Chapter 25 Twenty-five
Lena’s POV
The conference room is a war zone, and I’m bleeding out. Crumpled Post-its litter the table like shrapnel, half-empty coffee cups sweat rings into the mahogany, and two laptops glare at each other like rival tanks. Sienna sits across from me, legs crossed so high her red soles flash like blood under the table, her birthday roses now perched in a crystal vase on the windowsill, each petal a smug little fuck you aimed straight at my chest. The scent of them, sweet, cloying, and expensive, crawls up my nose and claws at my throat, mixing with the stale bitterness of cold brew and the metallic taste of my own rage. We’ve been locked in this glass box for two hours straight, and the only thing we’ve managed to agree on is that we disagree to agree.
“Sustainability is boring. I said this already,” Sienna sighs, twirling her Montblanc pen like a baton, her voice dripping with that fake Valley-girl lilt she pulls out when she wants to sound above it all. “We need aspirational. Influencers in private jets, sipping our eco-cocktails, golden hour lighting, #LuxuryGuiltFree. That’s the vibe. That’s what sells, and that's what I have been saying.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard it hurts, trying to keep my voice from climbing into scream territory. “Private jets? Jets are the opposite of impact-free. That’s not branding; that’s hypocrisy with a filter.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m genuinely shocked they don’t fall out and roll across the table. “Authenticity is overrated, Lena. People want a lifestyle they’ll pay to fake. You need to stop being stubborn.”
“I will not give them a lie,” I shoot back, leaning forward, elbows slamming the table hard enough to rattle the roses. “There is no way I’m letting Sebastian sign off on a campaign that screams ‘we don’t care about the planet.’”
She smirks, checking her manicure—fresh, glossy, blood-red, each nail a tiny weapon. “Sebastian said, ‘Make it work, girls.’ He didn’t say, ‘Let Lena impose her tacky idea on you.’”
I slam my notebook shut with a thwack that makes the roses tremble, petals quivering like they’re scared. “He also didn’t say, ‘Let Sienna insist on making everything Gen-Z.’ We’re supposed to be a team, Sienna. Not you sabotaging the idea because it seems too millennial to you.”
She leans in, voice dropping to a sugary hiss, eyes glittering like broken glass. “You’re just mad because everything’s working in my favor. Wes begging to get me back—again—and Sebastian favoring me in meetings. Did you see how he looked at my mockup last week? That was interesting.”
“Favoring you?” I laugh, sharp and bitter, the sound ripping out of me like a scream I’ve been swallowing for weeks. “He gave us both until Wednesday. That’s not favoritism; that’s a deadline. And Wes? Please. He’s a liar with a trust fund. You can have him. Choke on him.”
Her smile turns venomous, slow and deliberate, like a snake uncoiling in the sun. “Oh, sweetie. You’re so naïve. You think this is about Wes? Cute. Once I get Sebastian wrapped around my finger—and I will—it’s over for you. I’ll make sure you stop breathing the same Lancaster Industries air as me. HR violation? Please. I’ll have you blacklisted from every agency in Manhattan. You’ll be lucky to get a gig writing copy for dentist flyers.”
I stand so fast my chair rolls back and crashes into the wall with a bang that rattles the glass. “Dream on, Sienna. You couldn’t wrap a gift, let alone a man like Sebastian. He sees through fake faster than you can say ‘filter.’ Keep pushing, and you’ll be the one out of a job, crying into your roses while I’m still here, winning.”
She stands too, roses trembling in their vase, balloons from her birthday still bobbing mockingly in the corner like they’re laughing at me, mocking my rage. “Watch me, Lena. Just watch.”
The door clicks shut behind her with a finality that echoes in my bones. I’m left alone with the scent of roses choking the air, my hands shaking so hard I have to grip the table, rage and fear twisting into a knot I can’t untangle, and a scream trapped in my throat.
Later that day, I’m back at my desk, drowning in revisions and resentment, when my phone buzzes—Avery on FaceTime, teal hair wild and windswept, the Hamptons sun turning her into a golden goddess behind her.
“Babe! Emergency hookup mission!” she squeals, clapping her hands like she’s about to reveal the cure for boredom. “So about Tessa… Your ice-queen nemesis who lives to make your life hell? I connected you to Diego from the club. The security guy is gorgeous, 48, divorced, loaded, and has total silver-fox energy. Owns three restaurants, speaks four languages, and—get this—dances. Like, actually dances. Perfect for your ‘distract Tessa with a hot older guy’ plan.”
She flips the camera with a dramatic flourish. A photo fills the screen: Diego in a tailored navy suit, salt-and-pepper hair swept back, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, eyes smoldering at the lens like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s leaning against a bar, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded, with a half-smile that says trouble in the best way.
I whistle low, long, and impressed. “Damn. Tessa might actually thaw. Like, a full-on meltdown.”
“Right?!” Avery cackles, flipping the camera back to her grinning face. “I told him all about her—‘cold, powerful, loves control, secretly a freak.’ He was into it. Said, and I quote, ‘I like a challenge.’ Text him. Set it up. Operation: Sugar Daddy for Tessa is a go. Code name: Thaw the Ice Queen.”
I save the contact—Diego M.—Club VIP—and stare at the photo again. He’s perfect. Rugged, refined, and dangerous in a suit. If anyone can crack Tessa’s armor, it’s him.
All that’s left is to speak to Diego and link him up with Tessa.