Chapter 9 NINE
Sebastian’s POV
The glass of Macallan sits untouched on my desk, the amber liquid catching the low light of the lamp like liquid fire. My office is quiet now, the building mostly empty, just the hum of the city far below and the occasional ping of an email I ignore. Sienna Rowe’s voice still lingers in my head, her words from earlier this evening replaying on a loop I can’t shut off. She’d knocked with that confident rap, sauntered in like she owned the place, her red dress clinging to every curve, lips painted to match. “Sebastian,” she’d purred, leaning over my desk just enough to give a view I didn’t ask for. “We need to talk about that junior strategist position.”
I raised a brow, leaning back in my chair, letting the silence stretch until she filled it. She always does. “I know I didn’t get it,” she’d said, not a hint of defeat in her tone. “Someone else beat me by, what, a point? Two? But come on, Sebastian. You know I’m good. Better than good. I’ve got ideas that could blow your current campaign out of the water. Give me a chance to prove myself.”
I’d studied her then, the way I study any opponent in a boardroom. Sienna Rowe is ambitious and sharp, with a portfolio that’s impressive on paper. She’s got that cutthroat edge, the kind that thrives in high-stakes environments.
And yeah, she’s trying to use Wes’s privilege—my son’s name, his loose connection to her through whatever fling they had—to wedge her foot in the door. I see it clear as day. She thinks dropping his name and batting those lashes will sway me. It doesn’t. But I can’t deny that she’s very good. Her pitch in the second round was slick and polished, with a ruthless creativity that could sell ice to a blizzard. Lena only beat her by a little mark—a hair’s breadth in the scoring, really. My committee was split, but Lena’s raw passion, that phoenix spark, tipped the scale.
Still, Sienna’s words gnaw at me. Let me prove myself. I swirl the scotch, watching the legs trail down the glass. An idea forms, unbidden but intriguing.
What if I let both of them work together?
Lena and Sienna are on the same project, under my watch. They’d be a kind of dynamite. A force. Lena’s fresh, heartfelt ideas clashing with Sienna’s calculated aggression—sparks would fly, but the results could be explosive in the best way. A campaign that blends heart and hustle, something Lancaster Industries hasn’t seen in years. It’s risky, sure. Sienna’s a shark, and Lena’s still finding her teeth. But risk is my currency. I built this empire on it.
I set the glass down, untouched. The thought of Lena in the mix does something to me—stirs that dark, hungry thing I’ve been shoving down since the club.
I stepped out earlier for a drive to clear my head when I spotted Lena limping. I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, but I couldn’t let her go home by herself with a limping leg. I can’t believe that she had a bad leg on her first day of work.
Clumsy. The ride didn’t do a lot to clear my nerves, which was why I came back to the office.
The clock ticks past nine. The office feels like a cage tonight, the walls closing in with spreadsheets and projections. I need out. I need to relax my nerves and shake off this tension coiling in my gut. I grab my coat, a long charcoal wool one, and head for the private elevator. My driver’s off tonight. I’ll take the Bentley myself. The club. Onyx. Neutral ground, no expectations, just dim lights and loud music to drown out the noise in my head.
The drive is quick, Manhattan’s streets alive with late-night energy. Valet takes the keys, and I stride into Onyx, the bass hitting me like a physical force. The place is packed—beautiful people in designer clothes, laughter and clinking glasses, the air thick with perfume and ambition. I head for the VIP section, my usual spot, where the bouncer nods and lifts the rope without a word. Bottle service appears—another Macallan, soda on the side. I settle into the leather booth, scanning the crowd with detached interest.
There’s no woman who entices me in the club. Not tonight. A blonde in a silver dress tries to catch my eye, her smile practiced, hips swaying as she dances nearby. She’s stunning, objectively—long legs, full lips, the kind of woman who’d be a perfect distraction in my sex room, wrists bound, begging for release. But nothing. No spark. A redhead at the bar laughs too loud, tossing her hair, her dress barely containing her. Another night, I’d have her in the back of the Bentley before last call. Tonight? Nothing. My body’s locked on one frequency, and it’s not theirs.
I sip the scotch, the burn grounding me. Maybe I should call it a night. Head home, hit the gym, and burn this off with weights and sweat. I’m about to give up and signal for the check when movement at the staff entrance catches my eye. A flash of chestnut hair, a familiar sway despite a slight limp. My glass freezes halfway to my lips.
Lena.
What is she doing here? Did she not sprain her ankle?