Chapter 32 Chapter 32
Lena's POV
The office is too quiet when it’s this late.
The kind of quiet that hums inside your bones, where the air smells like stale coffee and blue light, and the only sound is the faint buzz of the vending machine across the hall.
The clock on the wall ticks past nine p.m.
I drag a hand over my face and glance at the monitor again, the rows of campaign data that look like static now. Sienna’s name sits beside mine on the project sheet, and it makes me want to throw my pen across the room. She’s long gone—probably already home, wrapped in silk sheets, dreaming about being brilliant. Meanwhile, I’m here trying to fix the mess we both presented.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. “You’re a genius, Lena,” I mutter under my breath. “Stay late, pick up everyone’s slack. Perfect employee material.”
No one answers. Not even the air conditioning.
If Avery were around, she’d have forced me out hours ago—dragged me to that little taco bar two blocks down, filled me with bad margaritas and worse advice until I laughed instead of fumed. But she’s too wrapped up in her new Latino boy toy to remember that her best friend is slowly losing her mind to a spreadsheet.
I can’t even blame her. If I could, I’d be out having fun too. Instead, I’m married to campaign analytics and corporate sabotage.
The cursor blinks at me like a taunt. I save the file, push back from my chair, and stretch. My spine pops. My reflection in the glass wall looks like a ghost—hair messy, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, the faint glow of the city painting me in blue.
Then my phone rings.
Not a text.
A call.
Tessa Hale’s name flashes on the screen.
My stomach dips. Tessa doesn’t call unless something’s on fire.
I swipe to answer. “Hey, Tessa—”
Her voice is brisk, all business. “You still have the licensed campaign documents Mr. Lancaster signed this morning?”
I blink at the pile of folders on my desk. “Yes?”
“They were meant to be delivered to his home study. Tonight. The board review is at dawn.”
“Dawn?” I nearly trip over my own chair. “Why am I finding out now?”
“Because,” she says dryly, “no one else reads the footer properly.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Of course. And naturally, I’m the only person still in the building.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Tessa—”
“Send me a text when you’ve dropped them off.” Click.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. My brain scrambles between irritation and disbelief. Tonight. His home study.
There’s no escaping this circus.
“Because you’re the only competent acrobat,” I mutter.
The address arrives a few seconds later, neatly formatted in an email with a subject line that reads simply: Lancaster Estate.
I look at it for a long moment, pulse ticking faster than it should.
It’s ridiculous—the way that single name changes everything. I’ve worked under his roof for weeks, seen him almost every day, traded words sharp enough to draw blood. But stepping into his home? That feels like crossing a line.
I shake it off, grab the folder, and sling my bag over my shoulder. “It’s a delivery, not an invitation,” I tell myself.
The elevator hums as it carries me down thirty-five floors. The lobby lights have dimmed to half-brightness, the night security guard nodding to me as I pass. Outside, New York is a blur of tail lights and reflections in rain-polished asphalt.
I catch a cab, clutching the folder like a shield.
The drive takes twenty minutes, maybe less, but it feels longer. The city bleeds into quieter streets, the noise thinning out until all that’s left is the soft hum of tires and the rhythmic swipe of wipers.
Somewhere between SoHo and the Palisades, the skyline disappears, replaced by long driveways and trees that look expensive. The kind of neighborhood where even the air feels filtered.
I scroll through my messages once—nothing from Avery. I think about texting her just to say where I’m going, but it feels absurd. “Hey, headed to my boss’s mansion with confidential documents. Don’t wait up.”
Yeah, no.
Instead, I focus on the folder in my lap, the heavy cream paper that still carries the faint scent of Sebastian’s cologne from this morning. I shouldn’t notice it. I shouldn’t feel it.
But I do.
There’s something about him that lingers, even when he isn’t there—the precision of his handwriting, the weight of his gaze when he’s silent, the echo of that voice that can both command a boardroom and ruin your composure in the same breath.
I shift in my seat, try to breathe past it. This isn’t that kind of errand.
When the cab finally turns into the drive, I forget to breathe altogether.
Iron gates rise ahead—tall, black, and quiet as judgment. A stone plaque reads Lancaster. The intercom glows softly, already expecting me.
I lower the window. “Um, hi. I’m here to deliver a file for Mr. Lancaster. From Tessa Hale.”
The voice that answers is clipped and polite. “Name?”
“Lena Sawyer.”
There’s a pause, a faint mechanical whir, and then—click.
The gates open like the mouth of something ancient.
The cab rolls forward.
The driveway curves through manicured gardens lit by discreet ground lamps. Waterfalls whisper behind sculpted hedges, and marble statues gleam pale under the floodlights. I’ve seen wealth before—Sebastian’s entire empire screams it—but this is something else.
This is quiet wealth. Old money confidence. Every line, every shadow choreographed.
The house—or rather, the mansion—comes into view around the bend. White stone and glass, sprawling terraces, warm light spilling from high windows.
I pay the driver, step out, and the night air hits me like cool silk.
Everything smells faintly of cedar and rain.
My heels click on the stone path as I walk toward the front entrance. Somewhere deep inside, music hums—low, instrumental, expensive.
I half-expect the door to be locked, to have to explain myself through another intercom, but it swings open before I can even lift my hand.
A man in a dark suit stands there, mid-fifties, posture flawless. Butler. Of course.
“Miss Sawyer?” His tone is cordial, professional.
“Yes. I’m here from Lancaster Industries. Ms. Hale said I should deliver these to Mr. Lancaster’s study.” I lift the folder like proof.
He inclines his head. “We were expecting you.”
That simple sentence makes something in my chest stutter. We.
“I—thank you,” I manage.
“Follow me, please.”
He steps aside
And just like that, I’m standing at the threshold of Sebastian Lancaster’s private world.
For a second, I don’t move. The light from inside spills across the polished stone, warm against the cool night. The air smells like oak and something darker, familiar—his cologne again, threaded through the space like a secret.
My pulse won’t slow down.
It’s just a house.
Just a delivery.
Just a door.
I step forward anyway.
The butler closes it behind me with a soft, final click that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of something I can’t yet name.