Chapter 4 FOUR

The Lancaster Industries tower seems to mock me the next morning, a monolith of glass. My stomach is a tight knot of nerves. I’m shown to a conference room where three other shortlisted candidates sit, and I do my best to hide my anxiety.

A woman walks in just then. She appears to be in her late forties or early fifties, dressed in a severe, impeccably tailored navy suit. Her hair is a sharp, silver-blonde bob, and her eyes, the color of flint, scan me with immediate disdain. I learn her name is Tessa Hale.

She moves through the room, her eyes scanning all four of us, and when Sebastian walks in for a brief moment, her entire demeanor softens. She touches his arm and says something that makes him nod. He doesn’t glance at me. He just gives her an instruction and leaves.

Then, her eyes find mine again. She drifts over, her perfume an expensive, icy wave.

“Lena, is it?” she says, her voice low and smooth as polished stone.

“Yes,” I say, my mind on alert.

A thin, condescending smile plays on her lips. “A word of advice, dear. Don’t get your hopes up. Sebastian is… off-limits. He has a particular taste, and it’s not for wide-eyed newcomers. He can be charming, but he’ll discard you the moment you become inconvenient. Remember, you’re one of four. Don’t mistake a callback for a coronation.”

What the fuck? Did Sebastian tell her something about me?

The venom in her voice is so precise, so unexpected, that it steals my breath.

Then, she turns and walks away before I can form a retort, leaving me feeling small and foolish.

Minutes later, we are at the conference room. One by one, the other candidates give their pitches. Then, it’s my turn. I stand, clicking to my first slide, my heart thudding. I’ve just begun explaining my core concept when the door opens.

Sebastian strides in, commanding the very air in the room. “My apologies for the delay. Please, continue.”

I try to pick up where I left off, my rhythm broken.

“Actually,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument as he takes his seat at the head of the table, his gaze fixed on me. “Start from the beginning. I’d like to hear the full presentation.”

What? Did he just say that I start again?

My flow is shattered. A hot flush creeps up my neck. I fumble with the clicker, my words becoming jumbled, my brilliant points now feeling stupid and ill-conceived. I can feel Tessa’s smug satisfaction from across the table.

“Miss Sawyer,” Tessa cuts in, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I’m not sure we have all the time in the world. Perhaps we should move on? Eloquence seems to be an issue.”

My cheeks burn. I’m drowning.

But Sebastian doesn’t look at her. His eyes are still on me, and for the first time, they aren’t cold. They are…patient.

“Miss Sawyer,” he says, his voice quieter, a low rumble that somehow cuts through my panic. “Be calm. Take a breath. Now, from the top. Tell us about your idea.”

Something in his tone is an anchor. I swallow, meet his gaze, and begin again. And this time, it flows. The words come back, my passion for the project reigniting. I speak clearly and confidently, building my case. I finish to a silent room, but the silence now feels attentive, not judgmental.

Sebastian gives a single, curt nod. “Thank you. That will be all. You may go.”

The dismissal is so cold, so abrupt after his moment of unexpected kindness, that it feels like a physical slap. Confused and deflated, I gather my things and hurry out, not daring to look back.

I need water. I need air. I find my way to a small breakout alcove near the restrooms, trying to steady my breathing. That’s when I hear them—two women, their voices a hushed, excited whisper around the corner.

“…completely has it out for the new girl, the one who just pitched. Tessa’s territorial; you know how she is about Mr. Lancaster.”

A giggle. “Like a hawk. But it’s pointless. Have you seen the photo on his desk? That’s the only person who truly has his heart.”

“His son? Oh, absolutely. It’s a pity that there is a rift between them, whatever it is, but it's so evident that he adores him. What’s his name again?

“Wesley. Wesley Adrian Lancaster. Such a handsome young man.”

My blood runs cold.

What?

“Wes,” the other woman says clearly.

The world tilts.

Wes? The same Wes?

I step out from the alcove, my face ashen. The two women startle, their gossipy smiles vanishing.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, my voice trembling. “Did you just say… Wes? Wes Adrian?”

The taller one recovers, eyeing me with suspicion. “Yes. Wesley Adrian Lancaster. Mr. Lancaster’s son. But…who are you?”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. The pieces click into place with devastating, horrifying clarity. The similar jawline. The same intense eyes.

A cold dread, deeper than any I’ve ever known, washes over me, pulling me under.

Sebastian Lancaster is Wes’s father. I made out and probably had sex with my ex-boyfriend’s father.

The email from Lancaster Industries arrives at 7:02 p.m., a stark, formal notification against the casual mess of my personal inbox. I’ve been hired. The words, “We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Strategist at Lancaster Industries,” should feel like a victory. Instead, they feel like a sentence.

My mind spirals.

Does Sebastian really not remember me? Or is he just pretending and trying to keep things professional?

If he’s doing this, I should also return the energy. Or better still, avoid him completely. Besides, what are the chances that I’ll even see him? He’s the CEO. He’s most likely not to be seen around.

I cling to the fragile hope that our paths will simply never cross.

On my first official day, I’m shown to a modest desk in a buzzing open-plan office, all glass and steel. I’ve barely had a chance to put my bag down when I feel a presence, cold and imposing. Tessa Hale stands over me, her sharp bob like a silver helmet, her eyes scanning my off-the-rack blazer with thinly veiled contempt.

“A word, Miss Sawyer,” she says, her voice a low purr that doesn’t match the ice in her gaze. She doesn’t wait for me to follow, leading me a few steps away into a relatively private alcove.

I wonder if this is another unsolicited piece of advice, and when she begins, I almost roll my eyes.

She crosses her arms. “Let’s be perfectly clear. Now that you’re here, I’ll reiterate. Sebastian is off-limits. Completely.” She leans in slightly, her expensive perfume a cloud of jasmine and frost. “If you even think for one moment that you can bat those youthful eyelashes and charm your way into his good graces, think again. I’ve seen a dozen like you come and go. You’re not special.”

Something suddenly snaps in me, and I find myself retorting, my voice trembling in barely contained rage. “I don’t even know you, and you certainly don’t know me. But if you’re so worried about me sleeping my way to the top, you can stop. I’m not interested. Besides, I’m anything but like you.”

The insult lands. Tessa’s eyes widen, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock followed by a fury so deep her face pales. For a horrifying second, I think she might actually slap me. She steps into my space, her body crowding mine, her breath a hiss. “You little—”

“Tessa.”

The voice cuts through the tension like a whip crack, and we both freeze as Sebastian stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but his presence is a shockwave that silences the very air around us.

His gaze flicks from Tessa’s livid face to my now flushed one as I feel my cheeks heat up.

“What,” he asks, each word measured and dangerously quiet, “is going on here?”

I feel a hot flush crawl from my chest and up my neck, and I press my lips in a firm line, my eyelids quivering.

Tessa opens her mouth to speak, but Sebastian’s attention is fixed on me.

“My office. Now, Miss Sawyer.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command. He turns on his heel, and I have no choice but to follow, my legs feeling like wooden stilts. I don’t dare look back at Tessa, but I can feel her triumphant glare.

Sebastian’s office is what I expected—a corner of the world, all dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an oppressive sense of power. He doesn’t sit. He stands behind his desk, his gaze hard on me.

“Sit,” he says. I perch on the edge of the plush leather chair, feeling small and exposed.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he begins, his voice cool and devoid of the surprising patience he’d shown during my pitch. “You were hired by a committee. I was not the sole deciding vote. So, do not for a second believe your employment here signifies any particular…favor from me.”

His words sting like the bite from a swarm of bees. Does he think I’m angling for his attention? That I’m desperate to be on his good side to get certain benefits? The absurdity of it is suffocating.

“I don’t think that,” I manage to say, my voice tight.

He ignores me, continuing his lecture. “You are the youngest employee in this division. I expect you to act with professionalism and accord every single person here the respect their experience warrants. That includes Tessa Hale. Do I make myself clear?”

This is too much. The injustice of it breaks through my fear. “With all due respect, Mr. Lancaster, she started it. She accused me of—”

“I don’t care.” His words are sharp, slicing off my defense. His dominance is absolute, sucking the air from the room. “Your role is to work, not to engage in petty squabbles. You are expected to learn and not to talk back. Do you understand, Miss Sawyer?”

My hands ball into fists in my lap, my nails digging half-moons into my palms. The urge to scream gnaws at me, but I suppress my anger. I need this job. I can’t afford his wrath.

I force my fists to unclench, laying my hands flat on my thighs. “Your instructions are well noted, sir.”

A flicker of something—satisfaction?—crosses his face. “Good.”

He turns to look out the window, a clear dismissal. “You will be under close watch during your probationary period. You may go.”

I stand, my legs shaky, and walk toward the door. Each step feels like a retreat, a surrender. My hand is on the cool brass doorknob when I stop. The anger, the frustration, and the sheer, galling unfairness of it all rise up again, a tidal wave I can’t control. I turn around.

He’s already watching me, one dark eyebrow arched in silent query. The question is right there, on the tip of my tongue, burning to be let loose. Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you acting like you don’t know me? And more importantly, why are you being so unnecessarily cruel to me?

I see the cold expectation in his eyes, the readiness for a confrontation he knows he will win.

My courage fails. The moment passes.

“Anything else, Miss Sawyer?” he asks, his tone implying that there had better not be.

I swallow the bitter pill of my pride. “No, Mr. Lancaster,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“Good. I’m glad you’re getting the memo now. Please, use the door.”