Clara Morgan's spine straightened as recognition struck. This silver-haired woman carried the Hartwell Family's arrogance in every molecule. Keys to the estate? Knowledge of Sebastian's biometric codes? Only one person commanded such access.
"Mrs. Hartwell," Clara dipped into a formal nod, her voice smooth despite the adrenaline surge. "I'm Clara Morgan, Mr. Hartwell's executive assistant."
Cecily Hartwell's frost-gray eyes swept over Clara's figure—the soft cashmere hoodie hugging curves. Hardly professional attire for a secretary, her raised eyebrow declared.
The memory surfaced: that specialty ointment tumbling from Sebastian's pocket weeks ago. So this was the patient.
"Merely preparing dinner before Mr. Hartwell's return," Clara lied with porcelain calm. "Since you're here, I'll take my leave—"
Now—while Cecily 's here. The matriarch's presence offered her only escape route. She'd barely taken two steps toward freedom when—
"Ms. Morgan. YOU. DO. NOT. LEAVE."
The foyer echoed with a heavy thud. Sebastian stood in the doorway, overcoat dripping rain, his stare pinning her like a butterfly to silk.
"Mother. Explain this... surprise inspection."
Cecily Hartwell crossed her arms, a serpentine smile curling her lips. "Checking if you'd starved to death, darling." Her gaze flickered to Clara's untouched short ribs. "Seems unnecessary."
Sebastian's gaze landed on Clara's cooking, his features hardening. The man who sanitized hotel pens before use couldn't fathom her defiling his gourmet kitchen. "Dispose of that slop," he snapped, ascending the staircase without 回头. "And don't you dare use the kitchen bin."
Clara stood frozen. Toss perfectly good food? In the garden? On the street? Cecily Hartwell stifled a laugh, trailing her son upstairs.
In the study, Sebastian shrugged off his suit jacket, silk tie landing on the Chesterfield. He lit a cigarette.
Cecily watched him roll up sleeves, revealing forearms corded with tension.
"No need to model for me, darling. Clara's not here." she arched a brow, gesturing downstairs.
"Thirty years without a woman, now this?Testing your preferences?"
"She's clean. Background vetted. Untouched."
"Ah." Cecily's laugh was champagne bubbles over broken glass. "Shall I tell Grandfather we might get an heir?"
Sebastian exhaled smoke towards the vaulted ceiling. "A passing diversion. Toss her when boredom strikes."
"At least be discreet. Pregnancy would complicate—"
"An inconvenience? She'll handle it." His tone was as flat as discussing weather.
Clara paused outside the door, teacup trembling. "A fling… toss her… handle it." The words burrowed under her skin. So she was nothing but a disposable toy.
After Cecily's departure, Sebastian found the meal untouched. "Developing selective deafness, Ms. Morgan?"
Clara met his glare defiantly. "I'll dispose of them in my stomach. Ten minutes, tops."
To his surprise, she shoveled vibrant dishes into her mouth, cheeks puffing like a chipmunk. Gone was the demure secretary—this Clara ate with primal abandon, sauce smudging her lower lip.
Sebastian's pulse quickened. Was it the aroma of Wine-dark short ribs, or the way her lashes fluttered when she chewed? He'd dined at El Bulli, but nothing smelled more appetizing.
"Stand up," he ordered.
She obeyed, mouth still full. He snatched her chopsticks, inspecting a rib like a gemologist—checking for gristle, perhaps poison.
A sniff confirmed savory heaven.
Three bites later, the rib vanished. Then another. And another.
Clara gaped. This man who sneered at street food is devouring my home-cooking? With my chopsticks?
By the time he polished off the last drop of soup, Sebastian's plate—her plate—was spotless.
"Problem?" he challenged, licking sauce from his thumb.
Clara bit back a smile. Guess the trash problem solved itself.