Chapter 3: Summoned to the President’s Office

The moment Alexander Sinclair stepped into the lift, the spacious compartment suddenly felt claustrophobic and intimate.

His commanding presence was so palpable that despite his silent demeanor, the entire lift became saturated with his distinctive essence—cool, refined woody cologne mingled with an aura of untouchable power.

Emma found herself utterly enveloped by this intoxicating presence, with absolutely nowhere to retreat.

Charlotte, visibly flustered, quickly grasped Emma’s arm and attempted to extract her from the situation. “President Sinclair, please make yourself comfortable. Emma and I will simply wait for the next lift.”

She then tugged at Emma’s sleeve, signaling their departure.

However, as Charlotte glanced back, she noticed something peculiar: Emma’s head hung dramatically low, and her meticulously styled hair had somehow come undone. She was frantically attempting to rearrange it across her face.

Emma’s internal panic was reaching critical mass.

She urgently pushed her cascading locks back into position, keeping her head rigidly lowered.

How could this possibly be happening?!

The mysterious stranger from that fateful night was actually Alexander Sinclair?!

Her one-night stand had turned out to be her boss?! And she’d just encountered him in an elevator!

Oh God, what if he recognizes her?!

She was simultaneously mortified and panicked, desperately yearning to vanish from the lift immediately.

Charlotte’s suggestion felt like divine intervention. She nodded frantically, preparing to make her escape when Alexander Sinclair’s voice cut through the tension—calm, measured, utterly composed.

“There’s no need.”

His assistant smiled and elaborated, “President Sinclair doesn’t concern himself with such matters.”

The assistant then proceeded with formal introductions: “This is Alexander Sinclair, our newly appointed group president. I’m Marcus Webb, President Sinclair’s executive assistant.”

The two women had no choice but to remain in the lift.

Charlotte executed an awkward bow: “President Sinclair, Assistant Webb.”

She then jabbed Emma discretely, silently commanding her to offer appropriate greetings.

Emma: Internal screaming

“P-President Sinclair… Assistant Webb,” Emma managed, her voice strained and unnatural, her cheeks flushed crimson with nervous tension, her words tumbling out with a betraying stammer.

Mercifully, Alexander Sinclair appeared disinterested.

He simply hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping across both women with detached indifference, never lingering on Emma’s face.

The lift doors sealed shut, trapping Emma with no escape route except to endure the agonizing proximity to this man.

The business department occupied the 28th floor, while Alexander Sinclair’s executive suite commanded the pinnacle—the 42nd floor.

As the numerical display ascended with glacial slowness, Emma felt she’d never experienced such psychological torment confined within an elevator.

Only four occupants remained: Alexander Sinclair and Marcus stood at the front, whilst Emma and Charlotte huddled anxiously at the rear, barely daring to breathe.

Emma continually compressed herself into the corner, her head bowed in desperate prayer that she’d remain unrecognized.

Unbeknownst to her, every nervous gesture—each hair toss, each fidgeting hand movement, each unconscious pinch at her skirt hem—was reflected with exaggerated clarity in the polished mirror-finish elevator doors.

Even Marcus couldn’t help but glance at her repeatedly with barely concealed curiosity.

Emma, still moving her feet with unconscious agitation while maintaining her downward gaze, gradually shifted her position until she stood almost directly behind Alexander Sinclair.

His frame was imposing and commanding. Despite Emma’s own respectable height of five-foot-seven, she appeared diminutive in his presence.

Their silhouettes overlapped significantly in the reflective surface.

Alexander’s gaze momentarily descended to the lift door’s mirror, then immediately averted away a fraction of a second later.

With a decisive ding, they finally arrived at the 28th floor.

Emma’s relief was instantaneous and profound.

Charlotte smiled politely and took her leave, but Emma abandoned all pretense of composure and bolted from the lift as though fleeing a catastrophe.

Only once she’d crossed the threshold into the hallway did her thundering heartbeat begin to decelerate, and her constricted breathing gradually normalize.

She’d evacuated with such velocity that she collided directly with another person.

“Ow!”

A shrill female shriek reverberated through the corridor.

Emma’s mind snapped into awareness, and she immediately launched into profuse apologies: “I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t mean to! Truly!”

“Emma, could you not watch where you’re going?! Did you deliberately crash into me?!” the woman shrieked indignantly.

Sophie Mitchell had been clutching her lipstick, intending to visit the restroom for a cosmetic touch-up, when this collision had sent her lipstick skewing across her lips in a rather unflattering manner.

Upon recognizing Emma, Sophie’s irritation intensified exponentially.

Sophie was the niece of one of the company’s senior executives, having secured her position through familial connections rather than merit. Her professional abilities were decidedly mediocre, and her temperament bordered on insufferable.

However, she possessed undeniable physical attractiveness and habitually wore form-fitting attire to showcase her physique. Historically, all the male colleagues in the department had orbited her like planets around the sun.

Then Emma Thompson arrived, and everything shifted.

Emma possessed ethereal beauty that transcended Sophie’s conventional attractiveness, and her figure was objectively superior—lithe-waisted, long-legged, with elegant curves. Even dressed in professional business attire, she exuded an intoxicating blend of innocent purity and subtle sensuality.

Simply existing in the same room, she captivated every male gaze.

Sophie had been seething with suppressed resentment for months.

Presently, Charlotte caught up to them and frowned with concern: “Emma, what’s gotten into you? You were just in the same lift as President Sinclair—why do you appear so unsettled?”

“You were in the same lift as President Sinclair?” Sophie’s eyes suddenly ignited with jealous fervor, and she scrutinized Emma with undisguised envy and spite: “Did you actually encounter the newly appointed President Sinclair?”

She’d heard extensively about President Sinclair’s exceptional attractiveness and extraordinary wealth. She’d even taken considerable effort with her appearance this morning, yet hadn’t encountered him. Meanwhile, Emma had.

Her resentment escalated, and she couldn’t resist delivering a cutting remark: “Oh, so you’re rendered completely incapacitated in the presence of an attractive man, are you? Don’t delude yourself into imagining that sharing a single lift ride grants you any special opportunity. Let me inform you quite clearly, Emma—not every random employee can capture the attention of someone of President Sinclair’s caliber.”

Emma recognized that Sophie had perpetually targeted her, but as an ambitious newcomer without influential connections, she desperately needed this employment. Consequently, she typically circumvented confrontation whenever feasible and only defended herself when provoked excessively.

Currently, however, her composure was already severely compromised, and Charlotte’s question had amplified her guilty conscience considerably.

She hadn’t merely shared a lift; she’d already slept with him.

Contemplating this mortifying reality, Emma’s demeanor became even more visibly anxious, and she stammered pathetically: “I’m… I’m truly sorry.”

Sophie examined her suspiciously multiple times, but discerned nothing incriminating, so she simply snorted derisively, rolled her eyes with exaggerated disdain, and departed.

Throughout the remainder of the working day, Emma existed in a fragmented mental state.

She reviewed the commercial documentation on her desk repeatedly—three separate occasions—yet absorbed virtually nothing, her eyes persistently drifting toward the departmental entrance.

She’d initially harbored grave concerns that Alexander Sinclair’s inaugural day would include an inspection tour of the lower departments.

Providentially, aside from the departmental manager being summoned to an executive meeting, the day progressed without significant incident.

As the final bell approached signaling the end of the business day, Emma finally exhaled with cautious relief.

Nothing occurred all day. Everything should be secure now.

Perhaps Alexander Sinclair genuinely didn’t recognize her. He might have been intoxicated that evening as well.

Given his elevated status, he undoubtedly maintained numerous intimate connections within his private sphere. A single one-night encounter was probably utterly insignificant to him—something he’d dismiss without a second thought.

Rationalizing this way, Emma progressively relaxed her vigilance and was just beginning to redirect her concentration toward her pending assignments.

However, precisely ten minutes before her scheduled departure, the office telephone on her desk suddenly emitted its shrill summons.

The voice transmitted through the receiver belonged to Marcus Webb, whom she’d encountered in the lift that morning. His tone was impeccably courteous.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Thompson. This is the President’s Executive Office. I’m Marcus Webb, President Sinclair’s Special Assistant. President Sinclair has requested your immediate presence in his executive suite on the 42nd floor.”

The line disconnected.

Emma’s consciousness went completely blank.

What? He wanted to see her? Why?

Oh God. Had he recognized her after all?

Her entire world was collapsing.