Because Jennifer's stomach growled—loudly, treacherously, and entirely due to her skipping breakfast—Sebastian had servants send a full brunch spread up to the office.
Her office.
Her shoebox of an office.
"My shoebox is turning into a palace," she muttered, eyeing the silver trays now occupying most of her desk.
Now that Duke Chevon had left the premises, she felt safe enough to joke.
She used to think Adrian was hot.
Well. He was.
In a wax-melting-from-a-candle-flame way. In a marshmallow-dissolving-into-hot-chocolate way. Warm. Lethal in a soft, syrupy manner. She malfunctioned around him, yes—but it was a manageable malfunction. The kind that involved tripping over her own feet and forgetting basic vocabulary.
But Duke Chevon?
Duke Chevon was the kind of burn you get from touching dry ice.
Liquid nitrogen.
Instant nerve death.
Around him, Jennifer didn't malfunction. She shut down entirely and began saying words like poop indiscriminately.
Honestly, it might have been better to faint like the other ladies.
Actually—considering the sheer number of absurdly sexy and powerful men who had marched through her lobby this week—Jennifer was fully aware she had only herself to blame.
These men were supposed to be:
The Intimidating Royal Uncle Trope
The Alpha Father Archetype
The Cold Conglomerate Patriarch
The Sexy but Irrelevant Band Manager
They existed to elevate the young male leads.
They were designed to be:
Impressive.
Distant.
Functional.
Disposable once their narrative purpose ended.
That was it.
They were narrative scaffolding.
Temporary load-bearing walls.
And yet here they were.
In her building.
In real life.
One of them had just sent her brunch.
Jennifer slowly sat at the landlady's desk. She did say she was going to "check on things," which in this case meant staring suspiciously at the inbox.
It was empty.
Mysteriously empty.
Particularly since she had placed Angus's signed lease in it just last night.
Jennifer checked the filing cabinet.
She easily located the lease, stamped PAID and canonically filed under H for His Royal Highness Prince Angus, exactly as her webnovel once described.
"Wth," she whispered.
Wait.
Wait.
Stop.
Jennifer froze.
There was something she had forgotten.
Something important.
Sebastian.
Yes.
Sebastian was also a trope side character.
And unfortunately—just like the way she picked his name—she had also simply went with the first butler trope that came to mind.
Sebastian was The Secret Former Assassin Butler.
"Oh, just kill me now," she groaned aloud—then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth.
Wth.
Of course he would know her full name.
And if he was truly written the way she remembered—
She might actually be dead by tomorrow for calling his lord Prince by his given name.
Sebastian was as petty as he was loyal.
A polite knock sounded at the office door.
Jennifer stopped breathing.
You have to understand—at this moment, she was fully expecting to be assassinated.
Jennifer's soul left her body.
The chair tipped backward before she consciously registered moving.
There was a sharp, catastrophic crash as both she and the landlady's ancient swivel chair went down in a tangle of limbs and silverware.
She did not scream.
She produced a noise somewhere between a battle cry and a strangled goat.
The door opened instantly.
Sebastian stepped inside.
Perfect hair. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. Perfectly positioned in the only square of sunlight falling through the office window.
Behind him was a young man Jennifer had never seen before—tall, sharp-featured, equally well-dressed, and currently frowning at the untouched high tea arrangement on her desk.
Jennifer scrambled back to her feet.
"Are you injured, my queen?" Sebastian asked in a voice so smooth it could have been poured over ice.
He was absolutely teasing her, now that it was obvious she was fine.
"I—ah—I slipped," Jennifer admitted.
Perhaps it was better for him to think she was merely a klutz.
He might even think, No need to assassinate this woman. She will eventually trip into her own grave without assistance.
Wait.
Someone who calmly calculated things like that—
Wasn't that just a serial killer?
Jennifer gulped.
Meanwhile, the young man was still staring at the brunch spread.
"What is all this?" he asked coolly.
Sebastian cleared his throat.
"This young gentleman states that Mr. Frank Sin has sent him on business."
"Oh. Frank. Yes?" Jennifer tilted her head, studying the young man—late twenties, composed, eyes too sharp.
And then it hit her.
Her heart skipped.
Her latest male lead.
"Oh!" she beamed. "Welcome! You must be Bastien! I'm so happy to see you. Come—have breakfast."
She was grinning like a madwoman.
But really—this one had been her favorite.
He wasn't like the emotionally constipated disasters she used to write.
This one had been her reincarnation masterpiece.
Bastien. Frank Sin's eldest grandson. Born from a teenage pregnancy. Raised by his maternal grandparents. Slaved his entire life as a tool for the sake of his half-siblings and cousins. Did the family's dirty work. Took the fall for their sins. Imprisoned. Executed at thirty-five.
And then—
Fifteen years back in time.
This time, he would win Frank Sin's trust properly. Inherit everything. Control the board. Rewrite his fate.
Suave. Cool. Capable.
Jennifer felt genuinely giddy seeing him in the flesh.
Bastien sized her up slowly.
"May I ask directly," he said, voice polite but razor-sharp, "are you my grandfather's mistress?"
Sebastian bristled beside her.
And Jennifer—
Jennifer burst into laughter.
"Hahahahahaha—!"
That would be exactly how a man like Bastien would think.