Clara Morgan's phone illuminated the darkened cubicle.
Vivian Sterling:
Did the Ice King grant your freedom?
Clara:
Still caged.
Vivian:
FUCKING PREDATOR! I'll have Bruce raid his office!
The screen blurred as tears fell.
Just survive until Saturday, she promised herself. Visit Green-Wood Cemetery. Tell them everything.
The memory struck like shrapnel—eleven years old, crushed beneath her mother's final embrace. Leather seats smelling of lavender perfume and iron-blood. The car roof crumpling like origami.
Should've died with them. The thought crystallized—sharp and shameful. No foster homes. No terrible school bullying. No Sebastian's teeth marking her hips like territorial claims.
Just... peace.
······
Tap tap tap.
A knuckle rapped her desk. Sebastian Hartwell loomed over her, Armani suit framing glacial beauty.
His gaze snagged on:"Ms. Morgan."
Clara looked up. Sebastian stood at her desk, frozen at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Something in his chest clenched painfully.
Why is she crying? Was it the physical ache, her reluctance to sleep with him, or his refusal to let her quit?
"Mr. Hartwell." Clara swiped at her face.
"Where's the travel itinerary?" His stare burned into her, each second making his heart skip a beat.
"Apologies—hotel details changed. I resent the updated version and printed this for you." She handed him a folder.
"Thanks." He took it.
"May I leave for the day?" She bowed slightly.
As she turned, Sebastian blurted a question he'd never asked a woman in his 29 years:
"Would you… have dinner with me?"
Even he was stunned. Since when did Sebastian Hartwell invite a woman to dinner?
Clara frowned, sure she'd misheard. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hartwell—what did you say?"
"Nothing."
Gripping the folder, he spun on his heel and vanished into his office.
······
Rolls-Royce Phantom purred through Manhattan's diamond district. Wu Yan monitored the rearview: Sebastian staring at raindrops chasing each other down tinted windows. Uncharacteristic. Dangerous.
Withdrawal symptoms? Sebastian dissected the anomaly. Two nights of Clara Windsor rewiring my reward pathways? The hypothesis sickened him.
They ascended serpentine roads toward Hartwell Manor—a Gilded Age monstrosity perched above the Hudson.
Hartwell Estate sprawled across 200 oceanfront acres. Manicured topiaries gave way to a limestone chateau.
Madame Cecily Hartwell sat sipping tea on an antique mahogany sofa, her black silk gown draping elegantly over the rich wood. With her hair coiled in a regal chignon, she exuded the poise of a society matron—though her gaze remained fixed on the steam rising from her Earl Grey.
"About time you showed up," she drawled, not batting an eye.
Sebastian studied his mother's delicate features—he'd inherited her obsidian eyes and sharp cheekbones. "Hey, Mom." He dropped onto the sofa, ankle propped over his knee.
Cecily's stare flickered. Decades of rearing a future CEO had honed her ability to read his moods. "Legs on the floor," she commanded.
Born to J city 's elite dynasty, Cecily had brought a dynasty's wealth to the Hartwells. Her aristocratic bearing matched her ironclad parenting—she remained the only person who could make Sebastian flinch.
With a sigh, he complied. "Where's Father?"
"Pebble Beach Pro-Am. Golf and corporate gossip."
"And Grandfather?"
"Updating your bridal roster."
Sebastian's jaw clenched. His grandfather, Silas Hartwell—patriarch of the Hartwell empire—had three retirement hobbies:
Forging Renaissance manuscripts
Breeding endangered falcons
Scouting eligible bachelorettes for his grandson
The front door creaked open. Silas, white-haired and spry, beamed at Sebastian, crow's-feet deepening like etched marble.
"Ah, Sebastian! What of that Vance girl I introduced you to?"
Sebastian's tone turned frigid. "You sent her to my office?"
"Of course."
No wonder. Sebastian's mind flashed to Clara's tear-streaked face and Serena Vance's sneer. "I had security escort her out."
"Do you realize the Vances control—"
"I need nothing from them," Sebastian cut in.
Cecily stirred her tea. "Apparently he prefers traumatizing his secretaries over dating socialites."
"Traumatizing?!" Silas thundered, his cane wobbling. "No heir? You'll let the Hartwell line die?"
"Perhaps he's gay," Cecily mused. "Shall we throw a coming-out gala?"
As Silas stormed upstairs, Sebastian attacked a Satsuma orange. Long fingers shredded rind—juice spraying his Charvet shirt cuffs.
Cecily's teacup stilled. Her fastidious son... peeling fruit? The apocalypse neared.
Thud.
A peach-blossom pink tube rolled from Sebastian's pocket. Cecily scooped it up. Label: GYNECOLOGICAL ANALGESIC - VAGINAL APPLICATION ONLY.
She arched a sculpted brow. "Genital injury?"
Sebastian snatched it back—Clara's hotel-room ointment. Forgotten contraband.
"Or perhaps..." Cecily's smile turned surgical. "...gender reassignment?"
He pocketed the evidence as the butler announced dinner. Cecily paused at the dining room threshold, her whisper colder than Hudson frost:
"Don't break your toy before I appraise it."