Chapter 4: Was It You That Night?

Chapter 4: Was It You That Night?

The president’s office?

Alexander Sinclair’s office?!

Why on earth would Alexander Sinclair request a meeting with a junior business analyst for absolutely no apparent reason?

Had he recognized her? Was he planning to confront her? But if so, why had he waited an entire day before summoning her?

Just as Emma’s anxiety had begun to subside, her heart commenced its frenzied pounding anew.

Emma desperately wished to decline this summons, yet she absolutely lacked the audacity to refuse.

Unless she was prepared to resign immediately.

Observing Emma’s expression—one of abject dread, as though she’d received catastrophic news—Charlotte couldn’t refrain from inquiring, “Emma? Where are you headed? We’re practically finished for the day.”

Emma forced a smile that more closely resembled a grimace. Unwilling to reveal that Alexander Sinclair had personally requested her presence, she fabricated an excuse: “I’m meeting with Managing Director Sterling. He just telephoned requesting my immediate assistance upstairs.”

With mounting trepidation coursing through her veins, Emma ascended to the 42nd floor. Upon arrival, Marcus was already positioned at the lift entrance, affording her no opportunity for escape. He maintained the identical professional smile he’d displayed during their elevator encounter that morning.

“Ms. Thompson, you’ve arrived. President Sinclair is expecting you in his office.”

Emma’s palms were drenched with perspiration. She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, unable to formulate coherent speech. She could only trail behind Marcus toward the presidential office.

The entire 42nd floor, exclusive of the executive secretariat, constituted the president’s private domain—vast, hushed, and meticulously appointed.

Before crossing the threshold, Emma couldn’t restrain herself from questioning Marcus quietly: “Assistant Webb, are you aware of why President Sinclair wishes to see me?”

Marcus, whose tenure with Alexander Sinclair spanned numerous years and whose professionalism was exemplary, responded diplomatically: “I’m afraid I’m not entirely certain, Ms. Thompson. You’ll discover the reason momentarily.”

Receiving no enlightenment, Emma reluctantly approached the imposing wooden door and knocked hesitantly. Only after hearing an authoritative “Enter” from within did she muster sufficient courage to push it open.

Upon entering, she observed Alexander Sinclair positioned in profile beside the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, his left hand casually inserted into his trouser pocket whilst he conducted a telephone conversation. He didn’t interrupt his call upon her entry—merely casting a sideways glance in her direction before returning his complete attention to his caller, occasionally emitting soft affirmations of “Yes” or “Indeed.”

Emma, naturally, wouldn’t dare interrupt and stood silently to the side, attempting to appear inconspicuous.

Time stretched interminably.

Emma’s consciousness gradually drifted into a haze.

Her gaze unconsciously ascended from the carpet beneath her feet and fixed itself upon the man silhouetted against the expansive window.

Alexander had removed his formal suit jacket and now wore only an immaculate white dress shirt with sleeves rolled deliberately to his elbows, exposing a section of beautifully sculpted, sun-bronzed forearm displaying impressive musculature.

The London skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass behind him created a magnificent backdrop, and the golden hour sunlight streaming through transformed his silhouette into something almost ethereal—his posture radiating absolute authority, his elegant, refined fingers grasping the telephone with practiced precision.

Emma’s breath caught.

These were the identical hands that had gripped her waist and pinned her wrists that night, compelling her to want to bite them as they orchestrated exquisite torment across her helpless body.

Yet presently, he held merely a telephone, behaving as though nothing whatsoever had transpired.

Only when Alexander concluded his call and pivoted to face her did she realize she’d been captured in her reverie.

The instant Alexander’s gaze settled upon Emma’s face, his eyes lingered for perhaps half a second, the duration so fleeting and delicate as to be almost imperceptible.

He held a manila folder in his hands—Emma recognized it immediately as containing her personnel file and curriculum vitae.

Observing that she appeared mentally distant, Alexander’s expression hardened fractionally, and he tapped his refined fingers against the desktop twice—a measured, deliberate cadence.

“Ms. Thompson.”

His voice was precisely calibrated—neither excessive volume nor insufficient, yet commanding absolute attention. Emma’s consciousness snapped back to acute awareness, her face flushing scarlet with mortification.

What was she doing?! This was absolutely not the appropriate moment for such inappropriate recollections!

“Y-Yes, President Sinclair!” Emma stammered awkwardly, her countenance burning with humiliation. “What did you require my presence for?”

She clung desperately to a final vestige of hope perhaps Alexander Sinclair had failed to recognize her, and had summoned her regarding some alternative matter of business significance.

However, Alexander clearly possessed no intention of permitting her such convenient fiction.

He deliberately removed his designer eyeglasses which Emma now recognized were mere accessories possessing no corrective function and positioned them with unhurried deliberation upon the desktop, simultaneously revealing the striking obsidian depths of his eyes. He then articulated his inquiry with unambiguous directness:

“Ms. Thompson, the woman in my hotel suite at The Savoy two evenings ago… that was you, wasn’t it?”

Emma’s entire universe contracted into a singular moment of absolute, crushing humiliation.

He knew.

He’d known the entire time.