Chapter 16 SIXTEEN
Lena’s POV
The spreadsheet on my screen is a battlefield of numbers—projected engagement rates, budget breakdowns, and influencer ROI projections that refuse to balance no matter how many times I tweak the formulas. My eyes burn from staring too long, the fluorescent office lights humming like a migraine in stereo. It’s barely 11 a.m., but I’ve already rewritten the same paragraph three times, Sienna’s voice from yesterday’s disaster looping in my head: “You’re not my boss.” Tessa’s hand slammed the desk. The flowers Wes left on my doorstep this morning—white lilies this time, pristine and mocking, the card reading Thinking of you every second. Please, Lena. I kicked them into the corner of the hallway, where Mrs. Delgado’s cat immediately peed on them. Small victories.
My phone buzzes on the desk, rattling against my coffee mug. Avery. I glance around—cubicles quiet, Mia at the printer, no Tessa in sight—and swipe answer, keeping my voice to a whisper. “Ave, I’m at work. What’s up? I’m drowning in—”
“Come outside,” she interrupts, breathless, like she’s been sprinting. “Right now. Lobby entrance. Hurry!”
I freeze, my pen clattering to the desk. “Outside? As in, the office building? Avery, what the actual hell—”
“Just come! You’ll thank me!” She hangs up, leaving dead air and my pulse racing.
Shocked is an understatement. My stomach flips like I’ve missed a step on the stairs. Avery at Lancaster Industries? During work hours? This is either a surprise intervention or a complete disaster. I grab my badge, stuff my phone in my pocket, and hobble toward the elevators—ankle still tender, but the flats help. The ride down feels eternal, the mirrored walls reflecting a version of me that looks like she’s about to face a firing squad: ponytail frizzing at the edges, blouse slightly wrinkled from hunching over my desk, and dark circles under my eyes that no concealer can hide.
The lobby hits like a sensory overload—marble floors echoing with heels, the chatter of execs on calls, and the scent of expensive cologne and desperation. I spot her immediately: Avery, leaning against a massive pillar near the revolving doors, her hair a wild explosion of teal streaked with purple glitter that catches the light like a disco ball. She’s in ripped black jeans, a cropped leather jacket over a band tee, and combat boots that scream, “I don’t belong in corporate America.” A paper takeout bag dangles from her wrist, and she’s grinning like she’s just pulled off the heist of the century.
“Avery!” I hiss, limping over as fast as I can without drawing too much attention. A security guard near the desk glances up, eyebrow raised. “What are you doing at my place of work? What if someone sees you? This is work hours! I could get written up for—”
She cuts me off with a dramatic eye roll, pulling me into a quick hug that smells like vanilla body spray, bar smoke, and the faint tang of hair dye. “Chill, babe. There’s nothing wrong with surprising my bestie. You’ve been a ghost since you started this soul-sucking job. Texts at 2 a.m., voicemails about evil coworkers—thought you needed a real lunch, not that sad desk salad you’re probably choking down.”
I pull back, still wary, scanning the lobby like a paranoid spy. A group of suits brushes past, one giving Avery’s boots a double-take. “This is suspicious, Ave. You don’t just show up at Lancaster Industries unannounced. Spill. What’s the catch?”
She holds up the takeout bag, shaking it enticingly. “No catch—well, maybe a tiny one. I’m in a generous mood today, and I got lunch for you. Your ultimate fave: spicy ramen from Golden Dragon in Chinatown. Extra chili oil, no mushrooms, double pork, just how you like it when you’re stress-eating.”
My mouth waters despite the panic, the spicy scent already wafting from the bag. My stomach growls loud enough to earn a smirk from Avery. “It’s so thoughtful of you,” I admit, warmth cutting through the suspicion. Avery’s chaos, but she’s my chaos—the one who held my hair when I puked after finding Wes with Sienna, who dragged me to Onyx and forced me to dance until I forgot his name for five minutes. “Okay, fine. But we’re not eating here. Lounge area—less chance of Tessa spotting us.”
I lead her through the lobby, badge-swiping us into the employee lounge—a sleek, modern space with plush leather couches, a wall of vending machines, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the plaza fountain. It’s mercifully empty this time of day, just the low hum of a fridge and the distant clatter of the city outside. I pick a corner table, far from the door, and Avery plops the bag down like she’s unveiling a treasure. She unpacks with flair: two steaming containers of ramen, plastic chopsticks, even a side of gyoza, and those little paper cups of chili crisp.
“Dig in,” she says, sliding a container my way. “You look like you haven’t eaten since the Clinton administration.”
We tear into the food, the spicy broth hitting my tongue like a warm hug. I slurp noisily, the heat clearing my sinuses and some of the fog in my brain. Avery’s already halfway through her bowl, sauce on her chin, grinning like a kid. “So,” she says between bites, “how’s the leg? Still hobbling like a pirate with a peg?”
“Better,” I say, twirling noodles around my chopsticks. “Swelling’s down. Everything’s good.” Total lie. Sienna’s a daily knife twist, Tessa’s got me on a watchlist, Wes’s flowers are a public embarrassment, and Sebastian… don’t even go there. But Avery doesn’t need the full implosion.
She gives me the look—one brow arched, green eyes narrowing like she’s reading my soul. “Bullshit. You’ve got that ‘I’m one email away from a breakdown’ face. Spill, Sawyer.”
I sigh, setting my chopsticks down. “Fine. Work’s a warzone. Sienna’s my new project partner—yeah, that Sienna. Tessa’s out for blood after I mouthed off. Wes won’t stop with the flowers. And Sebastian…” I trail off, the memory of his hands bandaging my ankle flashing uninvited.
Avery’s eyes widen, chopsticks frozen mid-air. “Wait, hold up. Sienna? The penthouse moaner? And you’re working with her? Oh, honey, that’s a reality show waiting to happen.”
“Don’t remind me,” I groan, rubbing my temples. “It’s Sebastian’s idea of ‘dynamite.’ I’m on probation, Ave. One wrong move, and I’m out.”
She winces, then brightens, leaning in. “Okay, enough doom. I’ve got news. I’m going away for a week—private bartending gig in the Hamptons. Some tech billionaire’s birthday bash. Tips are insane, and I might meet a celebrity. Starts tomorrow.”
I nod, not surprised. “Thought as much. Knew you wouldn’t just show up at my office if you didn’t want something.”
Avery gasps, clutching her heart in mock offense. “Rude! The news is just one of the reasons. I really wanted to give you lunch, you ungrateful gremlin. Can’t a girl do something nice?”
“Of course,” I say in a mocking, playful tone, nudging her foot under the table. “Classic Avery—lunch with a side of ulterior motive.”
She laughs, loud and unapologetic, drawing a glance from a janitor wiping down a vending machine. “Guilty. But seriously, are you going to be okay on your own? No me to drag you to Onyx or stop you from drunk-texting Wes at 3 a.m.?”
I smirk, but it’s half-hearted. “Have you forgotten I’m a lot tougher than I look? I survived catching Wes with Sienna, Tessa’s death glare, and Sebastian’s… whatever that was. A week’s nothing.”
Avery studies me, her grin softening. “That’s my girl. But for real—call if you need. I’ll have signal… mostly.”
An idea sparks, Mia’s ridiculous suggestion from yesterday bubbling up like a bad penny. I lean in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “By the way, I need a favor. Link me up with a very hot man who’s quite loaded with money. Someone close to his fifties or early fifties.”
Avery squints, suspicion etched in every line of her face. “You want a sugar daddy? Why?” Her voice shoots up, high-pitched and echoing off the lounge walls like a siren.
I lunge across the table, slapping my hand over her mouth, eyes darting around in panic. “Shh! Avery, shut up!” Too late. The word "sugar daddy" hangs in the air like a neon sign. Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate, unmistakably male.
“Miss Sawyer?”
The voice is low and familiar and sends ice through my veins. Blood drains from my body. I turn slowly, hand still half-raised. Sebastian. Fucking hell. I’m so screwed.