Chapter 30 Chapter 30
Lena's pov
The office is half-asleep when I finally look up from my screen.
The rest of the building has gone quiet hours ago—just the hum of the air system, the faint buzz of a distant printer, the soft tick of the clock that’s been mocking me since eight p.m.
My desk is buried in analytics reports, graphs, and the faint ghost of coffee rings. The glow of the city outside filters through the tall windows, silver against the glass.
I’m rechecking the numbers for the presentation—again—when the door opens behind me. No knock. No warning.
Sebastian.
The air seems to rearrange itself before I even turn. His reflection appears in the window—dark suit, loosened tie, that impossible composure. He walks in like he owns every inch of this floor. Which, technically, he does.
He doesn’t say a word. Just crosses to my desk, stopping close enough that his presence fills the space like gravity.
“Still here,” he says, his voice low, unreadable.
I don’t look up right away. “You said the projections had to be airtight. I’m making sure they are.”
He studies the charts on my screen. The faint scent of his cologne cuts through the dry paper and ink—clean, controlled, and devastating.
“You’re confident about this approach?” he asks finally. It’s not doubt; it’s provocation.
“I wouldn’t be presenting it otherwise.”
He leans a hand on the desk, close to mine. “Walk me through it.”
He doesn’t need to hear it—he could have read the summary in five seconds—but he wants me to explain. To make me talk while he listens like a challenge wrapped in quiet.
I keep my voice steady. “The data shows a trend of emotional-brand connection outperforming transactional engagement by sixteen percent. If we pivot the campaign’s story around experience instead of profit, we hit the demographic that’s been slipping through our fingers.”
His gaze doesn’t move from my face. “And the risk?”
“That we’ll be accused of sentiment over substance,” I say. “But it’s calculated risk. The numbers balance it out.”
He tilts his head slightly, and for a moment, I see it—the flicker of approval he’ll never say aloud. “Calculated risk,” he repeats, almost like he’s testing how it sounds coming from me.
I meet his eyes. “You don’t hire people to play it safe, remember?”
The corner of his mouth almost lifts. Almost. “Careful,” he murmurs. “Flattery sounds like defiance when you say it.”
“Maybe it is.”
The air thickens. The lights hum overhead. Somewhere deep in the building, the elevator dings, a faint echo that doesn’t reach this far.
He moves closer, reaching past me for a folder on the far edge of the desk. His chest brushes my shoulder—barely, but enough that my breath catches. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t move back.
For three long seconds, we’re breathing the same air, close enough to feel each other’s pulse.
Then his voice—quiet, deliberate.
“I heard you’ve been having lunch with various people in the company.”
My stomach tightens. “Various people?”
“Developers. Analysts. Nate.” His tone isn’t quite sharp, but it cuts anyway. “You might want to consider how that looks. This office isn’t a cafeteria for alliances.”
I turn in my chair, forcing him to meet my eyes. “I didn’t realize sharing a sandwich counted as forming alliances.”
“I’m saying be careful,” he says. “Not everyone deserves your time.”
I stand slowly, the chair sliding back just enough to make space between us. “And who exactly gets to decide that?”
His eyes flicker to my mouth, then back up. “People who know what happens when power is misread as access.”
“That sounds like control,” I say softly. “Not concern.”
He steps closer again. The light from the window frames the edge of his jaw, the tension in it. “I don’t control you, Lena.”
“Then stop talking like you do.”
The silence after that sentence hums like electricity.
He exhales once, slow. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Try me.”
Something dark and possessive flashes in his expression. His voice drops to a low, rough edge.
“I guard what belongs to me.”
My breath falters. The words hit harder than they should.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer—just watches me like he’s fighting a battle with himself. The distance between us is a lie. I can feel the heat from him, the pull that drags everything else out of focus.
For one impossible second, I think he’s going to kiss me. I feel it in the way his eyes drop to my lips, in the way his hand almost lifts.
Then his phone buzzes on the desk—sharp, breaking the spell.
He doesn’t look at it, doesn’t move right away. Then, slowly, he straightens, pulling the distance back between us like armor.
The silence is louder than words.
He adjusts his cufflinks, his voice measured again. “Don’t stay late tomorrow.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He turns toward the door, not facing me. “I don’t like wondering who walks you out.”
The door clicks shut behind him before I can find something sharp enough to say.
The sound leaves the room hollow.
I stare at the space he just left, my pulse still climbing, the air still charged. My chest feels too tight, my mind too loud.
Finally, I reach for my water glass. My hand trembles so hard it hits the rim of the desk before I can lift it.
I close my eyes, the shake in my fingers proof of the one thing I can’t hide anymore.
He affects me more than I want to admit.