Chapter 3 Beneath The Surface

• The next morning dawned gray and moody, a rare sight in Phoenix. The sky hung low, pregnant with unfallen rain, casting long shadows across the Lancaster Global building. It matched Sandra’s mood perfectly unsettled, on edge, but alert.
• She pulled the Bentley smoothly into the curved drive. Steve was already outside, umbrella in one hand, coffee in the other, dressed in slate gray with a black tie. He looked like a thundercloud in human form precise, potent, and untouchable.
• But as soon as he stepped into the backseat, something shifted.
• “You’re unusually quiet this morning,” he noted, glancing up from his phone.
• Sandra shrugged, eyes on the road. “Didn’t sleep much.”
• “Nightmares?” he asked, surprisingly gentle.
• “Just… thinking.”
• “Dangerous habit.”
• She smiled faintly. “You would know.”
• There was a beat of silence.
• “Was it about me?” he asked, low and unreadable.
• Her fingers tightened on the wheel. “If I say yes, will that feed your ego or give you something to actually worry about?”
• He chuckled. “Both, probably.”
• She didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away, and she could feel the weight of his gaze in the mirror.
• Steve spent the first half of the day in a conference room warzone. Three major department heads were pressing for approval on the Mexico expansion project, and Ethan Draven’s company had already started circling some of the local contractors like vultures.
• Steve dismissed them all with a wave and a look that could’ve stopped a riot.
• He wasn’t losing ground.
• Not to Draven. Not to anyone.
• He stepped out of the boardroom and immediately spotted Sandra waiting by the car. She stood under the building’s awning, arms crossed, her blouse fluttering in the rising wind.
• “I need you to drive me somewhere,” he said, striding toward her.
• “Not on the schedule?”
• “No.”
• She opened the door without another word. Once they were on the freeway, she asked, “Where to?”
• “My father’s grave.”
• Sandra blinked. That wasn’t what she’d expected.
• Steve didn’t elaborate. He just looked out the window, jaw clenched.
• The cemetery was quiet. Desert grass shifted in the wind. They stood together in front of a modest granite stone that read Thomas Lancaster – Vision. Discipline. Legacy.
• Steve remained silent for a long time. Sandra stood nearby, unsure whether to stay or step away.
• “I hated him,” Steve finally said.
• Sandra didn’t move.
• “He built this empire from nothing. Taught me how to build. How to win. But never how to feel anything for anyone who didn’t give me an advantage.”
• She looked at him, surprised.
• “I used to come here, thinking I’d feel something—grief, forgiveness, even pride. But it’s still just granite.”
• He turned to her, eyes sharp and raw. “And yet, I find myself remembering his voice in boardrooms and his temper when I hesitate. I’m twenty-eight and still following the ghost of a man I didn’t even like.”
• Sandra stepped closer, softer now. “Maybe because that’s how you survive. Not feel. Just... perform.”
• His eyes searched hers for a long, breathless moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he nodded. “Maybe.”
• The wind picked up.
• And still, neither moved.
• They stopped for a quiet dinner on the way back to an upscale bistro tucked into the edge of the Arts District. The lighting was warm, the air full of the scent of rosemary and grilled lamb. Steve ordered without looking at the menu. Sandra took her time.
• “Wine?” he offered, holding the list toward her.
• She hesitated. “I’m driving.”
• “Fine. I’ll just drink enough for both of us.”
• That made her smile.
• Over roasted vegetables and saffron rice, the conversation deepened. Steve spoke about international takeovers. Sandra surprised him with her insights into corporate politics. She’d seen it from the outside, studied it inside out, and could read a boardroom like a battlefield.
• “You’re wasting yourself behind a steering wheel,” he said quietly.
• “I know,” she answered just as quietly.
• He leaned in. “So why haven’t you left?”
• Her eyes met his. “Because I’m not just here for a job.”
• The words lingered in the air, sharp and clear.
• And Steve… smiled.
• But it wasn’t smug. It was dangerous.
• Like he was beginning to see her not as his driver, or even as Vega’s daughter—but as someone who could undo him, in the most exquisite way.
• They returned to Lancaster Tower just as the first rain began to fall. Steve lingered in the backseat for a moment before stepping out.
• “I’ll need you tomorrow,” he said, voice low. “Early.”
• “Where to?”
• “A charity gala. Black tie.”
• She turned toward him, brow raised. “Are you asking me to drive you? Or go with you?”
• His answer was almost a whisper.
• “Would you say yes to either?”
• Sandra didn’t look away. “Depends. Which version of you would I be going with? The one that stares through people, or the one that drinks wine and remembers his father’s grave?”
• Steve’s smile was slow and deliberate. “Maybe both.”
• She nodded once. “Then I’ll be ready.”
• That night, Sandra sat at her desk, a thick file open in front of her. It wasn’t one of Steve’s. It was her own. Job offers. Notes from professors. Resumes she'd never sent.
• She could leave.
• She could do more, be more.
• But something told her this whatever this was with Steve Lancaster—wasn’t over.
• And maybe, just maybe, it was only beginning.