Chapter 76 Chapter seventy Six
Lena’s POV
Sleep refuses to come.
I lie on my side, then my back, then my side again, staring at the ceiling like it might eventually answer me. The room is quiet in that loud, unbearable way that only exists after midnight. Avery is asleep in her room. The city outside my window hums faintly. Everything looks normal.
Nothing feels normal.
My phone is on the bed beside me, face down, like it might burn me if I look at it too long. I can still hear the distorted voice from the burner phone, even though the call ended hours ago.
He didn’t tell you the whole story, did he?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
His voice overlays it in my head, cold and cruel from that day in his office. The way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes refused to soften. The way his hands curled into fists like he was holding himself back from something violent or desperate.
I turn onto my back again and let out a slow breath.
This isn’t about love gone wrong.
The thought comes fully formed, heavy and frightening.
This is about something else.
I reach for my phone.
For a few seconds, I just stare at the screen, my thumb hovering. I tell myself I’m being dramatic. That heartbreak does this to people. Makes patterns where there are none. Turns silence into conspiracy.
But then I remember the anonymous note on my desk.
The files missing from my computer.
The way Sebastian rushed toward me when I almost fell — pure instinct — and then stopped himself like he’d touched fire.
I sit up.
The room tilts slightly, my healing toe throbbing in reminder, but I ignore it. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and open my laptop on the nightstand instead. The glow fills the room, sharp and sterile.
If there is a truth he didn’t tell me, I will find it.
I type his name into the search bar.
Sebastian Lancaster.
The results are predictable at first.
Profiles. Awards. Interviews. Headlines that praise his brilliance, his ruthlessness, his ability to turn dying companies into profit machines. Articles calling him a visionary. A shark. A man you don’t cross.
I scroll past them.
I add more words.
Sebastian Lancaster acquisition.
More results flood in. Business journals. Archived press releases. Case studies taught in MBA programs. I skim quickly, my eyes jumping from headline to headline.
Then I narrow it.
Sebastian Lancaster acquisition collapsed company.
My chest tightens.
There it is.
An article from years ago, buried under newer successes. The headline isn’t dramatic. It’s dry. Professional.
Lancaster Group Completes Strategic Takeover of Hale & Moore Industries.
I click it.
The date jumps out at me first.
Years ago. Long before me. Long before my name ever meant anything to him.
I read slowly now.
Hale & Moore Industries. A long-standing firm. Mid-sized but influential. Family-rooted. Known for stability rather than explosive growth. The article describes the takeover as “aggressive but legal,” praising Lancaster Group’s timing and precision.
I scroll.
My stomach twists as the language shifts.
“Restructuring.”
“Downsizing.”
“Unavoidable losses.”
Hundreds of jobs gone within months. Assets sold. Offices closed. A company hollowed out and absorbed until nothing recognizable remains.
By the end of the article, Hale & Moore Industries no longer exists.
I lean back in my chair, the weight of it settling over me.
Sebastian didn’t just buy a company.
He dismantled it.
I open another tab. Then another.
I read analysis pieces this time. Business forums. Old interviews.
That’s when I see the name.
The former executive.
The man who ran Hale & Moore.
His name appears again and again in the early articles — quoted, photographed, respected. A powerful man in his own right.
Then, suddenly… nothing.
I search his name directly.
The results thin out dramatically.
A few mentions tied to the acquisition. An old charity board listing. Then silence. No recent interviews. No updated profiles. No current affiliations.
It’s like he fell off the earth.
My fingers curl into the fabric of my pajama pants.
People like that don’t just disappear.
Not without reason.
This wasn’t reckless ambition. It was calculated. Planned. Executed with precision.
And someone paid the price.
I scroll further, deeper, chasing threads that feel increasingly dangerous. Archived legal commentary. Financial breakdowns. Opinion pieces arguing whether the acquisition crossed ethical lines.
Then I see it.
A reference in passing. Almost a footnote.
“Several legal challenges were quietly settled out of court. Certain documents remain sealed.”
My breath catches.
I click every link I can find that mentions legal action. Most lead nowhere — dismissed cases, vague summaries, redacted details.
But one result stands out.
A court database entry.
The page takes a second to load.
My heart is beating fast now, loud in my ears. I tell myself I can stop. That I don’t need to keep digging. That whatever I find won’t change how much this already hurts.
But I don’t stop.
The case title is impersonal. Numbers instead of names. The parties involved partially hidden.
I scroll down.
Status: Sealed.
I stare at the screen.
Under “Notes,” there are two words that make my stomach drop
Coercion.
Leverage.
My hands go cold on the keyboard.
I'm
I don’t know exactly what they mean yet. I don’t know who used what against whom. I don’t know how deep it goes.
But I know this much, with terrifying clarity:
This isn’t about love gone wrong.
It’s about consequences.