Chapter 17

Serena's POV

He walks into the kitchen and returns with dessert: a Lemon Tart, mint leaves neatly placed on the plate. My eyebrows shoot up. I never expected him to fuss over dessert details.

He notices my surprise, flashing me a casual grin. "Walter told me you like your Lemon Tart with mint leaves," he says, tearing a small handful of leaves and scattering them over the dessert.

I pick up my fork and take a bite. The zesty lemon explodes on my tongue, followed by that cool hint of mint. It's so perfect. I glance at him, trying to figure out how he manages to be both infuriatingly cocky and quietly thoughtful.

When we finish, I move to gather the plates. "I'll handle these," I say. "Where's your dishwasher?"

Lucas nods toward the kitchen. "Knock yourself out," he says, but there's amusement in his tone. Then he steps behind me, takes the apron he wore earlier, and slips it around my waist.

My breath hitches as I feel the warmth of his chest almost grazing my back. I edge away, trying to regain my composure. "I can tie it," I mumble, fingers fumbling with the apron strings. Just as I turn to set a plate in the dishwasher, my elbow knocks another dish off the counter. It shatters against the floor, and a jagged piece slices my finger.

"Damn it," I hiss, blood welling up instantly.

Lucas is by my side in a flash, his grip firm yet gentle as he examines the cut. "Hold still," he orders, voice low and laced with concern. A moment later, he's running my hand under cool water, pressing a clean towel against the wound. I try to pull back, but he doesn't let me. His eyes narrow, like I'm some stubborn child. "Stop moving."

My heart pounds at the way he's taking charge. He's so... overwhelmingly protective. And I'm not used to that-nobody is protective of me.

When he finishes bandaging my hand, I clear my throat, feeling strangely vulnerable. "It's just a small cut."

He ignores my remark. "I'm taking you home," he says, his gaze unwavering. There's no point fighting him on this, especially when I'm too tired and the cut's throbbing.

We end up in his car, and this time, Lucas is at the wheel. I sink into the passenger seat, the skyline flashing by in bright neon. My mind drifts to the Sinclair family. My grandmother's party is tomorrow, and I already know it's going to be a showdown.

Lucas shoots me a sidelong glance. "Busy tomorrow?"

I press my lips together. "I have some... family obligations."

He nods, then says, "Keep next month's seventeenth open for me."

I turn to him, surprised. "Why?"

His eyes stay on the road, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a faint smile. "You'll see."

Something about the way he smiles makes me feel an odd wave of comfort. Maybe it's the way his strong hands grip the steering wheel, or how his voice drops an octave whenever he speaks to me. Either way, I find myself nodding. "Fine."

When we arrive at my apartment, he parks smoothly at the curb and looks at me. For a moment, neither of us speaks. There's a softness in his gaze I wasn't expecting, like he wants to say something else. I feel a knot form in my stomach-am I really letting him get this close?

"Thank you... for everything," I manage, slipping out of the car.

His responding smile is calm and almost affectionate. "Get some rest."

I head upstairs, half-dazed. Everything tonight seemed too warm, too fantastic-completely unlike my usual life.

The next morning, my phone blares way too early-seven on the dot. I drag myself up, ignoring the throbbing cut on my finger. When I see the caller ID, my mood nosedives. Beatrice Sinclair.

I pick up, not bothering to hide my irritation. "Yes?"

Her voice is immediately harsh. "You'd better show up for my birthday. And don't you dare embarrass me in front of our relatives." She mutters a string of insults under her breath.

I take a long breath. "I'll be there," I say, sounding icy even to my own ears, then end the call. I toss the phone aside and stare at the ceiling. It's barely morning, and I already feel like clawing someone's eyes out.

After a quick shower and minimal makeup, I glance at a framed photo on my bedside table-my mom, Helen Sinclair, smiling so softly it makes my heart ache. I promise her silently that I'll protect what she left behind, no matter how hostile the Sinclair household gets.

By ten, I'm standing at the gates of the Sinclair family mansion. The place looks exactly like it did when I was a kid-grand, cold, and brimming with an arrogance that always made my skin crawl. A handful of relatives loiter in the courtyard, casting me contemptuous looks like they're sizing up an unwanted stray dog. I've endured these stares my whole life; they don't even sting anymore.

Inside, the grand foyer is decked out with expensive decorations, for Beatrice's 73rd birthday. I step in and spot her sitting at the center like a queen on her throne. My father, Lawrence, stands off to the side with Angela, and Nina hangs nearby, looking smug as ever.

Beatrice's gaze locks on me, and her lips curl. "You're late."

I swallow the retort that threatens to spill out. Late? It's exactly ten, the time she told me to come. "Nice to see you too, Grandmother," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

She narrows her eyes, but I don't break eye contact. If she wants a fight, I'm ready. "You should feel honored to be invited into this house," she snaps.

I just shrug. "Where's Caden? Not joining the fun?"

Lawrence steps forward, clearing his throat. "He worked late last night. Needs rest."

I bite back a bitter laugh. "Is that so? How convenient."

Nina seizes the moment to glide over, wearing a faux sweet smile. "Serena, I'm so glad you made it. Grandma's been waiting for you."