Page 94 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“No, Mr. Blackwell. We’ll action these points immediately.” Sarah Chan, my Head of Strategy, sounds slightly uncertain.

She knows my usual rhythm.

And this isn’t it.

“Good. Report back by end of day.” I disconnect, rubbing my temples.

“Everything all right, Mr. Blackwell?” Tatiana’s is standing at my open office door. She’s holding a tablet, her expression carefully neutral.

But her eyes. Her eyes are sharp.

She misses nothing.

“I’m fine,” I snap. “Just a complex deal.”

“Of course.” She doesn’t push it. Just raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You seemed… distracted.”

“I’m handling it.”

“I’m sure you are. Is there anything concerning Ms. Hammond that I should be aware of, operationally speaking?” Subtle. Always subtle. But the question hangs there.

She knows. Or she suspects.

Fuck it. Denial is pointless with Tatiana.

“My relationship with Ms. Hammond,” I state, keeping my voice cold, devoid of emotion, “has become personal as well as professional.”

Tatiana’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker. Concern? Disapproval? “I see. Does this present a conflict of interest regarding Project Nightingale that requires mitigation?”

Conflict of interest. The corporate jargon sounds obscene applied to… this. To Lucy.

“My personal life does not interfere with my business judgment, Tatiana. Period. Project Nightingale proceeds as planned. The revised terms stand.”

“Understood.” She makes a note on her tablet. “Just ensuring all potential risk factors are logged.” Risk factor. Is that what Lucy is now? A risk factor on a spreadsheet? The thought leaves a bitter taste. “Your car is ready for the site visit at ten forty-five.”

She turns and leaves, her footsteps silent on the hardwood floor.

The Hudson Yards site visit is even worse. It’s a prime piece of real estate, a potential flagship development. High end condos, retail space, state of the art amenities. Exactly the kind of project Blackwell Innovations usually eats for breakfast.

But walking the site with the developers, listening to their pitch about maximizing square footage and minimizing green space… it feels… hollow. Soulless.

I find myself thinking about Hammond Tower. The history. The architectural details Lucy pointed out. Her passion for blending legacy with modernity. Her arguments for prioritizing community space, for sustainable design.

Arguments I initially dismissed as sentimental bullshit.

Now? This developer’s slick presentation, all chrome and glass and profit margins, feels… cheap. Unsustainable in a way that has nothing to do with environmental ratings.

“Impressive yield projections, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Blackwell?” the lead developer is saying.

“The numbers are adequate,” I reply distractedly. “But the visionlacks depth.”

I see the confusion on his face. Blackwell, questioning profit potential for ‘depth’?

Unheard of.

I cut the visit short, leaving the developers looking bewildered.

Back in the car, Victor drives silently, expertly navigating Midtown traffic while my security detail follows in their SUV.