Chapter 5
Laurent
Order would soon be restored in my life again.
I opened her drawer and spotted a gold lipstick tube rolling lazily among the stationery. I placed my bag on her desk and opened it.
Twisting the base, I watched as the soft, creamy stick emerged. I held the pink lipstick beneath my nose.
Sweet. Fragrant.
A little memento.
I snapped the lid back on.
“Mr Dubois?”
Her voice—timid, uncertain.
Oh, fuck. I slipped the lipstick into my pocket just as she stepped closer.
She crept up on me, fiddling nervously with the buckle of her handbag strap. When she tilted her head slightly, I followed her gaze to the open drawer.
“I needed a pen. Do you have a problem with that?” I asked, tone sharp and sardonic.
“No… I guess not.” She paused, glancing away. “Well, thanks for—” her voice caught. “For giving me the opportunity to work with you.”
She almost sounded genuine. But I knew better. People bent over backwards for me. That was the way of the world.
“Good luck,” I said curtly, brushing past her without a second glance.
By Monday she would be Monica and Evelyn’s problem.
?? ?? ??
“Pull in at the next decent bar,” I muttered, my voice low but firm.
Garrett didn’t glance back. “Understood.”
He adjusted the route, merging lanes with smooth precision. I appreciated that about him. He didn’t question much. Knew when I wanted silence and when I needed a wall to throw words at.
I leaned my elbow on the window ledge, eyes narrowed at the blur of lights beyond the glass. It was Friday night, and the streets were clogged with hopefuls—people desperate to forget the week, to drink, to fuck, to feel something.
I wanted nothing. Or maybe I wanted everything, all in one particular package.
Garrett pulled up outside a busy spot in Holborn—glass, concrete, corporate men still wearing their ties loose around their necks, women in tight skirts and tall heels. The din was already spilling onto the pavement.
He stepped out first, scanning the entrance like he always did, then waited for me. Inside, we moved through the crowd with ease—people parted like water when they saw Garrett’s size.
We found a high table tucked off to the side. He ordered a water. I ordered something more substantial.
“Not drinking?” I asked, voice tight.
“Can’t exactly have you slipping on someone’s spilt G&T while I’m tipsy, sir,” Garrett replied dryly. “That’s not in the job description.”
I didn’t respond. My attention was already scanning the room.
Blonde. Smiling. Too wide-eyed. Artificial.
Auburn. Curvy. Laugh too shrill.
Dark-skinned. Elegant. But she was taken.
Brunette. Slim. Too slim.
Every woman had something—legs, lips, a way of looking over their glass like they’d already decided how they’d ruin your night. But none of them had her.
None had the rich golden light in their hair that caught the sun just so. None had the gentle swell of breasts that would fit perfectly into my palms. And none of them—not one—walked with that quiet, unaware allure that made men like me lose sleep.
I reached into my pocket.
The gold tube was still there.
I didn’t open it, just let it roll between my fingers, the weight strangely comforting. As if owning this stupid thing gave me some kind of control.
Garrett looked down, clocked it immediately.
“You know,” he said, sipping his water, “if you're going for a new look, I can take you to a different type of bar.”
I shot him a look sharp enough to wound. “Don’t start.”
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
I let the lipstick sit in the centre of my palm.
Lucia Hart was transferred. Gone.
And still—
She was in the room. All over it. Like her scent.
I tossed back my drink, ignoring the burn, and closed my hand around the lipstick.
“Let’s go,” I said flatly.
Garrett didn’t ask why. He never did.
And that’s why he was the only person I trusted to be this close to madness.
?? ?? ??
When I returned home, my sanity came rushing back. I wouldn’t be the older man sucked in by an attractive young woman. Men like that were the laughing stock. Magnus Trentham had recently married a woman almost half his age. And while Lucia was only eleven years younger than me, it still felt—wrong.
Then again, Magnus had fallen for the classic baby trap, judging by his bride’s protruding belly.
Yet… he’d looked content. I’d seen the way his close friend looked on, half-envious. I hadn’t given them much thought until now.
I placed the gold lipstick on my nightstand and cursed myself—for not caving and fucking her out of my system.
My company, and its reputation, were the priority.
She wasn’t under my direct authority anymore. Besides, she’d signed the standard NDA the day she stepped into my office.
My inner voice was relentless.
I left my bedroom without changing my clothes to fix myself a drink. I needed to shut that voice up before I did something stupid.