Chapter 26 Twenty-six
Sebastian’s POV
It’s Wednesday, 9:12 a.m., and the boardroom is a pressure cooker on the verge of detonation. The air is thick with anticipation, expensive cologne, and the low, predatory hum of whispered bets being placed under the table like side wagers in a high-stakes poker game. Everyone is waiting for the pitch by Lena and Sienna. I sit at the head of the polished mahogany table, hands steepled, the weight of every calculating gaze pressing against my skull like a vise grip. I know exactly what they’re thinking: This is the moment Lancaster’s golden boy either proves his genius or eats crow in front of the entire empire. Some are waiting for things to not go well, salivating at the chance to say my idea of forcing Lena and Sienna to work together is a disaster.
“Pairing a rookie with a diva?” Victor Hale had sneered in yesterday’s pre-meeting, swirling his scotch like it was blood, his voice dripping with that smug, old-money condescension that makes my teeth grind. “Recipe for chaos, Sebastian. You’re handing us a shitshow on a silver platter. Mark my words—this’ll blow up in your face, and we’ll all be cleaning up the mess.”
I’d stared him down, voice like ice cracking under pressure. “Chaos breeds brilliance, Victor. Or are you forgetting how we built this empire? From nothing but grit, guts, and a few sleepless nights in a garage?”
He’d backed off, lips curling into a smirk, but the seed was planted. Someone else—Margaret from legal, all sharp suits and sharper tongue—had suggested bringing in a senior marketing strategist to oversee them. “Let the girls report to him,” she’d said, tapping her pen like a gavel, her tone clipped and clinical. “He’ll check their work before it hits the board. Clean, controlled. No surprises. No embarrassment.”
I refused. Flat. “No.”
Margaret blinked, stunned, her pen freezing mid-tap. “Sebastian, it’s protocol—”
“Protocol stifles creativity,” I cut in, leaning forward, my voice low and lethal, every word deliberate. “Lena’s got fire. Raw, unfiltered, dangerous. I’m not putting her in a box where she’s just following orders and neglecting that spark. We hired her to think, not to parrot some middle manager’s playbook. You want safe? Hire a consultant. You want revolutionary? Let her breathe.”
Victor snorted, loud enough to turn heads, his glass clinking against the table. “And Sienna? Are you keeping her for her spark too? Or just because she bats her lashes and knows which fork to use at the gala? Because last I checked, her ‘ideas’ are more Instagram than income.”
I didn’t answer. Truth is, there are board members who don’t want Sienna dispensed with. They see her polish, her connections, and her shine. Some even think she might be better than Lena—more polished, more marketable, and safer. I see the politics swirling like sharks under the table, circling, waiting for blood.
The double doors swing open with a dramatic whoosh that sucks the air from the room. Lena and Sienna enter—two storm fronts colliding in human form. Lena’s in a sharp navy blazer, hair pulled into a low knot that screams control, eyes fierce but steady, like she’s walked through fire and come out sharper, stronger, and unbreakable. Sienna’s in emerald green, heels clicking like gunfire on marble, lips painted victory-red, a predator’s smile already in place, confidence radiating like heat. They take their places at the front, laptops syncing to the projector with a soft beep that feels like a starting gun in a duel.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
Lena starts, voice clear, confident, and electric, every syllable charged with purpose. “Indulge Without Impact” isn’t just a tagline—it’s a promise. Luxury that doesn’t cost the earth. We’re targeting the conscious affluent: 28–45, urban, high-disposable income, but guilt-ridden. They want excess without the carbon hangover. They want to feel good about feeling good.”
The slides flip—sleek visuals, data-driven, elegant. She’s brilliant. Passionate. Every word lands like a dart in the bullseye.
“Imagine this,” she continues, clicking to a mockup of a rooftop garden pop-up, all glass and greenery under a twilight sky. “Zero-waste events in Manhattan’s skyline. AR filters let users plant a tree with every purchase—real-time impact, tracked on blockchain. We’re not selling a product. We’re selling a future.”
Victor leans forward, skeptical. “Blockchain? AR? That’s tech-heavy. What’s the ROI on trees, exactly?”
Lena doesn’t flinch. “Engagement. Loyalty. Viral shareability. One tree planted equals one social post. That’s millions in earned media.”
Margaret nods slowly. “Clever. But execution?”
“Partnered with OneTreePlanted and local urban farms,” Lena fires back. “Scalable, traceable, real.”
The room shifts. Nods. Murmurs of approval. My chest swells—pride, fierce and hot, surging through me like a shot of adrenaline.
Then Sienna takes over, smile razor-sharp, voice like honey laced with venom. “But let’s make it sexy,” she purrs, clicking to her slides with a flourish that screams, “Look at me.” “Private jets at sunset, influencers in couture, sipping our zero-waste cocktails under golden hour lighting. #GuiltFreeGlam. It’s not about sacrifice—it’s about elevation. It’s about desire.”
The room stills. Then—murmurs. Victor smirks, leaning back like he’s won. “Now we’re talking. Aspirational sells. Jets scream luxury.”
Lena’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in her cheek, but she doesn’t flinch.
I lean forward, voice like gravel dragged over steel. “Sienna. That’s not what we discussed.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, tilting her head with that practiced innocence, lashes fluttering. “With respect, Mr. Lancaster, the board wants aspirational. Lena’s vision is… safe. Admirable, but safe. Mine moves product. It moves people. It makes them want.”
Margaret raises a brow. “Private jets? That’s greenwashing 101. We’ll be crucified on X.”
Sienna shrugs. “Perception is reality. We say zero-waste. They feel elite.”
Victor chuckles. “I like it. Bold.”
Lena’s eyes flash—betrayal, fury, steel. But she doesn’t crumble. She steps forward, voice like a blade slicing through silk. “Safe? No. Strategic. Private jets undermine the entire message. Here—” She clicks to a new slide, one Sienna clearly didn’t see coming, her face flickering with shock for half a second before the mask slams back. “Rooftop gardens in Manhattan, zero-waste pop-ups, AR filters letting users plant a tree with every purchase. Tangible impact. Real-time engagement. We’re not selling a fantasy—we’re selling a future.”
Victor scoffs. “Trees again? Cute. But will it sell?”
Lena meets his gaze, unflinching. “It already is. Pilot test in Soho—300% engagement uplift. Pre-orders tripled.”
Margaret leans in. “Numbers?”
“On slide twelve,” Lena says, clicking. Graphs spike upward.
The room stills. Then—applause. Margaret nods, impressed. Even Victor looks impressed, his smirk faltering.
I exhale slowly, pride and relief flooding my chest like whiskey after a long fight. The idea was superb. Everyone liked it.