Chapter 16

Serena's POV

It's already past ten at night when I finally look up from my desk. Stacks of paperwork surround me, and my head throbs from hours of concentration. Working late feels like an old habit-back when I was stuck in the Whitmore offices, I'd sometimes stay till midnight, desperately trying to meet insane deadlines. Now, I'm here at StarRiver Group, fighting to protect everything my mom left me. Love? It seems not on my agenda anymore.

I lean against the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the skyline shimmer in the dark. A fleeting thought of Lucas crosses my mind-his deep gaze, that calm but intense presence, those broad shoulders. I force the image away. He might be warm under that icy exterior, but I'm not about to let hope mess with my head again.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of it. It's almost 10:30. I dial Ethan Brooks, my driver. "I'm heading out," I say simply. He confirms he'll be at the entrance in five minutes.

Outside, Ethan opens the car door for me, and we drive through the quiet streets until we reach my apartment. As soon as I get out, I spot a delivery man standing by the door.

"Serena Sinclair?" he asks, holding a paper bag. "Your order from Le Bernardin."

I blink in confusion. "I didn't order anything."

He points at the receipt. I see a scrawled note: "From Milo & Stella." Immediately, I realize who's really behind it. Lucas. My chest tightens in an odd mix of gratitude and annoyance. Typical Lucas-quietly meddling.

Inside, I sit at my dining table, opening the fancy takeout box. It smells heavenly. I let out a tired sigh and dig in. Part of me wants to text Lucas, but in the end, I don't. I'm afraid of putting in all that effort, only to gain nothing and end up getting hurt myself.

The next few days pass in a blur. On my fourth day in charge of StarRiver Group, most department heads are still dragging their feet. I expected that. Henry Lockwood feeds me all sorts of insider info, enough to expose their games if I need to.

Around noon, my office phone rings. I see Beatrice Sinclair's number flashing on the screen and feel my stomach tighten. I pause for a heartbeat, then pick up the receiver.

Before I can utter a greeting, her voice blasts through the line-sharp, cold, and vibrating with anger. "You ungrateful brat," she spits. "I should've known you'd turn out exactly like your mother-no loyalty, no respect for those who gave you everything."

The venom in her words jolts me, and I clench the phone tightly. "Don't speak about my mother that way," I manage, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse thunders in my ears.

Beatrice's laugh is brittle and mocking. "You dare talk back? After all the Sinclair name has done for you, you still show nothing but disrespect. You're just as shameless as she was. I can't imagine why I ever expected better from you."

My knuckles whiten around the receiver. "I'm done listening to this," I say, each word measured. "If you want to insult me, go ahead. But leave my mother out of it."

She practically snarls on the other end. "Blind to your own faults, aren't you? So full of yourself-just a pathetic mirror image of that woman."

My voice trembles with barely contained fury. Then I hear my father, Lawrence Sinclair, grab the phone.

"Tomorrow is your grandmother's 73th birthday," he growls. "You'd better show up. Don't test my patience."

I force a laugh. "Count me in," I say, my voice dripping with mock cheer. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

I slam the phone down, letting out a shaky breath. So they want me there. Fine. I'm gonna show them what I'm made of.

By eight in the evening, I'm wrapping up another marathon day. April Carter has already clocked out. I settle into her vacant chair and boot up her computer. I've picked up a few hacking tricks over the years. Within minutes, I'm digging through hidden folders, copying documents onto my flash drive.

Feeling the strain in my shoulders, I call Ethan to drive me home. But when I slide into the back seat, I almost jump-it's Lucas sitting beside me.

"You look surprised," he says with a small, confident smile. His voice is smooth, almost teasing. "You're leaving earlier than usual."

I shrug, trying to calm my racing pulse. "Long day. Needed a break."

He gives a soft chuckle. Up close, he's even more striking with his piercing gray eyes and neatly cropped black hair. A short, trimmed beard highlights the sharp lines of his jaw, giving him a rugged edge. His cologne, subtle yet spicy, fills the small space between us. I swallow, reminding myself to focus.

"You're not going home," Lucas states, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're heading to my place."

"Excuse me?" My eyebrows shoot up.

He arches one brow back. "You can call it a late dinner invitation. Or a chance to not starve yourself on instant noodles. Whichever you prefer."

I hesitate, a part of me wanting to refuse, but curiosity and exhaustion win out. "Fine," I mutter, feeling a slight sense of relief at the thought of possibly seeing Milo and Stella. It's been way too long since I've been around them.

Lucas's building is in one of Manhattan's most expensive districts. The doorman greets him by name, and we ride a private elevator straight into his enormous loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the city lights, and the plush interior screams wealth.

"You were hoping to see Milo and Stella?" Lucas says as he hands me a glass of water. There's a hint of a smirk on his lips. "They're staying with Howard Harrington tonight."

I quickly cover the disappointment that flickers in my chest. "I wasn't hoping for anything."

He lets out a low laugh. "Sorry to let you down."

Before I can snap back, he turns and heads into kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Even from here, I can see how his forearms flex, all corded muscle and quiet strength.

"Could you help me tie this apron?" He holds it out, glancing over his shoulder.

I step behind him, my heart thudding in my ears. My fingers brush the smooth fabric of his shirt, and I catch that same understated cologne. It's dangerously intimate, standing this close to him, smelling his warmth. For a moment, a wild thought crosses my mind: I imagine him suddenly grabbing my hand, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. My cheeks burn as I picture it, and I have to shake my head to banish those reckless fantasies. I tie a neat knot, then step back quickly, my pulse racing so hard I can barely breathe.

"You hungry?" he asks, turning around to face me. His eyes flick to my mouth before locking with mine.

"Starving," I admit, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.

Lucas starts pulling out ingredients-fresh vegetables, a prime cut of steak, a couple of small lobster tails. He moves with such ease, like cooking an elegant meal in the middle of the night is the most natural thing in the world. The way his shoulders shift under the fitted fabric of his shirt is... distracting.

"You're good at this," I blurt, clearing my throat. "Not many heirs to a billion-dollar empire know their way around a kitchen."

He gives a half-shrug. "Used to live abroad with Milo and Stella. They were small, needed proper meals. So I learned." Then, he sends me a sidelong glance.

I grimace. "It's your ex's loss. This smells amazing."

He flips the steak, the sizzle echoing in the spacious room. "It's not too late to accept," he murmurs, almost to himself, but then his gaze flicks toward me, like he's waiting to see how I react.

I blink. "What?"

He just chuckles, grabbing plates. "Never mind. Let's eat."

We end up at his sleek dining table, the view of the city rolling out before us through those massive windows. I cut into the steak, and it practically melts in my mouth. My stomach does a happy flip, and I let out a quiet groan of satisfaction.

"Better than Le Bernardin takeout?" Lucas's smirk is back in full force.

I scowl, recalling the meal he sent to my place. "Show-off."