Chapter 7 SEVEN
Chapter Seven
Lena’s POV
The elevator dings as I step out into the underground garage, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. My feet ache inside these stupid new heels—cheap ones I bought to look professional, but they pinch like hell—and my head throbs from the whirlwind of my first official day at Lancaster Industries.
Exhausted doesn’t even cover it. I’m bone-tired and soul-weary, the kind of drained where even blinking feels like a chore. This was supposed to be my big break, my fresh start after Wes shattered everything. Nail the job, prove I’m more than the girl who dressed up in anime cosplay only to find her boyfriend balls-deep in another woman. But no. The day was nothing like I imagined.
It started okay—nervous but hopeful. I got to my desk early, organized my notes, and even smiled at a few coworkers who introduced themselves with polite handshakes and curious glances. “New blood,” one guy said, winking like it was a joke. I laughed it off, diving into the onboarding emails and the project briefs. Tessa hovered like a vulture, dropping passive-aggressive comments about “probationary periods” and “earning your keep,” but I ignored her, focusing on the high-stakes campaign Sebastian—Mr. Lancaster—had mentioned in the offer letter. Reporting indirectly to him through a team lead, but still, his name loomed over everything like a shadow.
Then the real chaos hit. Mid-morning meeting in one of the glass conference rooms, where the AC was cranked too high and everyone’s breath fogged the table. I was presenting my initial ideas—nervous, yeah, but passionate. The words flowed, and my slides clicked through seamlessly. People nodded; a few even jotted notes. Pride swelled in my chest. This is it, Lena. You’re killing it.
But then Tessa interrupted, nitpicking every detail, twisting my concepts into something “unrealistic” and “amateur.” The room shifted, eyes darting away from me. I defended myself, my voice steady at first, but she kept pushing, her smile sharp as a blade. By the end, I felt small again, like the wardrobe incident all over.
Lunch was a rushed salad at my desk, scrolling through ignored texts from Wes—more apologies, more pleas.
Baby, please talk to me. It was a mistake.
Delete. Block? Not yet. The afternoon blurred into endless emails, data dives, and a surprise fire drill that had us all trudging down twenty flights of stairs. My calves burned by the time we got back up. And through it all, Sebastian’s presence haunted the building. I caught glimpses—a tall figure striding past the glass walls, his voice booming from a distant office. No direct interaction, thank God, but the memory of his lecture this morning lingered like a bruise.
By five o’clock, the office thinned out, people murmuring goodbyes and weekend plans. I packed my bag slowly, lingering to avoid the rush-hour subway crush. One last check of my email—nothing urgent. Good. I can go home, soak in a bath, call Avery, and forget this day ever happened. Maybe plot my revenge on Wes a little more. The elevator ride down felt eternal, my reflection in the mirrored walls looking defeated: hair frizzing from the humidity, makeup smudged under my eyes.
The garage is dimly lit, echoes bouncing off concrete pillars as I limp toward the exit ramp that leads to the street. Wait—limp? Yeah. That’s the cherry on this shit sundae. Happened twenty minutes ago. I was hurrying to catch the printer before it jammed again—stupid thing eats paper like candy—and my heel caught on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Twist, sharp pain, and down I went, sprawled like an idiot in front of half the marketing team.
Laughter muffled behind, someone asking if I was okay. I waved it off, face burning, but the ankle throbbed immediately, swelling under my stocking. An ice pack from the first-aid kit, a coworker’s sympathetic pat on the back. “First-day curse,” she said. Sure. Whatever.
Now, every step shoots fire up my leg. I grit my teeth, leaning on the wall for support, hobbling toward the ramp. The city air wafts in from above—horns, exhaust, freedom. Just a few more yards. I can make it to the sidewalk, hail a cab, and collapse in the back seat. Home. Bed. Wine.
Headlights sweep across the garage, a sleek black town car purring to a stop beside me. Tinted windows, polished chrome. Fancy. Probably some exec working late. I keep limping, ignoring it, but the window hums down, and there he is. Sebastian. His ice-blue eyes lock on me from the driver’s seat—no chauffeur tonight?—his jaw set in that unreadable line.
“Get in,” he says, voice low and commanding, like it’s not a request.
I freeze, my bad ankle protesting as I shift weight. “What? No, I’m fine. I can walk.” The words tumble out automatically, protest bubbling up. The last thing I need is more time with him, more of that suffocating presence that makes my skin tingle and my stomach knot.
He doesn’t blink. “You’re limping. Badly. Get in the car, Miss Sawyer.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap, sharper than I intend. Pain makes me bold. Or stupid. “It’s just a sprain. I’ll take a cab.” I gesture vaguely toward the ramp, taking another hobbling step. Ouch. Fuck.
The car idles, the engine a soft growl. He sighs, a sound of exasperation that cuts through the garage. “Don’t be stubborn. It’s on my way. Or close enough.” His eyes flick to my ankle, then back to my face. There’s no warmth there, but something else—concern? No, that can’t be right. He’s the guy who chewed me out this morning.
I hesitate, heart pounding. Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off and limp away with my dignity intact. But the pain is intensifying, a hot pulse with every heartbeat, and the thought of navigating the subway stairs or standing on a crowded train makes me want to cry. Plus, it’s Sebastian. Saying no feels like defying gravity.
“Fine,” I mutter, yanking open the passenger door before I can change my mind. The interior smells like leather and his cologne—crisp, masculine, the same scent from the club that haunts my dreams. I slide in carefully, wincing as my ankle bumps the doorframe. He waits until I’m buckled, then pulls out smoothly, tires whispering over the concrete.
The silence is thick and awkward. I stare out the window, city lights blurring as we ascend the ramp and merge into traffic. My apartment’s in Jersey—well, a crappy walk-up in Hoboken, but close enough to the PATH train. How does he know? HR files, probably. Great.
“Thank you,” I say finally, forcing the words out. Manners, Lena. Even if he’s a jerk.
He grunts, eyes on the road. “What happened?”
“Tripped on a cable. Printer area. It’s nothing.” I shift, trying to elevate my foot on the dash, but think better of it. This is his car, not a beat-up Uber.
“Nothing looks like a sprain. You should’ve gone to medical.” His tone is clipped and boss-like.
“I iced it. I’m good.” Lie. It throbs worse now, sitting still.
We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, lights streaking overhead. I steal a glance at him—profile sharp, hands steady on the wheel. He’s in a different suit from this morning, darker, or maybe it’s the light. Silver temples catching the glow. He looks… tired? No, that’s wishful thinking. Men like him don’t get tired; they conquer.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, the question slipping out. “Driving me home. After… everything.”
He doesn’t answer right away. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Common decency. You’re my employee.”
Right. Employee. Not the girl he made out with in a VIP room. Not the one whose lips he devoured like he was starving. I swallow, heat creeping up my neck. The car feels smaller, the air charged.
We emerge from the tunnel, New Jersey’s skyline ahead. He navigates traffic effortlessly, like the roads bend to his will. My building looms soon—a squat brick thing with buzzing fluorescents and neighbors who blast music at 2 a.m. He pulls up to the curb, hazards blinking.
“Stay,” he says, killing the engine. Before I can protest, he’s out, circling to my side. Opens the door, offers a hand.
“I can manage,” I insist, but he ignores me, slipping an arm around my waist as I stand. His touch is firm and warm through my blouse, sending sparks up my spine. I lean on him more than I want, limping toward the entrance. The doorman—old Mr. Gutierrez—raises a brow but says nothing.
Elevator up to three. Silent again. His arm doesn’t move. I’m hyper-aware of his body heat, the way his fingers splay just above my hip. Dangerously close to territory we’ve danced around.
My door. I fumble the keys; he takes them and unlocks it. The apartment’s a mess—takeout containers, Avery’s glittery heels strewn about—but he doesn’t comment. Helps me to the couch, eases me down.
“First aid?” he asks.
“Bathroom cabinet.”
He disappears and returns with the kit, a bowl of warm water, and a towel. He kneels in front of me—Sebastian Lancaster, billionaire CEO, on his knees. Surreal. He rolls up my pant leg gently and unwraps the makeshift ice pack from work. The ankle’s swollen, with purple bruising blooming.
“This needs proper bandaging,” he mutters. His hands are skilled and efficient—clean the area, apply ointment, and wrap with a bandage. Firm but careful. I watch his face, concentrated, lips pressed thin.
The air thickens. He’s close, breath fanning my skin. Our eyes meet, and for a second, the club flashes—his mouth on mine, hands pinning me. Heat pools low in my belly. He leans in, just a fraction, and I think he’s going to kiss me. God, part of me wants it—rough, claiming, erasing the day’s bullshit.
But he doesn’t. He ties off the bandage and stands abruptly. “Take care of yourself,” he says, voice rough.
And that’s it.