Chapter 229
Chapter 229
Ryan? Here? In my office?
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I sit there for a second, gripping the arms of my chair. Susan stands by the door, clearly uncomfortable with the tension I’m radiating.
“Should I… send him away?” she says.
The temptation to scream, ‘Yes, send him back to whatever rock he crawled out from,’ comes for a second. But instead, I smooth my expression, plastering on a look of indifference. I can be professional about this.
“No,” I say. “Send him in.”
Susan gives me a small nod, relief flashing across her face as she retreats.
My stomach twists in anticipation, a mixture of anger, confusion, and-God help me-curiosity. What the hell is he doing here? And right after my mother’s bombshell text?
The door opens, and there he is. Ryan O’Brien, in the flesh. He looks the same as he always has: tall, broad-shouldered, exuding that maddening air of effortless charm that first drew me to him. His suit fits perfectly, of course, dark navy that probably cost more than most people’s cars.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in every detail of my office-the modern furniture, the panoramic window view, the small but tasteful décor that screams “new boss in town.”
I stay silent, watching him as he takes it all in. Something about the way he moves, calm and deliberate, makes me feel unbalanced. My mother’s text echoes in my head-Ryan is dying. Cancer. He has one year to live.
But he doesn’t look like a dying man. There’s no weakness, no frailty. He’s still Ryan: infuriatingly vibrant, maddeningly confident, and right now, entirely out of place in my office. I guess he’s still in the early stages of whatever he has.
He turns his gaze to me, and his lips curve into a faint smile. “Nice office.”
“What do you want, Ryan?” I say.
“You. But that’s out of the question, isn’t it?”
I glare at him, unamused. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense. Can you just get to the point?”
He chuckles, strolling further into the room and lowering himself into the chair across from my desk. He’s so casual about it, like we’re old friends catching up instead of two people locked in a battle of mutual resentment.
“I was in the building,” he says. “Had a meeting with your CEO. Decided to stop by and congratulate you.”
“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “And… I heard about your health. Sorry.”
For a moment, his expression falters. It’s subtle-just a flicker of surprise before he recovers, leaning back in the chair with that same infuriating calm.
“Oh, right,” he says. “My cancer. Something’s got to kill a man, right?”
“I guess. You’re handling it well.”
“Should I cry about it?”
That makes me laugh. The sound surprises me, and I quickly straighten, schooling my face back into neutrality. There’s no reason to be friendly, dying or not.
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He’s looking at me in a strange way, one that makes my skin crawl.
“You look different,” he says, his tone almost curious.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” he says, tilting his head. “Your new boyfriend must be treating you right. Are those push-ups?”
I blink, completely thrown off. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve never worn push-up bras,” he says, as if it’s the most normal observation in the world. “Your breasts seem rounder. Higher.”
For a moment, I’m too shocked to respond. Did he seriously just-?
“Thank you for stopping by, Mr. O’Brien,” I say. “You can see yourself out now.”
Ryan doesn’t move right away. He just sits there, still staring at me with that same unsettling intensity.
“Alright,” he says, standing up and straightening his jacket. He walks to the door but pauses, turning back to look at me one
last time.
“See you soon,” he says.
“I’ll see you at the trial.”
He smirks, nodding. “I’ll be there.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving the door ajar behind him.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the empty doorway. My hands tremble slightly, and I ball them into fists, digging my nails into my palms.
The nerve. The audacity. How dare he come here, waltzing into my office like he owns the place, throwing casual comments about my body like we’re still married, like he hasn’t spent the past few months making my life a living hell.
And yet….
Something about the way he said, “You look different,” niggles at me.
Different how? Different good? Different bad? And what in the world gave him the right to notice?
I shake my head, pushing away the memory. Still, my hands move to smooth my blouse, then to tug at my bra. It’s not a push-up, for the record. It’s just… a bra. I roll my eyes at the absurdity of even caring about his opinion.
But his words won’t leave me alone.
I glance at the door, half expecting him to come back and say something equally maddening. When he doesn’t, I grab my phone, intending to check my emails-anything to focus on work-but my reflection in the darkened screen catches my
eye.
A moment later, I’m walking into the bathroom.
The mirror in here isn’t kind. Overhead fluorescent lights beam down, highlighting every imperfection: the slight bags under my eyes, the stubborn pimple near my temple that refuses to leave, the faint lines starting to form around my mouth.
But then…
I lean closer, tilting my head. Do I… look different?
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She stares for a moment, ner ups pressing inʊ a
a nod.
Weird, I think, though not surprising. There’s always one, isn’t there? Every workplace has its designated asshole.
“Ayumi’s a softie once you get to know her.”
The voice startles me, and I spin around. Standing behind me is a man in a tailored suit. His grin is casual, his posture relaxed, like he owns the room-or at least a good chunk of it.
“Sorry,” I say. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” he says, extending a hand. “Sebastian Knight. Investor, occasional meddler, and, incidentally, the husband of the woman you were just waving at.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Don’t take it personally. She’s… well, complicated.”
“Good to know,” I say, shaking his hand. “And what brings you here, Sebastian?”
“I wanted to introduce myself,” he says. “I’m a close friend of Luke’s, and he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Luke. I guess he isn’t mad at me after all. “How very chivalrous of him. Should I thank you for your noble service?”
“Not necessary.” He grins. “But I’ll take the sarcasm as a thank-you.”
“Need my itinerary too?”
He laughs. “Luke said you were funny. He wasn’t wrong. You’ll fit right in with the gang.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Knight.”
“Please, call me Sebastian.”
“Noted.”
“And another request,” he says. “Could you round up that divorce thing quickly? Luke’s making our lives miserable by constantly talking about it.”
I smile. “I’ll try my best.”
As he strolls away, I let out a sharp breath, mentally drafting a list of ways to murder Luke. Slowly. Creatively. I can’t believe he unleashed his friend on me like that. Luke is something else.
By the time I reach my office, my secretary is waiting by the door, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers.
“These just arrived for you,” she says, beaming.
Luke, again. The delicate blend of roses, lilies, and eucalyptus gives off a subtle, luxurious fragrance that somehow makes me feel both pampered and embarrassed. He might as well just stamp a neon sign on my forehead that says, “She’s Lucas Martinez’s girlfriend.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the bouquet.
I push open the door to my office. The space is both inviting and oppressive-large windows overlooking the city, sunlight bouncing off the glass desk, and minimalist decor. Everything here screams polished perfection, like it’s daring me to make
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myself at home.
I set the flowers on the table by the window, glancing at the crisp white envelope nestled between the stems.
Sliding the card out, I read Luke’s neat handwriting:
‘Congratulations on your first day, boss lady. You’ve got this. Love, Luke.’
I smile. Any more of this sweetness and I might get tooth cavities.
Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and dial his number. It rings twice before he answers, his voice warm and smug, like he’s been expecting my call.
“Well, well,” he says. “If it isn’t the new queen of Illusionaire. How’s the throne?”
“Uncomfortable,” I say, pacing the room. “And overly accessorized, thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, and I can practically hear his grin.
“Seriously, Luke. Flowers? On my first day? You trying to make me look like the boss’s girlfriend or what?”
He laughs. “You are the boss, Julie. Own it. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate the gesture. Did you at least like the arrangement?”
I glance back at the bouquet. It’s beautiful, but I’ll be damned if I admit that to him.
“It’s fine,” I say. “A little over the top, but fine.”
“You’re impossible to please, you know that?”
“Yeah, and you’re impossible to ignore.”
He chuckles, and for a brief moment, the tension of the morning melts away.
I sink into the chair behind my desk, ready to say something snarky, when my phone buzzes with a new text. My mother’s name flashes on the screen, followed by a preview of the message:
‘Ryan is dying. Cancer. He has one year to live.’
I stare at the screen, rereading the text as if the meaning might change.
“Julie, are you there?” Luke’s voice pulls me back.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You okay? You went quiet.”
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I just… got a weird message. Can I call you back?”
“Of course. Take your time.”
I hang up without another word, still staring at the screen. My stomach twists into a knot, a hundred questions racing through my mind. Ryan? Cancer? One year to live?
I’m frozen, trying to process the absurdity of it all, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
My secretary, Susan, steps in.
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“Sorry to bother you,” she says, “but there’s a Ryan O’Brien asking to see
you.”
