Sebastian's PoV
Groggily, I awoke to the dulcet tones of Percival, our steadfast head butler. "Good morning, master," he intoned with practiced formality.
"Morning, Percival," I groaned, the haze of last night's revelry clouding my senses. "What ungodly hour is it?"
"Your breakfast awaits, master. Master Law and your parents have already begun their day's activities." Percival's words hung in the air as he quietly exited my room.
Percival, the unwavering figure in our household since my brother's childhood, had an air of mystery about him. In my 32 years, I never knew if he had a family, and he certainly never ventured to visit them.
I adjusted my gray silk robe before questioning him about the morning's offerings. "What's for breakfast, Percival?"
"Well, it's your mother's favorite," he replied.
"Oh, not the Billionaire's Breakfast again. That concoction is absurd. How can she stomach it?"
The Billionaire's Breakfast, a decadent ensemble of A5 wagyu steak, roasted oyster, quail egg, all adorned with gold flakes.
"Kindly refrain from improper words regarding the madame's favorite dish, Sebastian."
"Fine. Just make me some bacon; that should suffice."
Without a word, Percival departed, leaving me to prepare for my first day as the PR team leader at my father's corporation.
As I donned my gray silk robe, Madeleine, our head maid, entered with breakfast and a freshly ironed suit. "Thanks," I murmured.
"You're welcome, sweetie."
An hour later, amidst the meticulous gathering of files, laptop, and phone, I contemplated the challenges ahead on my first day.
"The car is ready, sir," announced Percival, breaking the silence as he entered my room.
"Ready for your grand entrance, Sebastian?" My mom looked up from her book, excitement dancing in her eyes.
"Absolutely, Mom. Any juicy reads to keep you entertained lately?" I teased, planting a quick kiss on her cheek as I prepared to embark on my first day.
"Indeed, dear. These steamy novels have been a delightful distraction from your father's recent lack of romance," she shared with a candid smile.
My imagination went on an unwanted tangent at her straightforward revelation.
"Mira, I'm swamped with work, and my aging knees and hips aren't up for a 'grand performance.' How can I give you the best 'grind' under these conditions?" My dad chimed in, entering the conversation, a bag full of golf clubs slung over his shoulder.
"Save it for your secret admirer," Mom retorted, giggling mischievously.
"For the hundredth time, darling, I don't have one!" he exclaimed in mock exasperation, setting the stage for a morning filled with familial banter.
"Go now, dear, you'll be late," my mother urged, her voice carrying a mixture of parental concern and the weight of impending responsibility.
"Bye, Dad! Is Law already there?" I inquired as I hurried towards the door.
"Yes, Sebastian. Your brother might just be the one to inherit the corporation after all," my father remarked with a sense of expectation.
"Oh, I thought it would be a shared responsibility between the two of us." I glanced back at them.
"No. Only one Steele can wield the corporation, Sebastian. The other Steele shall navigate the realm of international relationships."
So, I get to be my brother's subordinate.
"Do not be disheartened, dearest. You're my favorite. You will inherit my company," my mom reassured, a playful wink accompanying her comforting words that never failed to brighten my day.
"But what about Law?" my dad interjected, making it clear that my older brother held a special place in his favor.
"Oh well, he gets to manage your company," Mom replied casually, her attention returning to the book in her hands.
In just a thrilling 15-minute drive, I found myself standing at the grand entrance of the towering building that housed Steele Corporation.
"PR Team is located on the 12th floor. Gosh, I hate elevators," the receptionist informed me, her voice echoing in the sleek lobby.
I parked my car in the designated spot, expecting to find my brother Law's car adjacent to mine. However, a conspicuous absence puzzled me. "Why is Law's car not here?" I wondered, scanning the vacant spaces around mine. His absence raised a fleeting suspicion, quickly dismissed.
I shook off the thought, striding into the building with purpose. As I entered, my phone buzzed with urgency, and the first thing that caught my eye was a blaring news notification.
"No, she's not."
Curiosity piqued, I clicked on the article. The headline hit me like a tidal wave—my favorite artist, Elena Harrington, found dead in the suburbs.
"No freaking way. I was just listening to her songs last night."
With a heavy heart, I closed my phone. The day's momentum shifted, leaving a somber undercurrent. "Man, that's a bad start for today. Kinda sad. I hope she gets her justice." The weight of the news lingered as I stepped into the elevator, anxious for the day's challenges on the 12th floor.
As I stepped into the elevator, I bumped unto someone, my attention was immediately captured by a striking Latina-German lady sharing the confined space with me.
"I am very so-" she stopped her words.
'God, she's fine as hell.'
Her presence exuded a captivating blend of Latina warmth and German elegance, creating an irresistible allure.
"I-I am very sorry, sir." she apologised. She's wearing our ID.
Cascading waves of rich, chestnut hair framed her face, gracefully falling over her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. The subtle sway of her hair seemed to complement the rhythmic sway of her hips, suggesting a confident and alluring demeanor.
"Please be careful next time." I said and stepped inside the elevator.
"Aren't you gonna ride this?" She asked. She hurriedly ran up.
Dressed in an ensemble that effortlessly combined Latina vibrancy with German precision, she showcased a form-fitting outfit that accentuated her curves.Her black suit adds sexiness. The fabric clung to her sexy built, leaving an impression of both strength and sensuality. Every movement she made, from a subtle turn of the head to a confident stride, carried an air of magnetic charm.
'Please, be calm. Be cool in her eyes.'
As the elevator smoothly ascended, I couldn't help but be captivated by the way she carried herself—an embodiment of cultural fusion, confidence, and undeniable allure.
"What floor, miss?" I asked gently. Was that gentle enough? Or was that a bit stern?
"O-Oh, 7th floor, sir." I then pressed the 7th button.
I opened my phone and tried to not look at her.
As soon as the door opened to her floor, I got curious and opened my damn mouth.
"Your name?" I asked as she stepped out.
"Sir?"
"I asked for your name." Was that too cold? Oh my, I'm gonna punch myself.
"It's Lily Sinclaire, Marketing Manager," she said.
"Hmm. Okay."
Her presence, like an intoxicating melody, lingered in the confines of the elevator, making the brief encounter unforgettable.