Chapter 5

Lana’s POV

I hardly slept. With every time I closed my eyes, Jace Monroe's voice would replay itself in my head.

Don't be late this time.

The audacity of that man. The way he'd regarded me as if he'd already mapped out where I fit. As if I was something that could be measured and contained.

I took a deep breath, willing my image in the rearview mirror to stay calm. My jaw was tight. My lipstick is perfect. My blazer is pressed. Outside, I was serene. Inside, I was a storm of defiance and fear.

It's not about him, I reminded myself. It's about the foundation. The dream. The kids who are counting on me.

When I finally stepped inside, the scent of new polish and chilled air conditioning hit me like a brick wall. My heels clacked bravely against the marble, announcing my arrival with more force than I had.

By the time I reached the thirty-second floor, my palms were sweating.

I knocked.

"Enter," said his voice — smooth, clipped, unruffled.

Jace sat behind a vast black desk, sleeves rolled up, tie absent. The morning light bled through the tall windows behind him, turning his hair into a dark halo. He didn’t look up at first — just flipped through a document, pen tapping lightly against the page.

“Ms. Roth,” he said finally, still not meeting my eyes. “You’re punctual today. That’s progress.”

I swallowed the instant retort burning my tongue. "I'm here to discuss yesterday."

He finally looked at me, eyes cold and impassive. "Yesterday doesn't require discussion. Keller's decision stands. I don't do drama, and I don't do second chances."

The words were direct and sharp, leaving no room for discussion.

"I'm not asking for a second chance," I said quietly. "I'm asking for clarity. You rejected the partnership because I pushed against it?"

He leaned back, the chair protesting softly. "You call it challenging. I call it amateurish. You want investors to hold you in respect, Ms. Roth? Try not to insult them before the meeting begins."

My lips drew together. "I didn't see you."

"That's evident."

Silence hummed in the air. My own heartbeat was so loud that it deafened my ears. I breathed through my nostrils, unclenching my fists behind me.

"Listen," I began softly, "I am here because I believe the foundation gives the children nothing but a means of making something of their own. I've worked for months"

He cut me off with a sweep of his hand. "And still, here you are — pleading with me to change my mind."

That word “pleading” twisted my gut. My mouth closed, but I held my face steady.

"If that's what it takes," I said quietly.

For a moment, his look altered — curiosity flickering beneath his controlled surface. Then it vanished.

He stood up, stepping around the desk. Each step was planned, measured. When he stopped in front of me, the distance between us seemed to have closed.

He looked at me, his head tilting to one side. "Why does this mean so much to you?"

I glared at him, unflinching. "Because I know what it's like to be counted out before you've even started."

Something flashed in his eyes — recognition, possibly. But his tone was still cold. "Still, I don't trust loose cannons. I don't trust emotions interfering with business."

My heart sank. It was finished. The end.

But then — he inhaled deeply, like weighing a bad decision. "However," he said, "Keller will demand that you stay on. I don't want you anywhere near creative strategy, but there may be another job."

I was queasy. "Another job?"

He gestured to a stack of files stacked on the table. "My personal assistant quit last week. You'll fill that position."

For a moment, I couldn't speak. I just stared at him for the spark of irony. A joke. Something.

When I realized he wasn't kidding, I laughed, a rough, bitter laugh. "You're joking."

"Do I look like a joker?"

"You want me to be what? Get you coffee? Make your appointments?"

"Answer my calls, handle my mail. Coordinate logistics. Just be useful to yourself."

My lips moved, closed. "That's not what I"

He cut across smoothly. "Either that, or we're out of the deal. You want your money? Work for it."

Anger swelled up in me, hot and tight. I could feel my heartbeat in my jaw, in my fingers. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to stride out with dignity intact.

But I was frozen, breathing shallowly..

"You're punishing me," I said.

"I'm giving you a choice."

His eyes did not waver. Mine flared.

All my inbred was to scream out, don't do it. Keep whatever little pride you've got. But I could still see the faces of the children, the letters they'd written, the gadgets they'd dreamed of building if only someone believed in them.

I allowed my eyes to drop to the desk, shoulders bracing. "And if I take it?"

His tone softened, but not warmly. "Then we start anew. You work for me. No creative input. No board of directors approval. No public image. You do the job, you get your money. Simple."

Simple.

The term was harsh.

My mouth parted, but nothing came out. I looked at the contract he slapped onto the desk. The paper weighed heavily.

My hand hovered over the pen.