Chapter 52: Desert Heat

By 11:45 a.m., Las Vegas was already shimmering with dry, relentless heat — the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel slightly heavier.

Sebastian stepped out of the black town car and into the glossy, tinted-glass lobby of the Mason Equity Group — Nevada Division, briefcase in one hand, suit crisp, expression unreadable.

The receptionist — a young man with a slightly panicked smile — jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Mason! We weren’t expecting — I mean, of course, we’re honored. Ms. Vega is upstairs. I’ll just —”

“Let her know I’m on my way up,” Sebastian said calmly, already crossing to the elevators.

The doors closed behind him with a soft hiss. His reflection stared back from the mirrored walls — calm, composed… but his mind was already working. Numbers. Inconsistencies. Too many delays. Too much silence.

Something wasn’t adding up in Vegas.

---

On the 14th floor, the moment the elevator dinged, he stepped into a wave of tension.

Phones rang. People whispered. Someone nearly dropped a tray of coffee.

And then —

“Sebastian.”

The voice was smooth. Controlled. A little too cheerful.

Nadia Vega, Regional Director. Mid-thirties, tall, with sleek dark hair, perfect makeup, and a tight emerald-green dress that definitely wasn’t in the company dress code.

She walked toward him with outstretched arms, smile just shy of sincere.

“This is a surprise,” she said, her voice honeyed. “We weren’t expecting an in-person review.”

Sebastian didn’t return the gesture. He offered a nod instead.

“Exactly why I’m here.”

Nadia’s smile faltered — just a flicker.

“Well. Let’s get you settled in the boardroom. We’ll bring in the team.”

He followed her down the hallway, noting every hurried movement, every desk with files hastily shoved aside. The scent of cover-up lingered in the air.

This wasn’t a branch that was ready.

This was a branch trying to look ready.

---

The boardroom was glossy, overdesigned, and desperately trying to prove something.

Sebastian took the head seat, placed his tablet on the table, and didn’t bother with small talk.

“Let’s begin.”

Nadia stood at the opposite end, flanked by her three senior managers — two men and a woman, all clearly uncomfortable. She flicked through slides on the screen behind her, voice smooth, as if rehearsed.

“All key performance indicators for Q2 are tracking as projected. Revenue's up by four percent, client retention remains steady, and the Nevada portfolio is expanding into hospitality accounts.”

Sebastian didn’t look up from his tablet. “Define ‘steady.’”

Nadia blinked. “Eighty-seven percent retention.”

He tapped. Swiped. Paused. “Interesting. Because according to central operations data, you're at seventy-four.”

Silence.

One of the managers shifted in their seat. The air thickened.

Nadia smiled — too quickly. “That may be a lag in our internal sync. I can check with our analytics —”

“You had two months to check,” Sebastian cut in smoothly. “You also failed to report a flagged risk on the Mirage Hotels account.”

A long pause.

Sebastian raised his eyes now. Calm. Direct. Dangerous.

“Want to try that one again?”

Nadia’s smile cracked ever so slightly. “That’s… an oversight. I’ll personally ensure it’s corrected.”

“Good,” Sebastian said, standing. “Because the board will be reviewing these numbers next week. And if I don’t believe them — they definitely won’t.”

He closed his tablet, gave a single nod to the room, and said, “You’re dismissed. Nadia — stay.”

The others filed out in awkward silence, avoiding eye contact.

Nadia waited until the door clicked shut.

Then:

“You don’t have to play executioner, Sebastian,” she said, stepping toward him, her tone suddenly lighter. “This branch may not be perfect, but it’s far from failing.”

“I don’t care if it’s failing,” he said. “I care if it’s lying.”

She tilted her head, stepping closer again.

“And I care about solutions. Alignment. Trust.”

Her fingers brushed the back of a nearby chair, then trailed slowly along the polished table toward his side.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

But his jaw tightened. Just slightly.

“We’ve always worked well together,” Nadia continued, her voice dipping into something silkier. “You and I. Even when we didn’t agree, we had… chemistry.”

Sebastian finally looked up. Dead calm.

“Nadia.”

She smiled, taking that as encouragement.

“I’m just saying — some problems don’t require reports. They require… perspective.”

She reached for his tie — bold, slow. Fingers grazing the fabric.

And that’s when he stepped back.

Not abruptly. Not angrily.

But with all the cold finality of someone who had zero interest in being played.

“Don’t mistake formality for invitation,” he said flatly. “You’re not that subtle. And I’m not that stupid.”

Her smile vanished.

“I’m here to clean up this branch,” he continued, stepping around her. “Not to entertain distraction tactics in stilettos.”

He opened the door. “We’ll talk again. When you’re ready to work.”

And with that — he walked out, not bothering to look back.

---

By 7:38 p.m., Sebastian was back at the hotel.

The penthouse suite at the Armandi was impressive — glass walls, private balcony, custom espresso machine he wouldn't touch, and a view of Las Vegas that glittered like a promise you probably shouldn’t believe.

He sat alone at the marble desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, a glass of still water sweating beside his laptop.

Spreadsheets blinked back at him. Graphs, timelines, internal audits. And Nadia Vega’s last quarterly report, which he was now dismantling line by line.

The Mirage account was messier than he'd thought. The internal sync was off. And worse — someone had tampered with timestamps.

Someone was hiding.

He exhaled. Closed the file. Rubbed his brow.

And then — without really thinking about it — he reached for his phone.

Sebastian: Still think I should’ve let PR turn us into a marketing campaign?

It took thirty seconds.

Katherine: Did they offer you matching t-shirts yet?

He smirked. Typed.

Sebastian: Not yet. But I did get hit on by a regional director in a dress that violated four HR policies.

Katherine: Only four? She’s slacking.

Sebastian: She tried to grab my tie.

Katherine: ...did she live to regret it?

Sebastian: I walked out before she could finish her sentence. It was something about “perspective” and stilettos.

Katherine: Yikes.

A moment passed. Then:

Katherine: Also: thank you. For not being predictable.

For not… entertaining distraction tactics.

For making me feel like I’m not just someone you fall into when convenient.

That one sat on the screen longer than the rest.

Sebastian read it twice. Then a third time.

He got up, walked to the balcony, and leaned against the railing. Vegas pulsed below — neon signs flickering, music thudding in the distance, laughter rising from the pool deck.

But in that moment, none of it touched him.

Only her.

He typed slower this time.

Sebastian: You're not convenient, Katherine.

You’re the hardest thing I’ve ever wanted.

And the only thing I’m not willing to lose.

He didn’t press send right away. Just stared at the words.

Then — he hit the arrow.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Then—

Katherine: Well damn.

Now I need a cold shower. Thanks a lot, Mason.

Sebastian chuckled — a quiet sound, surprised even himself. He let the laughter fade, tucked the phone into his pocket, and stood there for a long minute, watching the city spin beneath him.

Then he whispered under his breath, almost to the stars:

“Don’t worry. I’m coming home.”

---

By 3:00 p.m., Katherine was done pretending the day was going well.

The Culver branch review was a disaster from the first minute — the new manager had prepped the wrong deck, two interns forgot the client’s name mid-call, and someone brought her room-temperature green juice instead of coffee.

When she stepped out into the sun, she was sweating in all the wrong places, her shoes were biting her heels, and she had a headache shaped exactly like a budget discrepancy.

She pulled off her blazer, slung it over her arm, and muttered, “I need a vacation. Or a fire drill. Something.”

By 5:00 p.m., she was finally back in her main office, typing furiously and chewing on a pen cap like it owed her rent. Riley knocked once, then peeked in.

“There’s a delivery for you,” her assistant said, holding a slim black box with a satin ribbon and a small white envelope clipped to the top.

Katherine raised a brow. “Please tell me it’s caffeine in disguise.”

Riley grinned. “Better.”

She took the box cautiously, as if it might explode. The envelope was handwritten, her name in familiar, confident script.

She opened it.

Inside:

To Miss Brown,

For surviving Monday.

For not burning the place down.

For being mine.

– S

Her heart flipped.

Twice.

Inside the box —

A pair of heels.

Not just any heels.

The exact vintage green-and-blush stilettos she'd tried on two months ago at that boutique in Westwood — the ones she hadn’t bought because, as she told herself then, “who needs four-hundred-dollar shoes when you can buy groceries and rage”?

She picked one up gently, the leather soft, the shape divine.

On the inside, a tiny embossed message in gold foil:

KEEP IT DOWN, MISS BROWN.

She covered her mouth, a soft laugh escaping — half joy, half disbelief.

Then she pulled out her phone and typed quickly:

Katherine: You have no business being this smooth.

Three dots. Then:

Sebastian: And yet. Here I am. 😌

Try them on.

She did.

And suddenly, Monday didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

---