Chapter 11 ELEVEN
Lena’s POV
The alcove feels too small, the air thick with fluorescent hum and the sharp tang of Sienna’s perfume—like overripe peaches mixed with venom. My heart hammers against my ribs, rage boiling over from Tessa’s announcement, from Sienna’s smug hip-cock, and from the whole twisted universe laughing at me. I whirl on her, my bad ankle protesting the sudden twist, but I don’t care. Pain is fuel right now.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me if you think for a moment that I’m going to work with the woman I caught shagging my ex-boyfriend. What the fuck? Are you stalking me? What the fuck are you even doing here?” The words explode out, sharp and raw, echoing off the concrete walls. A few heads poke out from the office floor behind us, but I’m past caring who hears.
Sienna’s perfectly arched brows knit into a frown, her red lips pursing like I’ve just insulted her designer bag. “I should ask you that instead. Why the hell are you here in Sebastian’s company? Let me guess. Since things didn’t work out with his son, Wes, you’re hoping you can get in Sebastian’s bed? Is that it?” Her voice drips with mock innocence, but her eyes gleam with that same malice from yesterday—prude, virgin, scraps.
“Shut the fuck up, Sienna!” I step closer, my finger jabbing the air between us. Heat floods my face, my voice shaking but loud. “The last I checked, I wasn’t the one who jumped in a man’s bed. You fucked my boyfriend. I should ask you the same thing because God knows the nasty things you might do since you could stoop so low as to have sex with another woman’s boyfriend.”
Her hand flies up, palm open, aiming for my cheek with a speed that catches me off guard. But I’m faster—fury makes me sharp. I grab her wrist mid-air, squeezing tight, my nails digging into her skin. “Don’t you even dare.”
“You’re hurting me,” Sienna shrieks, her voice pitching high and dramatic, like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. She tries to yank free, but I hold on, my grip iron.
“Well, that’s what you get for being a fucking bitch.” I release her with a shove, just enough to make her stumble back a step, her heel catching on the tile. She rubs her wrist, glaring daggers, her chest heaving under that too-tight dress.
“You’re crazy,” she spits, straightening up, tossing her hair like it’ll restore her dignity. “Completely unhinged. This is a workplace, not some trailer park brawl.”
“Look, I don’t care how you managed to get Sebastian to agree to this bullshit. It’s none of my business. All I know is that I’m not going to work with you. That’s not going to happen.” My voice is steel now, every word deliberate. I cross my arms, mirroring her stance, but mine’s a challenge, not a pose.
“Touché.” She smirks, recovering fast, her tone laced with condescension. “Well, you don’t set the rules. Sebastian does, and only he can kick me out of this project. But news flash, darling. Sebastian isn’t going to do that because I earned this.” She flips her hair again, inspecting her wrist like I’ve left a bruise. “My portfolio speaks for itself. Unlike some people who probably batted their eyelashes and cried about their ‘passion.’”
“We’ll see about that,” I snap, the words tasting like victory even as doubt gnaws at me.
Sebastian’s decision.
Why would he do this? Punishment for the club? For yesterday’s confrontation with Tessa? Or something worse—does he know about Sienna and Wes? The thought makes my stomach churn.
I spin on my good foot, ignoring the twinge in my ankle, and storm out of the alcove. The office blurs—cubicles, curious stares, and the hum of printers. Mia mouths “You okay?” from her desk, but I wave her off, beelining for the elevators.
For a long moment, I contemplate if I should go and find Sebastian in his office. The executive floor—glass walls, corner suite, the lion’s den. Risky. Stupid, even. He’s already lectured me once and dismissed me like a child. Storming in there could torch my probation, my job, and everything I’ve fought for. But the anger is a live wire, sparking, demanding release. Sienna’s smirk, Tessa’s clause, and the idea of daily torture next to that homewrecker—it’s too much.
Unable to hold it in any longer, I go, risking it all. The elevator ride up is torture, my reflection mocking me—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, a warrior in flats.
The top floor is hushed and opulent—polished wood panels and abstract art that probably cost more than my annual salary. Sebastian’s secretary sits at a massive desk, a middle-aged woman with a severe bun and glasses perched on her nose. She looks up as I approach, her expression shifting to gatekeeper mode.
“I’m afraid you can’t see the boss now,” she says, not even standing, her voice clipped like she’s swatting a fly.
“It’s very important. Tell him it’s Lena.” I lean on the desk, trying to keep my voice steady, but the desperation leaks through.
“Sebastian. Will. Not. See. Anybody,” she enunciates, each word a barrier, her fingers already reaching for the phone like she’s about to call security.
“Don’t make this difficult. Please.” My hands ball into fists at my sides, the plea turning sharp.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes widen behind the glasses, offense blooming on her face.
“What is the fussing all about?” Sebastian’s voice rings through, deep and irritated, cutting from the open door behind her. His assistant straightens like a soldier at attention, her cheeks flushing.
“The lady was being so difficult,” she stammers, standing now, smoothing her skirt. “I was just trying to tell her that she would not be able to see you.”
Sebastian steps into view, tall and imposing in a charcoal suit that hugs his broad shoulders, his silver-streaked hair catching the light. His eyes—those piercing blue ones—lock on me, then flick to her. “I don’t remember extending your job description to making orders for me when I haven’t asked you. The next time you do this, you’ll be relieved of your duties. Come in, Miss Sawyer.”
I can’t help it—a smirk tugs at my lips as I brush past the secretary, who’s apologizing profusely, her face red all over, stammering about protocols and schedules. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lancaster, it won’t happen again—”
He ignores her, holding the door open for me. I step inside, the office enveloping me in dark wood and power—the same as before, but heavier now, charged. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city sprawl, his desk a fortress of papers and screens. He closes the door with a soft click, the sound final.
“Why are you here?” He asks, fiddling with a file on his table, not looking up, his tone brisk, like I’m an interruption in his day.
“Mr. Lancaster, if this is your way of punishing me concerning what happened yesterday, I’m sorry.” The words tumble out, my voice tighter than I want, hands twisting in front of me.
“What are you talking about, Miss Sawyer?” He still doesn’t glance up, flipping a page with deliberate slowness.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, louder, stepping closer to the desk.
“What are you sorry about?” He says, finally glancing up at me, those eyes pinning me in place, unreadable but intense.