NOVEL WEB Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Perish Between Silk Sheets
Hartwell Enterprises, Manhattan
5:48 PM
As the workday neared its end, Julian Lorimer sauntered up to Sebastian Hartwell's office, hands stuffed in his pockets and a cocky swagger in his step. A charity gala at The Imperial Hotel was on the evening's agenda, and both Julian—fresh from an early hospital shift—and Sebastian had been invited.
Dressed in a tailored white suit that hugged his lean frame, Julian propped himself against the reception desk outside the office, resting his chin in one hand as he unabashedly eyed Mia Su up and down.
Mia's pen snapped. This walking STI specimen. "My uterus is a monument to childfree liberation, Doctor."
Across the desk, Clara Morgan kicked Mia's ankle—distraction protocol activated.
When Sebastian's intercom buzzed ("My office. Now."), Clara countered: "Mia's available—"
Clara wasn't avoiding Sebastian—she wanted to rescue Mia from Julian's pestering.
"You." The line died.
Julian's smirk widened. Of course. Everyone on the 80th floor knew Sebastian Hartwell's obsession with his lead secretary.
The Inner Sanctum
Sebastian stood silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling windows, his Brioni shirt stretching across shoulders that could anchor empires. Clara approached like a gazelle scenting lion musk.
Even from behind, his tall, muscular frame—broad shoulders, tapered waist—was enough to make most women weak-kneed, but Clara knew better. Behind that polished facade lurked a predator, and wolf could have been his middle name.
"Assist." He nodded toward the Zegna tuxedo hanging like a shadow.
Clara fought the urge to roll her eyes. Is he losing motor function, or just being difficult?
When she didn't move, Sebastian arched a brow. "Any problem?Ms. Morgan?"
Does Parkinson's prevent billionaires from dressing themselves? Clara summoned her saccharine mask. "Apologies, Mr. Hartwell. Your physique... distracts me."
Sebastian's eyes darkened. He could tell she was bullshitting.
When will you drop the act?
As Clara adjusted his lapels, her slender fingers brushing the premium fabric, Sebastian felt his heart race. He studied her face—flawless skin, delicate features—and lost control. Suddenly, he pulled her against him, his arm firm around her waist.
"Truth time, Clara. Do I frighten you?"
"Terrified." Obviously.
Sebastian stroked her cheek. "I think I'm falling for you, Ms. Morgan."
His predatory gaze left her speechless. To Clara, I'm falling for you meant I want to devour you.
Her breath hitched—prey recognizing the kill strike.
"Come to the gala with me tonight," he ordered.
"I lack the pedigree for black-tie colonialism."
"Pedigree?" Sebastian's laugh was Arctic wind. "I'm not auctioning racehorses."
A silk snap echoed. Clara's La Perla bra slithered down her arms like a surrender flag.
"Or I keep this." Sebastian dangled the lace contraption. "Souvenir of your insubordination."
She clamped a hand over her chest, yanking backward."Mr. Hartwell! Show some decency!"
Sebastian smirked. "Decency? What's that taste like?"
After a tug-of-war, Clara gave in. She knew she couldn't outmatch this son of a bitch—no, worse than a stray dog.
"Fine, I'll go! Let me go!"
Satisfied, he released her. Clara fumbled with her bra clasp, hands shaking so badly it wouldn't fasten.
"Here." Sebastian covered her hands, flicking the clasp shut with a click. But his touch lingered, thumb brushing her spine.
His grin widened at her watery eyes—like a cornered fawn. The next second, his mouth crashed onto hers.
The kiss was brutal, hungry. Clara's head spun, oxygen starving from her lungs. Just as she thought she'd black out, he pulled back.
"Be ready at six. We're leaving together." He tossed a gift box at her. "Wear this."
Clara clutched the box, cheeks flaming. "Thank you, Mr. Hartwell. I'll go now."
Wiping her lip, she smoothed her hair and skirt, fleeing the office with the box. Vivian was right, she thought. I'll die in Sebastian Hartwell's hands.