Page 95 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

I stare out the window, brooding. This deviation from the norm, this questioning of the relentless acquisition model… it’s her influence.

And it’s dangerous.

My phone buzzes. Building security. “Mr. Blackwell. Your father and Mr. Weiss are here. They insist on seeing you.”

Just fucking perfect. The architect of my misery and his pet snake.

I gave explicit orders. No paternal visits today. Tatiana wouldn’t fuck that up.

Which means the old man railroaded security, probably threatened their jobs or charmed his way through until they buzzed me directly anyway.

Predictable fucking power play.

I glance at my watch. It’s just after one. I’m due back at the office anyway. “I’m five minutes out. Let them wait in the lobby. When I arrive, let them through.”

I disconnect before security can reply. Let them cool their heels. Let them know who’s in charge now.

I forgo my usual private entrance in the underground parking garage, and, ignoring the curious glances, stride directly into the lobby of Blackwell Tower with my security entourage.

My father and Weiss are standing near the elevator bank. Weiss looks nervous, shifting hisweight. My father looks impatient, radiating that familiar aura of barely contained fury and entitlement.

“Cutting it close, Christopher,” he snaps as I approach.

“My schedule is my own, Father,” I reply coldly. “Shall we?” I gesture towards the elevator bank, then glance at my security detail. “That will be all, Elijah.”

He nods, and takes up a position in the lobby with Maya.

The ride up is silent, suffocating. Weiss avoids my gaze. My father stares straight ahead, jaw tight.

We walk past Tatiana’s desk. She offers us a weak smile before wisely returning her attention to her tablet.

In my office, I don’t offer them seats. I remain standing behind my desk, a barrier of polished steel and glass between us. “This is unexpected. And unwelcome. State your business.”

“We have information,” my father says, his voice clipped. “Information pertinent to Project Nightingale. Information that changes everything.”

Weiss steps forward nervously, placing a thin file on my desk. “Mr. Blackwell, we’ve uncovered… irregularities. In Hammond & Co.’s historical financials. Beyond the questionable loans and creative accounting Richard Hammond has already admitted to.”

I don’t touch the file. “Irregularities?”

“Fraud might be a more accurate term,” my father interjects, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “It seems dear Richard was far more creative than anyone knew. Morgan?”

Weiss clears his throat. “We found evidence of a network of off-balance-sheet Special PurposeEntities. SPEs. Set up years ago. Used to hide significant debt, inflate asset values, secure funding under false pretenses.” He pushes the file slightly closer. “Documentation is thorough. Bank records, incorporation papers, internal memos signed by Richard himself. It’s damning, Christopher. Proof of deliberate, systematic misrepresentation to lenders and investors.”

SPEs. Fuck. That’s not just creative accounting. That’s serious. Potentially criminal. This goes way beyond the messy financials Richard told Lucy about.

This is the kind of shit that destroys reputations, triggers investigations, forces bankruptcies.

This is the silver bullet.

“And you propose?” I ask, keeping my face impassive, though my mind is racing.

“We use it,” my father says, his voice low and vicious. “We leak this to the right people. The lenders. The regulators. The press. Hammond & Co. collapses under the scandal. We swoop in, pick up the pieces for pennies on the dollar. Richard Hammond is ruined, publicly disgraced. Exactly as he deserves.” His smile is pure venom.

This isn’t business.

This is revenge, decades in the making.

He expects me to jump at the chance. The old Christopher would have. Ruthless efficiency. Maximum leverage. Eliminate the competition.