Chapter 23 Twenty-three
Lena’s POV
The weekend blurred past like a fever dream: Saturday’s jewelry-store detour with Sebastian and Sunday spent hunched over my laptop rewriting taglines while Avery FaceTimed from the Hamptons, drunk on margaritas and gossip about some “Latino security god” who finally noticed her. Now it’s Monday, and the fluorescent lights of Lancaster Industries hum overhead like a swarm of judgmental bees, drilling into my skull. My ankle’s finally pain-free, but my stomach’s knotted tighter than a sailor’s rope, twisting with every step toward the marketing floor. This time, I hope Sienna and I can actually make headway with the project—especially after the conversation I had with Sebastian over the weekend.
On our way to the jewelry store—yes, jewelry store, the kind with velvet trays, diamond chandeliers, and price tags that could buy a small island—he’d asked about the campaign. I’d been so distracted by the glittering cases, the way the sapphire pendant caught the light like a captured star, that I almost missed his question. The necklace he finally chose—a delicate white-gold chain, a teardrop sapphire, perfect for someone elegant, sophisticated, and loved—had made my chest ache in a way I didn’t want to name.
“So,” he’d said, voice casual as the Bentley purred through Midtown traffic, “how’s it going with Sienna? Tessa mentioned friction.”
I’d frozen, heart jackhammering against my ribs. Tessa already spoke to him? But his tone was curious, not accusatory, his eyes flicking to me briefly before returning to the road. “It’s… complicated,” I’d admitted, fingers twisting in my lap. “We clash on vision. She wants flashy, influencer-heavy, all surface. I want substance—eco-impact, authenticity. But we’ll figure it out.”
He’d nodded, slow and thoughtful. “The board wants a preview Wednesday. You and Sienna have until then to align. Make it work, Lena. I’m counting on you.”
The weight of “I’m counting on you” still sits on my chest like a boulder, heavy and unyielding. Monday and Tuesday—two days—to turn our catfight into a cohesive pitch that doesn’t make the board laugh us out of the room.
I stride into the marketing floor at 8:57 a.m., coffee in one hand (oat milk, extra shot, my lifeline), laptop tucked under my arm, determination crackling like static in my veins. Our meeting’s scheduled for 9:00 sharp in Conference Room C. I’d emailed Sienna last night—let’s start fresh, no drama, the board’s watching—and she’d replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Progress? Maybe.
The room’s empty when I get there. Just a half-eaten glazed donut on a napkin, crumbs scattered like confetti, and a sticky note in Sienna’s loopy scrawl: Back in 5 – S.
I check my watch. 9:03. Grunt. “Of course.”
I pace, heels clicking on the hardwood, revising my opening in my head. Sienna, let’s focus on the eco-angle—consumers want purpose, not just polish. I rehearse it, calm and professional. By 9:07, I’m texting her: Where are you? The meeting started. No reply.
I march to Sienna’s office—glass walls, minimalist chic, her nameplate gleaming like a taunt. Empty. Her chair’s spun out, purse gone, and a single red stiletto abandoned under the desk like Cinderella fled in a hurry. I flag down Mia, who’s juggling three iced lattes and a stack of mockups. “Seen Sienna?”
Mia balances the cups like a circus act. “Stepped out. She said she’d be quick. Something about a delivery at the lobby?”
“Delivery?” "I echo," voice sharp. “We have two days to save our asses, and she’s playing hooky for a package?”
Mia winces. “Maybe it’s important?”
I grunt, louder, frustration boiling over. Important? We’re on probation, the board’s breathing down our necks, and she’s vanishing? I resolve to hunt her down.
The elevator ride down is torture—dinging floors, my reflection in the mirrored walls looking like a woman on a warpath: ponytail tight, blouse crisp, eyes blazing. I burst through the lobby doors into the crisp morning air, scanning the plaza. Suits hustle past, a barista yells coffee orders, and the fountain sputters weakly.
And there she is.
Sienna, in a cherry-red coat that screams "look at me," arms wrapped around a massive bouquet of white roses, laughing that tinkling, fake laugh as Wes—Wes—leans in, hugging her tight. His blond hair catches the sunlight, that stupid charming grin plastered on his face, the one that used to make my knees weak and now makes my blood boil.
What?