Chapter 22 Twenty-two
Lena’s POV
The exam room door clicks shut behind Sebastian with a soft, expensive thud, and I’m left alone in the VIP waiting area, perched on a leather chair that smells faintly of money and probably costs more than my entire monthly rent. My pulse is a frantic drumline in my ears, still echoing from the sure that slipped out of my mouth like I’d completely lost control of my vocal cords. Sure. As in, sure, I’ll follow my boss—my ex’s dad—into his private medical check-up. What in the actual hell is wrong with me?
The nurse had raised a perfectly arched brow when I trailed him in, her clipboard pausing mid-flip like she was mentally drafting an HR report. Sebastian just said, “She’s with me,” voice smooth as aged whiskey, like it was the most normal thing in the world for the CEO of Lancaster Industries to bring a junior strategist into his annual physical. I’d mumbled something about “waiting outside” and sank into the chair, clutching my phone like a lifeline.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to sit for long. Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five—enough time to scroll X until my thumb cramped, delete three of Wes’s pathetic “please call me” and “I miss you” texts (each one more desperate than the last), and pretend I wasn’t replaying Sebastian’s voice in my head on a loop: “Want to come in with me?” Low, reckless, a question that shouldn’t have been asked and definitely shouldn’t have been answered with a breezy sure.
The doctor, a silver-haired guy named Harlan with a clipboard and zero patience for small talk, ran through the basics—blood pressure, heart rate, and a quick EKG that had Sebastian rolling up his sleeve to reveal a forearm corded with muscle and a faint, jagged scar I wanted to trace with my fingers like a map. I stared at a flu-shot poster like it was the Mona Lisa to avoid staring at him, but my peripheral vision betrayed me: the way his jaw clenched when the cuff tightened and the casual flex of his bicep as he answered questions in clipped, efficient sentences.
“Any chest pain?” Dr. Harlan asked.
“Only when my board tries to micromanage,” Sebastian deadpanned.
The doctor snorted. “Stress levels?”
“Manageable.”
“Liar,” I muttered under my breath, then froze. Sebastian’s eyes flicked to me, amused.
Now we’re outside, the autumn air sharp and biting, Manhattan’s chaos rushing back like a tidal wave—horns blaring, sirens wailing, a hot dog vendor shouting “Ketchup, mustard, sauerkraut!” at passersby. Sebastian’s driver holds the Bentley door open with practiced deference, but Sebastian waves him off with a flick of his wrist, falling into step beside me on the sidewalk. His coat’s unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to hint at rebellion, that charcoal wool hugging his frame like it was tailored by the gods themselves. My flats scuff the pavement, heart still sprinting like I’ve run a marathon.
“So,” he says, hands in his pockets, voice low and warm, like we’re old friends grabbing coffee, not boss and employee teetering on the edge of something dangerously undefined. “How’d you get so good with kids? That Spider-Man rescue back there was… Oscar-worthy. You’ve got a future in crisis negotiation.”
I hug my arms across my chest, the memory of Jamie’s sticky hug and gap-toothed grin warming me despite the chill slicing through my thin jacket. “I used to have a younger sister. Lily.” My throat tightens instantly, the name a bruise that never fully heals, no matter how many years pass. “She was six when I was sixteen. Leukemia. I was her mini-mom—bath time, homework, braiding her hair into lopsided pigtails she’d insist looked like Elsa’s. Learned kids early.” My voice wavers, and I hate it, hate the crack that betrays me.
Sebastian stops dead on the sidewalk, his polished shoes halting so abruptly I almost trip. His eyes soften, the CEO mask slipping to reveal something raw, unguarded, and almost vulnerable. “Lena, I’m so sorry. That’s… I can’t imagine losing someone like that. A sister. At sixteen.” His voice is quiet, heavy with genuine weight, not the polished, performative sympathy I’m used to from executives.
I wave it off, forcing a smile that feels like cracked glass. “It’s been a long time. Eight years. I’m okay.” Total lie. Some nights I still hear her laugh, see her tiny hand slipping into mine, and feel the ghost of her weight on my hip. “I also volunteer at an orphanage on weekends—St. Mary’s, in Brooklyn. Reading stories, finger-painting disasters, dodgeball chaos that ends with me covered in glitter. Those kids… they just need someone to see them, you know? It’s helped me understand them better. Heals me, too, in a weird way.”
He nods slowly, eyes never leaving mine, like he’s filing every syllable away in some secret vault labeled Lena Sawyer. “That’s… remarkable. Not many people give their time like that. Especially not in this city, where everyone’s too busy chasing the next deal.”
I shrug, cheeks warm under his gaze, the intensity of it making my skin prickle. “It’s not a big deal. Kids are easy—they’re honest. They don’t play games. Unlike adults.” Unlike… us?
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that does things to my stomach, things I have no business feeling. “Fair point. Brutally fair.”
Silence stretches between us, not awkward but electric, the kind that hums with unspoken questions and dangerous possibilities. We’re by the Bentley now, his driver pretending to check his phone with Oscar-worthy dedication, giving us space. Sebastian tilts his head, a glint in his ice-blue eyes that makes my breath hitch. “What are you doing today? Got plans? Hot date I should be jealous of?”
I kick a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Nothing much. Got some campaign revisions for Monday—Sienna’s probably turned my eco-tagline into a stripper ad by now, all neon and desperation. Why do you ask?”
He smirks, but it’s fleeting, something softer, almost tentative, flickering underneath. “Your roommate’s gone, right? Avery? You’ll be bored out of your skull at home. Empty apartment, takeout containers piling up, Netflix binges until your eyes bleed. Tragic way to spend a Saturday. Criminal, even.”
I laugh, despite the nervous flutter in my chest, at the way his teasing makes my skin tingle. “I’ll be fine. It’s temporary. She’s back next weekend, probably with a new tattoo, a hangover, and a story about seducing some Hamptons heir with her martini skills.”
He steps closer, cologne faint but lethal—cedar and something dark and expensive, wrapping around me like a caress. “I was hoping you’d come with me. Need to buy something—a gift. You’ve got… taste. Thought you could help me pick the best option. Save me from my own terrible instincts.”
My brain screams, "Gift?" for a woman? Jealousy flares, hot and irrational—some girlfriend, mistress, or worse, a secret wife I don’t know about? The thought twists like a knife, and I hate myself for it. I shove it down, heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “An item, huh? Mysterious. Sure. That won’t be a problem.”
“Get in,” he says, nodding to the car, a smile tugging at his lips—half challenge, half invitation.
I slide into the Bentley, leather cool against my jeans, the door shutting with a soft, final thunk. We pull away from the curb, and we head to wherever Sebastian’s taking me.