chapter323

When Lysander arrived around ten, Thalassa entered his office with a fresh cup of coffee. He was already immersed in work, his silhouette framed by the expansive city views behind him.

Looking at his sharp, sculpted features, Thalassa felt a surge of compassion. She had grown up without a father, but she had always had her mother’s unwavering love. Lysander had faced the world without that primary anchor from a very young age.

We are both survivors in our own way, she thought.

She stepped toward the desk and placed the car keys and a neatly packed bag on the surface. “Mr. Sinclair, I am returning the vehicle and the items you provided yesterday. I’ve ensured everything is in order.”

Lysander stopped writing, his gaze lifting to meet hers. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’ve managed to secure my own transportation,” Thalassa continued, her voice steady despite the chill in the room. “I prefer to keep my professional and personal logistics separate. It’s a matter of ensuring I remain fully focused on my responsibilities here.”

She had accepted the use of the car previously due to David’s insistence on protocol, but she knew that accepting such a significant gift would blur the lines of their relationship. She was grateful for his intervention during her family’s recent crisis with Bruce, but she wouldn't allow gratitude to become a debt of character.

“Lysander,” she added softly, “thank you for your assistance yesterday. I hope your hand is healing well.”

At the mention of the recent conflict, Lysander’s expression shifted from cold to glacial. “Our professional arrangement does not include personal inquiries,” he said, his voice a sharp, cutting edge. “You may leave.”

Thalassa nodded, maintaining her composure as she exited the room. She realized she had stepped over a line he guarded fiercely. While she felt for the child he once was, the man he had become was a fortress that didn't allow for casual empathy.

Inside the office, Lysander’s grip on his pen tightened until his knuckles were white. He looked at the returned keys—a symbol of her refusal to be bound by his influence. The gesture of independence felt like a rejection he wasn't prepared for. With a swift, controlled movement, he cleared the items from his desk, the sound echoing in the silent room.