Chapter Four
LEONI
I drift through the racks of the usual high-street stores, running my fingers over crisp shirts and pencil skirts that all scream boring. Warren’s words still echo in my head—get your hair done, wear something smart, be presentable.
Who the hell does he think he is? Mr “I don’t like anyone” Baxter, handing out fashion advice like he’s on the cover of GQ. And who the fuck is Ms Winters anyway?
I sigh heavily, glancing down at the platinum card in my hand. The thing gleams in the light—his card. How trusting of him to hand it over without a second thought.
My lips twitch into a smile.
Across the street, a sports shop catches my eye.
Perfect.
A few minutes later, I’m in the women’s section, thumbing through racks of soft fabrics and bold logos. I find a pair of grey joggers and a matching cropped top that’ll show just enough of my stomach—and my belly button piercing—to make Warren choke on his disapproval.
Next, I grab a black, fluffy winter jacket, warm and oversized, and a sleek pair of high-end trainers. The kind you wear when you have zero intention of being businesslike.
It’s casual. Comfortable. Completely wrong for a lunch meeting.
Exactly what I’m going for.
When I get back to the office, a single note sits on my desk in Warren’s sharp handwriting:
Meet me downstairs in the car at eleven forty-five.
I smile to myself. Perfect.
By the time I step outside, his car is already waiting at the curb, gleaming black against the grey pavement. Anthony stands by the door, as composed as ever.
“Afternoon,” he says, smirking as he opens it for me.
I flash him a grin and slide inside.
Warren looks up from his phone, and the moment his eyes land on my outfit, his expression stills. I hand him his platinum card.
“Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “I didn’t spend a penny of yours.”
He glances at the card, then at me. “Maybe you should have.”
I widen my eyes in mock innocence. “You don’t like my outfit?”
For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face—something that looks suspiciously like appreciation. Then he shrugs, “It’s fine.”
The car pulls into traffic. I study him, thrown by his calm. No biting remark, no lecture about professionalism. Nothing.
So much for that plan.
Five minutes later, the car slows to a stop. I look out the window—and my stomach drops.
“The Mayfair?” I turn on him. “Why are we here?”
He tucks his phone into his jacket pocket, his voice smooth as silk. “Oh, didn’t I say? I changed the venue.”
The Mayfair is the top-tier lunch spot. The kind where people wear tailored suits and order Champagne before noon. Not the kind where anyone turns up in joggers and trainers.
He watches me realise this, the corner of his mouth lifting.
My pulse spikes as I glance down at my pristine trainers, every ounce of confidence I had evaporating. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and try to summon calm.
“Something wrong, Leoni?” Warren asks, the grin clear in his voice.
I shake my head, forcing composure I definitely don’t feel. “Not at all,” I mutter. “I’m thrilled.”
Anthony opens the door, and I hesitate before stepping out, pulling my new furry coat tight around me to hide the strip of bare skin at my waist. The air is cold and sharp, biting at my nerves as we approach the restaurant entrance.
Inside, it’s worse than I imagined—polished marble floors, chandeliers that probably cost more than my rent for a year, the kind of place where even the air smells expensive. My stomach twists. Why couldn’t I just buy something normal? Christ, I’m so stubborn, and now it’s come back to bite me.
The ma?tre d glides forward with a practised smile. “Mr Baxter,” she says warmly, before her gaze drops to me. Her eyes widen, and I swear I hear her gasp softly.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” Warren says smoothly, slipping into that smug, professional tone I hate. “She’s paid by the hour, and I didn’t have time to brief her on the dress code.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?” I hiss, glaring at him, but the ma?tre d only arches one perfect brow, clearly fighting a smirk.
Warren continues, unbothered. “We haven’t booked a room. We’ll take that business downtown instead. But I’d appreciate you bending the rules for me just this once and allowing us to dine here as planned.”
A strangled noise escapes my throat before I can stop it. My face burns, heat crawling up my neck.
The ma?tre d recovers quickly, offering a polite smile as she gestures for us to follow. “Of course, Mr Baxter. Right this way.”
I keep my head down as she leads us through the restaurant. Every person we pass seems to turn. Men in tailored suits, women in pencil skirts and pearls—each one of them staring, judging.
I can feel the whispers trailing behind me.
By the time we reach the table at the back, I want to sink straight into the floor.
Warren pulls out my chair, and I lower myself into it carefully. Thankfully, my back faces the rest of the restaurant, and I let out a quiet breath of relief.
Warren shrugs out of his tailored jacket, passing it to the ma?tre d. “You can’t eat lunch in your coat,” he says dryly.
I glare at him but slowly peel the fluffy jacket from my shoulders like a sulky teenager. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and I instantly regret every decision that led me here.
“My guest has arrived. Get ready,” he says, looking past me.
Dread pools in my stomach. Right. The guest.
Warren stands, his expression sliding effortlessly into something charming and false. “Nancy, you look stunning,” he says, his voice smooth as silk.
The woman approaching is everything I’m not — tall, graceful, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, wearing a fitted red dress that looks like it was made for her. She moves like she knows people are watching.
Warren kisses her cheek, and she laughs softly, the sound delicate but deliberate. Up close, she’s flawless—warm bronze skin, eyes that miss nothing, and a red lips that curves into something sharp as her gaze shifts to me.
“My god, Warren,” she says sweetly, but her tone is poison. “What did you bring to lunch?”
I fight the urge to sink under the table.
Warren doesn’t flinch. “Leoni, meet Nancy. Nancy, this is Leoni, my secretary.”
I hold out my hand politely, and Nancy stares down at it like I’ve offered her a dead rat.“You let your secretary come to work dressed like that?” she sneers. “Are you fucking her?”
I almost choke with embarrassment, my eyes going to Warren, who simply smirks.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks.
I already dislike this woman, but I’m not about to start a scene, not with someone who clearly thrives on venom, so I pick up the drinks menu and pretend to scan it.
“There has to be some reason for you allowing her to come to The Mayfair dressed like a backing dancer to a rap music video.”
“Now, now. Play nice,” Warren says lightly, though the edge in his tone isn’t lost on me.
Nancy slides into her seat, crossing her long legs and turning her full attention to him. “I call, I text, and you’re always so busy,” she purrs, running one manicured red nail down the back of his tattooed hand.
Warren doesn’t look like the typical businessman.
Tattoos climb his throat, curling over the edge of his collar, up his face, and both hands are inked too—strong, broad hands that flex when he’s tense.
He’s built solid, with wide shoulders and the kind of presence that fills a room without even trying.
I catch myself staring, imagining those hands gripping my waist, and snap my gaze away, cheeks heating. Jesus, Leoni, get a grip.
“I’ve been busy,” Warren replies evenly, his tone all cool restraint.
The waitress approaches with her notepad, and before she can speak, Nancy waves her off with a scowl. “You’ve seen I’ve just arrived. I haven’t even looked at the menu,” she snaps.
The poor girl shrinks instantly, murmuring an apology and scurrying away. My jaw tightens. I hate rudeness.
“My father said you’d been busy,” Nancy continues, her smile syrup-sweet. “He thought I should tell you about my new business venture.”
And off she goes—launching into some long speech about a strip bar and brand strategy, or something equally soul-numbing. My mind drifts almost immediately. Business talk makes my brain glaze over, but her voice still grates like nails on a chalkboard.
When Nancy finally pauses to breathe, the waitress reappears, and we order. My stomach’s growling, so I go for steak, and instantly regret it when Nancy daintily requests a leafy salad with a low-fat dressing on the side.
Of course.
As if sensing my discomfort, Warren closes the menu and says, “I’ll have the steak as well.”
That somehow makes it worse.
Nancy tilts her head, her smile cruel. “You never answered my question. Are you fucking this—” she begins, searching for a word that won’t quite come.
“That’s very direct of you,” Warren says coolly, cutting her off before she can find one.
“I like to know where I stand,” she replies smoothly. “She looks like the submissive type. I imagine you like that in a toy.”
My cheeks flare instantly. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, and I curse my mother for passing down the damn blushing gene.
Warren’s voice drops, calm but edged with steel. “You know I don’t mix dating and business. There’s too much between your family and mine.”
“Bullshit,” Nancy purrs, leaning in. “Have your fun with girls like her. But we both know you’ll come to me in the end. I’m your forever ending.” Her red lips curve into a confident smile before her eyes flick toward me with open disdain. “What do you even see in her, anyway?”
I freeze, fingers tightening around my water glass, the humiliation bubbling hot beneath my skin.
For a moment, I honestly think I’m invisible.
They talk over me, around me, like I’m some decorative object on the table, or worse, a servant waiting for orders. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, the prickling behind my eyes, that horrible mix of anger and shame that makes it hard to breathe.