Chapter 17
Serena
The elevator ride to the thirtieth floor felt like ascending into the stratosphere. My reflection stared back at me from the polished steel doors—pale, composed, completely failing to hide the flush creeping up my throat.
Calm down, Serena. You've seen him naked. You've had his hands on your skin. This is just delivering coffee.
But my traitorous heart wasn't listening.
The conference room was at the end of a long hallway, behind double glass doors that revealed exactly what was happening inside: controlled chaos. A dozen people seated around a massive table, all of them hunched over laptops or scribbling notes. The tension was palpable even through the glass—no one was speaking above a murmur. Every voice sounded hesitant, careful, like they were defusing a bomb.
And at the head of the table, in a charcoal-gray suit that fit him like a weapon, sat Lance.
He didn't look up. His attention was fixed on the document in front of him, one hand braced against the table, the other holding a pen that tapped once, twice, three times against the paper—a rhythm so precise it had to be subconscious. His jaw was tight, his expression carved from ice.
God, he was terrifying.
Patricia knocked.
Lance's head lifted.
And the second his eyes met mine, the paper in his hand crumpled.
It was barely noticeable—just a slight crease at the corner where his fingers had tightened—but I saw it. Saw the way his entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.
Not so calm after all, are you, Mr. Lawson?
I bit back a smile.
His expression shifted so fast I almost missed it. Shock first. Then something darker—anger, maybe, or frustration. Then it smoothed into perfect neutrality. But underneath that, buried so deep I wasn't sure if I imagined it, was something else.
Satisfaction.
"Mr. Lawson," Patricia said brightly, stepping inside. "Your quarterly reports and your coffee."
She crossed the room with practiced efficiency, setting the folder on the table in front of him.
I followed.
And because I apparently had a death wish, I didn't set the coffee down next to the folder like a normal person. I walked right up to him and held it out, forcing him to take it from my hand.
His eyes flicked to mine. Just for a second.
"You joined the company," he said quietly. Not a question.
"I did." I kept my voice just as low. Professional. Innocent.
His fingers closed around the cup—and for the briefest moment, his thumb brushed against my palm.
The contact was electric. Deliberate.
He steadied the cup with the same control he applied to everything, but I felt the tension in his grip. The effort it took not to react.
"Thank you," he said. Ice-cold. Dismissive. "You can go."
Patricia was already halfway to the door.
I turned to follow her—
"Wait."
Lance's voice stopped me in my tracks.
I looked back.
His gaze was fixed on the coffee cup, his expression shifting from neutral to something dangerously close to displeasure.
"This is wrong." His tone was flat. Lethal.
Patricia froze. "I'm sorry?"
"I don't drink this blend." He set the cup down with exaggerated care, like it personally offended him. "I requested the Sumatra dark roast. Not the Colombian medium. Not the house blend. Sumatra. Black. 180 degrees."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
For a split second, confusion flickered through my mind. How could Patricia—someone who'd worked here long enough to survive Lance Lawson's standards—make such a basic mistake?
Then Patricia stepped forward, her expression shifting from professional neutrality to something that looked almost like concern. Almost. But there was a flicker in her eyes—satisfaction, maybe, or anticipation—that made my skin crawl.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lawson." She bowed slightly, hands clasped in front of her. "This is entirely my fault. Since Miss Vance is on her first day, I thought assigning her basic tasks would help her familiarize herself with our operations. I explicitly told her in the break room—Sumatra dark roast, black, 180 degrees. Perhaps in her nervousness, she misheard."
She turned to me, her smile apologetic but her eyes sharp as glass.
"Though it's her mistake, as her supervisor, I failed to provide adequate oversight. I take full responsibility."
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
She set me up.
No wonder she'd specifically asked me to deliver the coffee. I never made that damn thing. I didn't brew it, didn't pour it, didn't go anywhere near the break room. I was just the delivery person—Patricia had handed me that cup herself, already sealed, already wrong.
This was a trap. A perfect, calculated trap.
If I defended myself now, I'd look like I was deflecting blame. Arguing with my supervisor on my first day. Insubordinate. Difficult. The kind of employee who couldn't take responsibility for her mistakes.
But if I stayed silent—if I accepted this—I'd be admitting incompetence. Proving I couldn't handle even the simplest task.
Either way, I lost.
My mind raced through the options, each one worse than the last. Patricia stood there with her faux-apologetic expression, waiting for me to either grovel or fight back. The entire room was watching. Waiting.
I had maybe three seconds to decide.
Fine. If I'm going down, I'm going down with dignity.
I straightened my shoulders, forcing my face into an expression of mortified contrition, and bowed deeply.
"I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Lawson." My voice came out shaky, perfectly calibrated to sound like a terrified new hire. "I just started today and I—I must have confused the instructions. This is entirely my fault. I should have double-checked. I'm—I'm very sorry."
Patricia's smile widened ever so slightly.
Got me. She got me.
But then Lance did something I didn't expect.
He didn't look at me at all.