Chapter 24: In His Shirt, With No Plan

6:03 a.m. – Mason Penthouse.

The sunlight hadn’t properly made its way into the bedroom yet — just a soft, golden hint slipped through the gaps in the blackout curtains. The city below still yawned and blinked, unaware of the chaos that had taken place a few floors above.

Katherine blinked against the morning light, alone in a bed that wasn’t hers — though the expensive sheets, the lingering scent of cedarwood and spice, and the very distinct soreness between her thighs reminded her exactly whose bed it was.

She stretched like a lazy cat, sheets pooling around her bare hips. But when she rolled to her side, she found nothing but cool emptiness. No Sebastian.

Frowning slightly, she sat up, tousled hair falling over her shoulders like a wild mane. She rubbed her eyes, muttered, “Of course he’s not here,” and reached for the only thing she could find — one of his crisp white shirts.

It smelled like him.

She padded out of the room barefoot, still buttoning the shirt halfway, sleeves hanging long past her hands. Her voice was still raspy from the night before when she called out, “Sebastian?”

No answer.

The scent of coffee hit her first, then something buttery and sweet. Pancakes? Toast? Bacon?

She turned the corner into the massive open-concept kitchen — and there he was.

Barefoot, in black lounge pants and nothing else. Hair slightly messy, jaw shadowed in that unfairly hot morning stubble, standing over a pan with the same surgical precision he used during board meetings.

Katherine leaned on the doorframe and smirked.

“Well, look at you, domestic god.”

He looked up — and the way his eyes roamed over her in his shirt, bare legs, no makeup — nothing — nearly made him drop the spatula.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, clearly fighting a smirk.

“Couldn’t sleep without the warm, growling furnace that usually sleeps beside me,” she teased, walking in and stealing a piece of toast off his plate.

He tilted his head. “Hungry?”

Katherine munched, then deadpanned, “For food? Yes. For explanations? Maybe. But first…” — she looked down at herself, then back at him — “I need to go back to my place.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Already trying to escape me?”

“No.” She grinned, taking another bite. “I need to take a proper shower. Do something with this hair. And also…” — she looked over her shoulder and whispered conspiratorially — “I have no idea where my bra went. And I think my dress from last night is now more of an abstract art piece than wearable clothing.”

He laughed — actually laughed — as he flipped a pancake.

Katherine watched him, chewing slowly. Then she stepped closer and whispered, “I have meetings today. And so do you, Mr. CEO.”

“I’ll have the driver take you downstairs,” he smirked, not even looking up. “It’s a thirty-second elevator ride. You'll survive.”

“I prefer walking dramatically barefoot through the hallway in your shirt. Much more theatrical.”

Sebastian finally looked at her. “You really are chaos in human form.”

“And you love it.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, eyes dancing. “Or maybe I’m just stupid.”

She stole a berry from his bowl and winked. “Probably both.”

---

Katherine tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt, standing by the elevator in bare legs and yesterday’s smudged eyeliner. Her heels — one missing a strap — dangled from her fingers, and she held them like trophies.

As the elevator doors slid open, she turned to Sebastían, who was still in the kitchen, holding his coffee like it was a weapon and watching her with a look somewhere between amusement and defeat.

“Six floors, Mason,” she said with a sly smile. “That’s all the distance between your pristine penthouse and my apartment of existential clutter. Feels symbolic, doesn’t it?”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too easy to tempt,” she shot back.

He tilted his head. “Want company on the way down?”

“Only if you’re shirtless. I like symmetry.”

The elevator gave a soft chime, urging her in. She winked, stepped inside, and just before the doors closed, she leaned out and added, “Oh, and check your fridge. I may have stolen your strawberries.”

Sebastían smirked. “Then I hope you enjoy them thinking of me.”

As the doors slid shut, Katherine chuckled to herself. She hit floor 47, and the elevator began its slow descent from the elite heights of 53 to the more modest corners of her existence.

Her apartment was warm. A little messy. The scent of lavender still hung in the air from last night’s forgotten candle. Shoes kicked under the couch, her laptop blinking on the counter with unfinished emails, a bra flung across a lamp — all signs of the hurricane that was Katherine Brown.

She set the heels down, peeled off Sebastían’s shirt (pausing briefly to sniff it again — because, well, she was human), and let it drop to the floor.

By 7:00 a.m., she was in the shower, letting the water steam away the sins of the night.

And yet…

There was something oddly permanent about the feeling that lingered. Not just the sex. Not just the power dynamics. It was the way he had looked at her while flipping pancakes. That lazy, dangerous, intimate knowing.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and glanced at her reflection.

“Get your shit together, Brown,” she muttered to herself. “This is not a rom-com.”

But her heart — it beat with that stupid traitorous flutter that didn’t get the memo.

On the 53rd floor, meanwhile, Sebastían leaned against the kitchen counter, her earrings still sitting on the marble like a forgotten secret. He stared at them for a long moment, then picked up his phone.

"Driver, be ready in thirty. Miss Brown may require an escort back to the office. And send someone to pick up two coffees. Black. And... whatever she orders. Sweet and confusing, like her."

He ended the call and allowed himself a slow exhale.

She had no idea what she’d done to him.

And that terrified him more than he’d ever admit.

---

By 8:07 a.m., Katherine Brown was chaos incarnate.

A riot of cherry-red lips, lashes thick enough to cause a blackout, mismatched earrings (one shaped like a lightning bolt, the other a flamingo), and a technicolor suit that made everyone in her closet want to apologize.

Her curls were wild. Purposefully so. The kind of wild that took twenty minutes, three different brushes, and a very real battle with a round hairdryer.

The result? Utter, glorious disarray.

As she strutted toward the elevator, coffee in hand and confidence cranked up to lethal, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Your ride is waiting. 6th Ave exit, black Mercedes. Courtesy of Mr. Mason.

Katherine rolled her eyes so hard they nearly escaped orbit.

“Of course he sent a car,” she muttered. “Probably came with a silence clause and hand sanitizer.”

Down in the underground parking, the driver — black suit, black sunglasses, black aura — stood stiffly beside the gleaming Mercedes. The rear door was open. Waiting.

Katherine approached… slowly. He gave her a polite nod.

“Miss Brown. Mr. Mason requested —”

“Yeah, he does that,” she interrupted, sipping her coffee and looking over the top of her sunglasses. “Tell him thanks… but I’m taking my beast.”

“Your... beast, ma’am?”

She spun on her heel, and with a smirk, pointed across the lot to a beat-up yellow Jeep Wrangler that looked like it had survived a desert storm — and possibly started it.

The driver blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, very,” she said with a wink. “This ride comes with a playlist and no judgment.”

With a dramatic flip of her curls, Katherine slid into her Jeep, revved the engine, and cranked up the volume.

Fleetwood Mac blasted through the speakers.

She peeled out of the parking lot like a woman on a mission — or one running late for a very sexy showdown.

---

9:00 a.m. — Mason Equity Group Headquarters

Something was off.

Katherine felt it the second she stepped into the lobby.

Too quiet. Too stiff. The kind of silence that precedes either death… or corporate drama.

“Morning, Kat!” someone offered nervously.

“Hi, hello, yes, love the tie, fake enthusiasm, keep walking,” she shot back, striding past the elevators in her flamingo-pink boots.

By the time she reached the creative floor, the tension was thick. Eyes darted. Whispers halted when she passed.

Katherine tilted her head. “Did I accidentally start a cult or is someone famous in the building?”

No answer.

Her gaze snapped toward the glass-walled corner office.

Sebastian’s.

And there — of course — she saw it.

Her.

The tornado in heels.

The woman who haunted oil paintings and bad decisions.

Madison Mason.

Perched on the edge of his desk like a damn sculpture, flipping through papers as if she still ran the place.

Katherine’s jaw clenched. But she didn’t slow down.

She tossed her bag onto her desk, pulled out a lipstick just for the drama of it, reapplied it with military precision… and marched toward that corner office like she owned it.

---