Chapter 24 Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-four
Lena’s POV
The plaza air slaps me like ice water, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in my chest, a white-hot rage that claws up my throat and chokes me. Sienna’s laugh floats over the fountain—high, tinkling, fake as hell—as Wes’s arms stay wrapped around her waist, the white roses crushed between them like some cheesy romantic movie poster. My stomach flips violently, bile rising so fast I have to swallow it down, the taste sour and bitter. Did Wes not say they were done? His exact words in the park, all teary-eyed and desperate, voice cracking like he meant it: “I’m no longer with Sienna. It’s you I love. Always you.” Lies. Every single syllable.
I clench my fists so hard my nails dig crescents into my palms, the sting grounding me, keeping me from screaming right there in front of the entire lobby. "He means nothing," I chant on repeat, the words looping like a broken record, but they taste like ash and broken glass. It still hurts—sharp, stupid, humiliating. Why the fuck did he have to lie? There was zero reason. I could’ve handled the truth, could’ve moved on clean, and could’ve closed that chapter without this fresh stab wound. But no—he wanted to play the victim, begging for forgiveness on his knees in Central Park, while sneaking around with her behind my back, probably laughing about it.
I spin on my heel before they spot me, flats slapping the marble like gunshots as I storm back inside. No confrontation. Not here. Not now. I’m not giving them the satisfaction of a public meltdown, not feeding Sienna’s ego or Wes’s hero complex. My heart hammers so loud I swear the security guard hears it.
The elevator ride up is a blur of rage and recycled air, the mirrored walls mocking me: cheeks flushed crimson, eyes wild and glassy, ponytail fraying like my sanity. Get it together, Sawyer. You’re better than this. I jab the button for the marketing floor repeatedly, as if it’ll make the doors close faster.
I burst into Sienna’s office—still empty—and slam the door hard enough to rattle the glass walls. The sound echoes like a thunderclap, vibrating through my bones. My reflection stares back from her spotless desk: a furious stranger with trembling lips and heaving chest. I pace, heels stabbing the carpet, trying to breathe through the betrayal, the humiliation, and the stupidity of ever believing Wes.
Whispers leak through the cubicles outside, a hive of gossip buzzing like flies on rotting fruit.
“Did you see her Insta story? Birthday filter, champagne emoji, that huge Tiffany bag—”
“Girl’s 28 and living her best life. Flowers, balloons, that designer coat—”
“Rumor is she’s with Wes Lancaster. Like, the Wes. Sebastian’s son.”
“Shut up. For real? I thought he was with that brunette intern last month.”
“Deadass. Saw them hugging downstairs. Goals, right? Power couple vibes.”
“Bet Sebastian’s pissed. Nepotism much? Daddy’s money and all.”
I freeze, blood pounding in my ears, the whispers slicing deeper than any knife. Birthday. Of course. That’s why the roses, the gifts, and the absence. The pieces click like a cruel puzzle, each one another twist in my gut.
The door swings open with a dramatic whoosh. Sienna breezes in, cherry-red coat draped over one arm like a cape, roses in the other, a helium balloon bouquet bobbing behind her—pink, gold, obnoxious, spelling out HAPPY 28 in glittery letters. The floor erupts in a chorus, voices overlapping in a sugar-sweet avalanche.
“Happy birthday, Sienna!”
“Queen of 28! Slay!”
“Look at you, glowing! Who’s the mystery man?”
“Those roses? Dead. Jealous!”
“Girl, that Tiffany bag? Spill!”
“Wes Lancaster? Shut up!”
She beams, twirling like it’s a runway, balloons trailing, coat flaring. “Thank you, thank you! You guys are the best! Wes totally surprised me—can you believe it? Breakfast at Le Bernardin, then this!” She lifts the roses, inhaling dramatically. “He’s so sweet.”
I stand, arms crossed so tight my knuckles go white, voice like steel dragged over gravel. “What the fuck is going on with you? Do you realize we’re supposed to be in a meeting right now? Conference Room C. 9:00 a.m. Ring any bells?”
Sienna’s smile falters for half a second, then snaps back—sharper, venomous, eyes glinting like daggers. “Oh, chill, Lena. It’s my birthday. Can’t a girl breathe without you breathing down her neck like some uptight hall monitor?”
“Breathing’s fine,” I snap, stepping closer, heat radiating off me like a furnace. “Ditching work to cuddle with your ex in the plaza? Not fine. We have two days to save this project, and you’re out there playing Instagram princess while I’m stuck carrying the weight!”
Her eyes narrow to slits, roses lowering like a shield, balloons bobbing mockingly. “It was five minutes. Wes surprised me with breakfast and flowers. Big deal. You act like I murdered someone.”
“Big deal?” I laugh, the sound ripping out raw and jagged, echoing off the glass. “You’re on probation, Sienna. We bothare. The board wants our pitch Wednesday. You think Sebastian’s gonna care it’s your birthday when we bomb because you were too busy flirting and posting selfies?”
She steps into my space, perfume choking—something floral and expensive, cloying. “I’ll get it done. Relax. God, you’re such a buzzkill. Always have been.”
“No,” I hiss, voice rising, trembling with fury, the words spilling like lava. “You don’t get to ‘relax.’ You don’t get to flake, flirt, and fuck around while I carry this entire campaign on my back. One more screw-up—one—and I’m reporting you to Sebastian. Personally. I’ll walk into his office and lay out every missed deadline, every tantrum, every lie. Try me.”
The office goes dead quiet, a vacuum of held breath, the gossip dying mid-sentence. Sienna’s smile vanishes, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line, her eyes flashing with something dangerous—fear, maybe, or pure spite.