Chapter Seventeen
Sebastian “Bash” Laurent
The silence in my office was deafening.
I sat behind my desk, staring at the Chicago skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows, my phone face-down on the mahogany beside me. Twenty-four hours since Emilia’s exposé went live. Twenty-six since I’d last touched her. And somewhere in between, the world I’d spent two decades building had started crumbling around my ears with the specific, irreversible momentum of something that had been waiting to fall.
My phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time. I didn’t look at it.
Daniel appeared in the doorway, his expression the carefully neutral mask he wore when delivering news he knew I wouldn’t want to hear. “The board’s called an emergency session for tomorrow morning. Eight shareholders have already requested your resignation.”
“Let them request.” I turned my signet ring between my fingers, the metal warm from constant friction. “What else?”
“Legal team wants to discuss liability exposure. PR is fielding calls from every major outlet in the country.” He hesitated. “And Marcus Chen from the Tribune called. Wants a comment on Ms. Rivera’s piece. He implied there might be more coming.”
More coming.
I should have been furious. Should have felt betrayed that Emilia had published without consulting me, that she’d exposed the rot inside my company to the entire world without warning. Instead, all I felt was a hollow, unfamiliar admiration that sat in my chest like something new.
She’d done exactly what she’d said she would. No compromises. No hesitation. No asking permission.
The woman had more integrity than most of my board members had ever aspired to.
“Cancel everything for the rest of the day,” I said.
Daniel blinked. “Sir, the Singapore investors are expecting?—”
“Cancel it.” I stood, moving to the window. The city sprawled below — millions of people going about their lives completely unaware that Sebastian Laurent’s empire was hemorrhaging credibility by the minute. “I need to think.”
After Daniel retreated, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and let my thoughts go where they’d been circling all morning.
To her.
Emilia hadn’t answered my calls. Hadn’t responded to my texts. The last I’d heard, she’d left her apartment early this morning, and my security team had lost track of her somewhere near the Tribune’s offices.
Which meant she was either avoiding me deliberately, or she was in trouble.
Given recent events, I couldn’t rule out either option.
My phone buzzed again. This time I looked.
Ms. Rivera just walked into the building. —Daniel
Something loosened in my chest that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
Send her up.
I was still standing at the window when I heard the elevator open. I didn’t turn around. Part of me was afraid of what I’d see in her face — triumph, maybe. Or worse, pity.
“You look like hell.”
I almost laughed. Almost. “Thanks. You always know just what to say.”
Emilia moved into my peripheral vision, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that I could smell coffee and ink and the faint floral scent of her shampoo. Far enough to maintain the professional distance she clearly felt was necessary.
“I’m not going to apologize,” she said. “For the article.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
