Chapter 3 No.3

Clara was still trying to figure out how to sneak into the building when the glass doors opened. Henderson, her division manager, marched out. Henderson was a short, angry man who usually looked at Clara like she was a stain on the carpet.

Today, he was sweating.

"Miller! There you are!" Henderson waved her over. "Get in here. You're late."

"I... I lost my badge, sir. Security won't let me pass."

Henderson cursed under his breath. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the turnstiles. He swiped his own master card. The light stayed red. Access Denied.

"What the hell?" Henderson muttered. He swiped again. Red.

"Problem, Mr. Henderson?"

Old Mike stepped forward, looking uncomfortable. "System says her ID is flagged, sir. 'Executive Hold'. She can't enter without a manual override from the 50th floor."

Clara felt the blood drain from her face. The 50th floor. The CEO's office.

Henderson looked pale. "Flagged? What did you do, Miller?"

"I don't know," Clara whispered, though she knew exactly what she had done.

Henderson pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He spoke in hushed, frantic tones. After a moment, he hung up.

"You're lucky," Henderson said, wiping his forehead. "Mr. Sterling's office just cleared you for a one-day visitor pass. But you have to sign in manually. And they're logging it."

Clara signed the logbook with a trembling hand. He was watching. He was controlling her movements like a chess piece.

"Change of plans," Henderson barked as they finally entered the elevator. "You're not going to the strategy meeting. You're coming to dinner."

Clara blinked. "Dinner? It's nine in the morning."

"Tonight. The Vanguard acquisition dinner. At Le Bernardin." Henderson threw a thick binder onto Clara's desk as they passed it. "Read this. Memorize it. Mr. Sterling personally requested a junior analyst be present to take notes. Someone 'expendable yet competent' from the pool. You fit the bill."

Clara felt a chill. Expendable. That was exactly what she was to him.

"Don't embarrass me, Miller. Wear something... less depressing."

At 7:00 PM, Clara sat at a table that cost more to reserve than her mother's yearly rent.

The private dining room at Le Bernardin was silent, save for the clinking of silver against china. Twelve men in suits sat around the table. Sebastian sat at the head.

He hadn't looked at her once. Not when she entered. Not when she took her seat at the far end of the table, clutching her notepad like a shield.

He was terrifyingly cold. He dissected the Vanguard CEO's proposal with surgical precision, his voice low and devoid of emotion. Clara wrote furiously, trying to make herself invisible.

"So," a man to Clara's right leaned in. It was the VP from a rival firm. He smelled of gin and expensive cologne. "You're the note-taker? Pretty face for a scribe."

He placed a hand on Clara's forearm. His fingers were clammy.

Clara stiffened. She tried to pull her arm away politely. "Please, I'm trying to work."

Clink.

The sound of a wine glass hitting the table was sharp, like a gunshot.

Silence fell over the room. Everyone looked at the head of the table.

Sebastian was staring down the length of the mahogany surface. His eyes were fixed on the VP's hand on Clara's arm.

"Mr. Vance," Sebastian said softly. "Is there something wrong with the service? Or are you confusing my analyst with the menu?"

The VP snatched his hand back, face flushing red. "Just making conversation, Sterling."

Sebastian's gaze shifted to Clara. For the first time all day, he looked her in the eye. It was intense, suffocating.

"Miss Miller," Sebastian said. "What is your assessment of the risk exposure in paragraph four?"

Clara froze. Henderson kicked her under the table. She wasn't supposed to speak. She was supposed to be furniture.

She stood up, her legs shaking. She took a breath. "The... the currency hedging is insufficient. If the Euro drops by two points, the margin call would bankrupt the subsidiary within a quarter."

Silence.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair. He swirled the wine in his glass. "Sloppy," he said. "The report is sloppy. Is this what passes for 'competence' in your department, Miller?"

The room chuckled nervously. Henderson looked ready to faint.

Clara felt heat rise up her neck. He was humiliating her. He was punishing her for running away.

"I think my assessment is accurate, sir," she said, her voice trembling but audible.

"Sit down," Sebastian commanded. He didn't look at her again.

Halfway through the third course, Clara excused herself to the restroom. She needed to breathe. She needed to cry.

She stood in the hallway, pressing her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall.

"Running away again?"

She spun around.

Sebastian was there. He had followed her. He moved into her personal space, backing her into the alcove near the restrooms. He was so tall, blocking out the light, smelling of that damn cedarwood and power.

"I wasn't running," Clara whispered. "I was working."

"You were shaking," he corrected. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He pulled out her ID badge.

He didn't hand it to her. Instead, he stepped closer, until his chest brushed against hers. He reached out and slid the plastic card down the front of her dress, tucking it securely between the fabric and her skin.

His knuckles grazed her collarbone. The touch burned. It was a slow, deliberate violation of her space, a reminder that he could touch her whenever he wanted.

"You left this," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "Careless."

"I... I wanted to leave before you woke up."

"Why?"

"Because I was a mistake," she said, looking down. "I was drunk. You were... available. It won't happen again."

Sebastian's hand shot out, gripping her chin. He forced her to look at him. His eyes were dark, swirling with something she couldn't read. Anger? Hunger?

"A mistake," he repeated, testing the word. "Is that what you think?"

"I know who you are, Mr. Sterling. And I know who I am."

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "You have no idea who I am. Meet me in the car in ten minutes. If you run this time, Clara, I will have security drag you out of your apartment by your hair."

He pulled back, his face a mask of indifference again.

"Don't be late."