I spent the next two days actively avoiding James.
The brooch sat in my desk drawer like a ticking bomb.
Every time I opened it for a pen or a paperclip, that velvet box caught my eye, reminding me of street markets and whispered confessions and the way his lips had felt against my temple.
I threw myself into work instead. Safer territory. Spreadsheets didn't complicate your life.
Wednesday afternoon, I was reviewing budget projections at my desk when I felt it—that prickle of awareness that meant someone was watching.
I glanced up and found James crossing the open floor, his trajectory unmistakably aimed at me.
Our eyes met. He smiled—that soft, patient smile that said I'll wait as long as it takes.
Panic seized my chest.
I scanned the office desperately and spotted Sebastian near the elevators, shrugging on his jacket, car keys in hand. Clearly heading out.
Without thinking, I grabbed my bag and intercepted him just as James reached speaking distance.
"Sebastian!" I said brightly, too brightly. "Ready for our meeting?"
Sebastian's eyebrows rose. "Our meeting?"
"The off-site one. That we discussed." I stared at him pointedly, willing him to play along. "We should go. Now. We'll be late."
Something flickered in his grey eyes—amusement, understanding, a hint of wicked delight. He glanced over my shoulder at James, whose approach had faltered.
"Right. The meeting." Sebastian's mouth curved. "Can't keep the client waiting."
"Belle," James called from behind me. "I was hoping we could talk—"
"Sorry, James." I was already moving toward the elevator, Sebastian falling into step beside me. "Busy afternoon. Maybe tomorrow?"
The elevator doors closed on James's frustrated expression, and I sagged against the wall.
"Well," Sebastian said, pressing the button for the parking garage. "That was the least convincing performance I've ever witnessed. And I've sat through amateur theatre."
"Shut up. You played along."
"I was curious." He leaned against the opposite wall, studying me with those penetrating grey eyes. "What exactly are you running from, Ashworth?"
"I'm not running. I'm... strategically relocating."
"To where? Because I was actually going somewhere, and it wasn't a client meeting."
The elevator opened onto the parking garage. Sebastian walked toward a sleek black car—expensive but understated, like everything else about his carefully constructed image.
"Where were you going?" I asked, following because I'd already committed to this escape and couldn't exactly go back upstairs now.
"Personal errand." He unlocked the car, then paused. "But since you've hijacked my afternoon, you might as well come along. Unless you'd prefer I drop you at the nearest bus stop?"
"I'm not taking the bus."
"Then get in."
I got in.
The interior smelled like leather and that woody scent I'd noticed before. Sebastian pulled out of the garage and into London traffic, handling the car with the same confident efficiency he brought to everything.
"So," he said after a few minutes of charged silence. "Want to tell me why you're using me to avoid your ex-boyfriend?"
"It’s none of your—" I stopped. "It's complicated."
"Clearly." He glanced at me sideways. "James Whitmore doesn't seem like the type to give up easily. What did he do? Grand romantic gesture? Promises to leave his wife?"
I said nothing, which was apparently answer enough.
"Ah." Sebastian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Both, then."
"Where are we going?" I asked, desperate to change the subject.
"Pharmacy in Brixton. My mum's prescription needs picking up—I have it delivered to a place near here because their prices are better, and I forward it to her in Birmingham."
I stared at him. "You manage your mother's prescriptions?"
"She forgets. And she won't ask for help, so I arrange things without telling her."
He shrugged, eyes on the road. "She thinks the pharmacy just delivers automatically. Easier than arguing about her accepting money from me."
This glimpse of him, the dutiful son hiding care packages inside logistics, cracked something open in my chest.
"That's... unexpectedly sweet."
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm not a complete monster."
"Jury's still out."
He laughed, and the sound transformed his face. Softer. Younger. Less like the sharp-edged executive and more like someone real.
"My mum worked herself half to death raising me," he said quietly. "She'd come home at midnight and still make sure I'd done my homework."
He turned down a narrow street, navigating with familiar ease.
"The least I can do is make sure she takes her blood pressure medication."
"She sounds like a strong woman."
"Strongest person I know." A pause. "She still doesn't understand what I do, exactly. Thinks 'Head of Marketing' means I design adverts. I've stopped trying to explain."
I smiled despite myself. "My dad thinks I'm a secretary."
"Aren't you?"
"I'm an executive assistant. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"I will push you out of this moving vehicle."
He grinned—genuine, warm, nothing like his usual smirk. "There's the Belle I like. All fire beneath that polished surface."
The Belle I like. The words settled in my chest, warm and dangerous.
We pulled up outside a small pharmacy. Sebastian ran in, returning minutes later with a package he tucked carefully into the backseat.
The drive back was easier. We talked about nothing important—terrible coffee in the office kitchen, Sebastian's ongoing war with the printer on the third floor, my secret addiction to trashy reality television.
When we returned to Pemberton Corp, the sun was setting. Sebastian pulled into the garage but didn't immediately move to get out.
"For what it's worth," he said, voice lower now, "whatever James is offering—he's not going to change. Men like him don't. They just get better at hiding what they are."
"And what are you, Sebastian?"
He turned to face me fully. In the dim garage light, his grey eyes were almost silver.
"Exactly what I appear to be. Arrogant. Driven. Incapable of leaving you alone even when I know I should."
My breath caught.
"That's either very honest or very manipulative."
"Maybe both." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek, featherlight. "I'm still figuring it out myself."
I should move. Should break this spell before it dragged me somewhere I couldn't return from. But my body refused to cooperate, rooted in place by the intensity of his gaze.
"Belle," he started, voice rough.
My phone buzzed, shattering the moment like glass.
I fumbled for it, grateful for the excuse to look away from those grey eyes that saw too much.
A message from Charles glowed on the screen: Dinner tomorrow? We should discuss transition planning. There's a restaurant I think you'd enjoy.
"Important?" Sebastian asked. His tone was casual, but tension lined his shoulders.
"Charles." I pocketed the phone, not trusting myself to meet his gaze. "He wants to discuss some work matters."
"Over dinner?" The question was light, almost teasing, but something sharper lurked beneath it.
I didn't answer. Couldn't explain the flutter in my chest at Charles's invitation or the guilt that accompanied it while sitting inches from Sebastian.
He watched me for a long moment, jaw tight, grey eyes searching my face for answers I wasn't ready to give. Then he nodded once, a small, controlled movement, and stepped out of the car without another word.
I sat alone in the passenger seat, heart pounding, his cologne still lingering in the air around me.
I typed my reply before I could overthink it: I'd like that. What time?
The screen glowed in the dim garage, confirmation of another step toward complication.
Three men. Three impossible tangles.
And I kept walking deeper into all of them.