2. Gen
Chapter 2
Gen
I haven’t moved from the couch in six hours.
Correction: I did get up once. To pee and look for chocolate. There wasn’t any. Not even any gross, leftover Halloween candy. Which somehow felt like the universe personally flipping me off.
My throw blanket is askew, there’s a cold cup of chamomile tea sweating onto a coaster, and I’ve hit the end of the streaming void where the algorithm stops offering suggestions and just flashes “Are you still watching?” with palpable judgment.
Yes, Netflix. I am still watching. I am still wallowing. I am still completely humiliated.
Evie says I’m being dramatic. I say that accidentally projecting my own half-nude body onto a billionaire’s conference room screen deserves at least three full days of spiraling. Minimum.
I haven’t checked my email. I can’t.
What am I even waiting for? A pity message from his assistant? A formal rejection letter in Helvetica Bold? A cease and desist from ever entering a Wolfe Resorts property again?
“Okay, girl. Come on, now,” Evie nudges my leg with her foot like she’s afraid to get too close to the biohazard I have clearly become. I showered…yesterday? Maybe two days ago. I don’t know.
I roll onto my side, burying my face into the couch pillow. I can feel my phone somewhere under the throw blanket, taunting me. I should delete the presentation folder from my laptop. I should delete myself from the professional registry.
“Did Sebastian Wolfe reach through the internet and strangle you with your own panty pic?”
I don’t respond. I don’t have the energy to admit that I might have accidentally refreshed his company’s news page thirty times this morning like a crazy person.
“Gen, do I need to procure tequila and an emotional support vibrator?”
“I faceplanted into him, Evie.”
“You tripped.”
“Onto. His. Chest.”
A beat. “Okay, yeah, that’s bad. But still. You’re spiraling and you haven’t even heard back yet. Maybe he thought it was charming.”
“He thought I was a hazard. To furniture. And beverages. And professional dignity.”
“You need to let this go. It’s been three days.”
“Three days and twenty-one hours,” I mutter.
“Okay, see, that’s what I mean. You’re tracking it like your meal macros.”
I shove the blanket over my head. “I should just become a mailman. Or a nun. One of those jobs where no one expects eye contact or digital presentations.”
Evie ignores that. “Did you send him the follow-up email I told you to?”
“Yes.”
“Did you attach the correct pitch deck this time?”
“Also, yes. I even triple-checked the attachments.”
“Then you did what you could. If he doesn’t hire you, that’s on him. Not you.”
I groan and pull the blanket tighter. The truth is, I do care. Too much. Because this wasn’t just a pitch. It was an enormous opportunity. The kind of opportunity you don’t get twice. And I blew it big time. It’s a memorable kind of fuck up that he will never forget, and I will never live down.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s an email notification.
Sender: Sebastian Wolfe
Subject: Luxuria Events Proposal
I jackknife up into a sitting position, almost taking Evie out in the process. She stumbles backward, arms flailing. My stomach drops straight through the floor.
No. No, it’s probably an auto-generated response. Or a lawsuit. Or a restraining order disguised as polite feedback. I stare at the email for a full thirty seconds before I finally tap it open, holding my breath the whole time.
Ms. St. Claire,
After reviewing your proposal, I’ve decided to move forward with Luxuria Events for the upcoming Elysian Cove Launch Event. Your attention to detail and creative approach align with the vision I have for this project.
The planning timeline will be aggressive. Expectations will be high. I don’t tolerate disorganization or excuses. If that’s acceptable, I’ll expect you to accompany me to the island next week for a preliminary walkthrough.
My assistant will coordinate travel and accommodations.
– Sebastian Wolfe
I read it twice. Then a third time. Then a fourth, just to make sure I didn’t hallucinate it from the depths of my shame spiral.
I got the job.
I got the job.
My heart stops. Then accelerates to something completely unreasonable.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” Evie snaps. “What happened? Are you bleeding? Did your ex post something shady again?”
“He hired me.”
There’s a long pause. Then a shriek so loud I almost drop my phone in shock.
“I TOLD YOU! OMG, I knew it! I lit so many candles. I KNEW it would work!”
I should be elated. I should be proud.
Instead, my heart is racing for an entirely different reason.
Sebastian Wolfe just offered me the most important job of my career.
And wants me to fly to the island with him. Next week.
“Evie,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I have nothing to wear that says competent professional with a firm grasp on logistics and also totally unbothered by how hot you are in a tailored suit. ”
“I’ve got you,” she says immediately. “We’re building a wardrobe. And a playlist. And possibly a new identity in case you fall into the ocean.”
“I hate everything.”
“You love this. Don’t lie. This is your moment.”
I press the phone to my chest and stare at the ceiling.
It doesn’t feel real. But it is. It’s happening.
God help me.
* * *
The island is everything the brochure said and so much more.
It’s not just luxury—it’s curated, sculpted to perfection in a way that feels effortless, but I know it required hundreds of people and millions, if not billions, of dollars to achieve. Every palm tree leans with editorial precision. Every stone pathway glistens like it’s been polished by hand. The air even smells expensive, filled with salt and citrus and the faintest whisper of sandalwood.
And it looks even better than it did when I came here with Sebastian for the short walkthrough trip. Which went…fine.
I didn’t smack into anyone’s chest. I didn’t spill coffee on a $10,000 suit. I didn’t accidentally project any underwear photos onto a wall-sized screen.
I did, however, mistake a garden path for an exit and walked directly into a waist-high hedge.
Also, there may have been a minor collision with an actual brick wall when I was absolutely not staring at Sebastian Wolfe’s retreating form as he led me through the west villa corridor. My knee still throbs. No witnesses—except the surveillance cameras I’m pretending don’t exist.
I’ve managed to hold it together since then. Barely. The event is tomorrow, and the pressure is mounting like a goddamn soufflé in a hurricane. I’ve had to meet with Sebastian three times already this week. Each time, he was punctual, stone-faced, and somehow dressed like a spread in GQ. Each time, I left the interaction flustered, defensive, and—if I’m being honest—just a little breathless.
He’s infuriating. And immaculate. And always there.
Which brings us to tonight.
The night before the launch event. The night I was supposed to be finalizing logistics and getting some much-needed rest. Instead, I’ve been playing an emotionally exhausting game of billionaire hide-and-seek. Except he’s not hiding.
He’s everywhere .
Checking the lighting rig on the pool deck. Testing the acoustics near the cabanas. Watching me adjust floral arrangements like I might snap a stem wrong and single-handedly tank his brand.
I swear he’s doing it on purpose.
Each time I turn around—boom. There he is. Folded arms. Crisp shirt. Unreadable expression. Unholy cheekbones.
I’m trying to focus, trying to stay in the zone. There’s a champagne tower that still needs stabilizing, a lighting cue that hasn’t been tested, and a chandelier that got delayed in customs and is now being helicoptered in tomorrow at dawn.
My clipboard is my lifeline. My earpiece is crackling. My body is so tight I might break.
And worst of all?
I forgot the charger for my vibrator.
Which means there is no healthy, nighttime stress release in my immediate future. Not unless I want to try and MacGyver a wire out of a bedside lamp and accidentally electrocute myself. Which, frankly, would at least get me off this island and away from him.
I mean, I could use my fingers…but that just doesn’t give the same O.
I might be a virgin, but I know what I like.
I take a deep breath and pivot away from the staff entrance, trying to remind myself that this is still a huge opportunity. That I am a professional. That I do not need to make any more humiliating memories involving Sebastian Wolfe and my overactive nervous system.
And that’s when I round a corner and nearly walk into him. Again.
Of course.
He’s standing there like a walking warning label—do not approach unless prepared for full-body tension and poor life choices. His gaze drags from my face to the clipboard in my hands and back again.
“Everything running smoothly, Ms. St. Claire?”
His voice is that same low baritone. Smooth. Measured. Deceptively polite.
“Yes,” I say, entirely too fast. “Perfect. Flawless. So smooth it’s practically frictionless.”
He lifts one brow.
Frictionless. Jesus.
I clear my throat and force my shoulders back. “I meant—things are on schedule.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me with that maddening stillness, like he’s cataloging every micro-expression for later analysis.
Then, finally, “Good. I’d hate for the chaos to start before the event even begins.”
A dry, unreadable smile touches his lips. And then he’s gone, walking past me with that purposeful, predatory stride.
I stare after him for a second too long.
Then I mutter under my breath, “Pretty sure it already has.”
One week. One full week-long event, and then I can fade into oblivion and never have to face Sebastian Wolfe again.