chapter120
The more Lysander reflected on Thalassa’s presence, the more unsettled he became.
He found himself increasingly drawn to her, yet he remained fundamentally at odds with her approach to life. To a man of his standing, Thalassa appeared to be a puzzle of contradictions—someone who navigated the world with a street-smart pragmatism that often looked like calculated ambition.
In Lysander’s cynical view, her history seemed defined by a relentless drive for stability. He thought of her past records—the incidents at the bars, her quick adaptation to the Sinclair Group’s internal politics, and the way she had secured a high-paying role on the executive floor. He misinterpreted her survival instincts as a series of maneuvers designed to capture the attention of influential men like John, the head of security, or even himself.
Is it all a game to her? he wondered. He imagined her in a dimly lit club, using her natural charm to meet sales quotas, or engaging John in conversation to ensure her assignments were manageable. He viewed her intelligence not as a tool for growth, but as a weapon for securing comfort.
If she weren't related to Celia—if she didn't possess that same hauntingly familiar blend of grace and resilience—he told himself he wouldn't spare her a second glance. Yet, here she was, meeting his gaze with a directness that felt neither calculated nor deferential.
When he had tried to challenge her earlier, she had responded with a sincerity that he initially mistook for naivety. I’ve never met anyone so resiliently optimistic, he thought, his frustration warring with a growing sense of intrigue.
He finally released his steady grip on her chin, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “I’ve encountered many people with high opinions of themselves, Thalassa, but your confidence is in a category of its own.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward his car.
Thalassa stood there, momentarily puzzled. Confidence? Was he complimenting my resolve or critiquing my persistence? She didn't have time to dwell on his cryptic parting words. The evening was late, the police station was isolated, and the last of the public transport had long since passed.
Her thoughts immediately went to her four children. She knew her mother and aunt would be anxiously checking the clock. Every minute she spent standing in the cold was a minute away from them.
She hurried toward the black sedan. “Mr. Sinclair, given the circumstances... would it be possible to get a ride?”
Lysander glanced at her through the window, his expression unreadable. “Get in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” Thalassa said, sliding into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief. “Your efficiency is as impressive as your reputation suggests.”
Lysander started the engine, the powerful car gliding away from the curb. They drove in a silence that was heavy but no longer hostile. Thalassa leaned her head against the window, her mind racing through the tasks for the following morning—school lunches, uniforms, and the ever-present demands of her job.
Soon, the car slowed to a halt at the entrance of a modest, well-kept residential neighborhood.
“We’re here,” Lysander noted.
“Thank you again,” Thalassa said, stepping out into the cool night air. She watched the black car pull away, its taillights disappearing into the darkness.
It was only as she turned toward her building that a sudden realization struck her. She stopped in her tracks, a chill running down her spine. I never gave him my address.
She looked back at the empty street. He had dropped her off exactly where she lived—a detail that suggested Lysander Sinclair knew far more about her life than he was willing to admit.