

“Richard, be realistic. The numbers are bad. They’re getting worse. This offer from Blackwell… it might be the only lifeline we get. A quick, clean exit.”