C20 Twenty

~Bianca's POV~

She was kneeling between his legs.

Actually kneeling.

I froze.

They pulled apart instantly, like teenagers caught mid-secret. Elena's eyes snapped to me, annoyed, as if I'd interrupted something too precious. Damien looked briefly startled… before recovering in a flash, cool and detached like it was nothing.

Then, without hesitation, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap.

Like it was nothing.

Like I wasn't even there.

Like this was normal.

It thrilled her… I could tell by the subtle lift of her chin, the smug curve of her lips.

And it infuriated me more than I wanted to admit.

I shouldn't feel this way.

I shouldn't.

But I did.

Now she was draped over him, her arms looped loosely around his neck like she belonged there. I sat stiffly across from them in the chair the receptionist had scrambled to pull out for me. My shoulders ached from tension. My pulse was racing. My eyes were locked on his hands—his hands on her waist—and something bitter coiled in my chest.

Why did this feel like betrayal?

This was part of the plan, wasn't it?

Get close. Bait Nathan. Disarm Elena.

So why did it feel like he'd already slept with her?

My mind flashed back to Nathan's rage. The way he'd stormed out.

Now I knew why.

"Mrs. Hayes," Damien drawled, that maddeningly calm tone curling under my skin. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

I met his gaze squarely, mirroring his ease. "Don't tell me you've forgotten… you invited me. Lunch, remember? About You and Nathan's partnership." I let a polite smile flicker across my lips, blade-thin. "As his wife, I'm still included under the six-month transition clause. Just... protocol."

I let the word deliberately hang there.

His mouth twitched. Just slightly.

"Of course," he said, nodding slowly. "A business lunch. Strictly formal."

Elena leaned in, possessive and smug, her hand brushing against his chest like she was fused to his side.

"Then I'll join too," she cooed. "Wouldn't want to give the press the wrong idea—lunching alone with another man's wife?" She tilted her head at Damien, the faux-innocence in her voice dripping with poison. "Scandalous, don't you think?"

Opening my mouth, I was ready to object, to slice that purr right out of her throat—

But Damien beat me to it.

"Great idea," he said without looking at me.

My head snapped toward him. Are you kidding me?

He didn't flinch.

Didn't even bother to acknowledge me.

And just like that, what should've been a nonexistent lunch for two became a very real lunch for three.

We left the office together. Elena clung to Damien's side like a designer accessory. He didn't push her away. He let her touch him, laugh too loudly, and claim space that wasn't hers.

And I…

I was seething.

The restaurant sat just across the street: polished, discreet—one of those places designed for power lunches and private scandals.

At the curb, Nathan stood beside the tall glass doors. He opened one… for Elena.

She sauntered past him like a cat in heat, hips swaying, smug and glowing.

I followed, expecting the same gesture.

But the door slammed shut before I could reach it.

I paused, stunned.

He was already inside.

Asshole.

Inside, the place was soaked in luxury: saffron and suede, gleaming gold fixtures, whispered conversations. The kind of silence that cost thousands.

"Mr. Sinclair," a server greeted with a practiced bow. "Your usual booth?"

Of course, he had a usual booth. Of course, he was that kind of man.

We were led through the main floor, past velvet drapes and flickering candles, to a curved booth tucked into a private corner. Elena slid in without hesitation, tugging Damien in beside her like a prize she'd earned. I took the seat opposite them, expression blank, stomach twisting.

Leaning into him while browsing the wine list, she whispered something that made him smirk. My nails dug into my palm under the table.

The waiter came. I ordered whatever. Sparkling water. Salmon. It didn't matter.

"Damien Kyle Sinclair!" The voice cut through the restaurant like a flare gun. I turned sharply.

A tall, elegant woman in her late fifties strode toward our table with theatrical confidence, dragging another woman along behind her.

Damien stiffened—just for a second—but I saw it.

"Aunt Moira," he said, rising from his seat automatically.

Aunt?

She didn't spare Elena or me a glance, her eyes locked solely on Damien. She reached him and kissed both cheeks with the grand entitlement of someone who expected the world to part for her, and usually got her way.

"You didn't come greet me when you got back to New York," she scolded, all charm and claws. "We were just sitting over there having a girls' lunch and I said, we must say hello."

Damien gave a polite, tight smile. "Of course. I was going to—"

"Oh, nonsense," she waved him off. "You remember Georgina, don't you?"

She turned to the woman beside her: pretty, quiet, polished. And deeply uncomfortable.

I glanced at Damien. His jaw was tight.

"We were just chatting," Aunt Moira went on breezily, "about that girl I've been telling you about."

Elena lifted a brow. I went cold.

"What girl?" I asked in a low voice.

Aunt Moira turned toward me, smiling like a queen descending on peasants.

"The one Damien is supposed to marry."