Page 5

CHAPTER 4

S ebastian paused at the threshold of The Red Lion, taking a moment to assess the scene before entering like a general surveying a battlefield—though he was beginning to suspect he might be the one walking into an ambush.

He adjusted his cuffs out of habit, a nervous tell he’d never quite managed to eliminate despite years of boardroom negotiations.

This was business, he reminded himself firmly. A property acquisition. Nothing more complicated than that.

The fact that he’d spent an unusual amount of time selecting his coat this evening was purely coincidental.

He pushed open the door, and the small brass bell above chimed with the clear, sweet tone of something that had been welcoming visitors for decades. No one looked up immediately, which gave him a moment to observe the scene unfolding near the bar.

Tessa Lawson stood behind the polished wood, mid-negotiation with a broad-shouldered delivery man whose soaked uniform suggested he’d been battling the London weather for most of the day. Sebastian lingered near the entrance, content to watch what appeared to be a master class in tactical business management.

“The agreement was for monthly delivery, not weekly,” Tessa said, her voice carrying that particular blend of calm authority and steel backbone that Sebastian was beginning to recognize as her professional signature. “I’ve got the signed contract right here if you’d like to review the terms.”

The delivery man leaned over the bar with the aggressive posture of someone who’d clearly spent the day having this exact conversation with other pub owners, his voice thick with dismissive confidence. “New management policy, love. Take it or find another supplier.”

Classic squeeze play. Sebastian recognized the tactic instantly—he’d used variations of it himself in any number of acquisition scenarios. Create artificial scarcity, impose arbitrary deadlines, force the target into making desperate decisions.

What surprised him was Tessa’s response. She didn’t argue, didn’t raise her voice, didn’t show even a flicker of the frustration that was probably building behind her professionally pleasant expression. Instead, she smiled—a cool, measured expression that somehow managed to never reach her eyes while still looking perfectly polite.

“That would be truly unfortunate,” she said, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the bar’s worn surface with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what cards she was holding. “Especially since The Brewer’s Alliance reached out just last week. They’re looking to expand their London presence—and they’re offering remarkably competitive rates to establish new partnerships.”

Sebastian felt his eyebrows rise slightly. The woman had done her homework.

The supplier’s bluster faltered visibly, his aggressive lean shifting into something considerably more uncertain. “You wouldn’t actually switch suppliers. Stone’s has been delivering to The Red Lion for thirty years.”

“And I’d very much prefer it stay that way,” Tessa said evenly. Sebastian caught the shift—a subtle adjustment of posture, barely there, yet unmistakably dominant. “But if your prices go up, I’ll have no choice but to pass that cost along to my customers. They’re loyal—but they’re also connected. If I switch suppliers, half the borough hears about it by lunch. And other pubs might switch too.”

Subtle. Controlled. Devastatingly effective. Sebastian found himself genuinely impressed by the precision of her maneuvering. She was playing chess while her opponent was still trying to figure out checkers.

“Maybe we could...compromise,” the delivery man muttered, his earlier confidence evaporating like morning fog. “Bi-weekly payments?”

“Monthly,” Tessa said without hesitation, “with a pricing review scheduled for January. If you can match The Alliance’s terms, I’ll be happy to feature your craft selection prominently during the winter season.”

Ten minutes later, the supplier left with a handshake and a signed contract addendum—one that gave Tessa significantly better terms than she’d started with and left Sebastian with the distinct impression that he’d just witnessed a master class in negotiation.

“Well handled,” he said, stepping forward as the door closed behind the considerably deflated delivery man. “Business school?”

She barely glanced at him, though he caught the slight tightening around her eyes that suggested she’d been perfectly aware of his presence throughout the entire exchange. “Life school. Far more rigorous curriculum, and the professors don’t accept late assignments.”

Sebastian watched her file the contract beneath the bar with movements that were both economical and graceful. Her blouse had indeed changed since their morning encounter—a rich green that somehow managed to bring out the color of her eyes while looking entirely professional. The color suited her, though he had no business noticing such details.

“The police have finished their preliminary work,” he observed, scanning the room and noting the absence of crime scene tape and forensic equipment.

“Just for the main floor,” she corrected, gesturing toward the back of the pub where he could see official barriers still cordoning off the cellar area. “The archaeological team still needs to complete their assessment before the cellar can be reopened. As you can see, business is absolutely thriving in the meantime.”

There was a definite edge to her sarcasm, but Sebastian caught something else beneath it—weariness, perhaps, or the particular strain that came from fighting battles on multiple fronts simultaneously. This wasn’t just her business establishment, he realized. This was her entire world.

“That’s actually precisely what I came to discuss,” he said, settling into the bar stool directly across from her with the sort of careful casualness that suggested this conversation had been planned rather than improvised. “Westfield Development is prepared to present a significantly revised offer, given the...recent developments.”

“You mean the young man we found dead beneath my pub?” Her voice carried a note of challenge that hadn’t been there during her negotiation with the supplier.

“A tragic historical detail, certainly,” Sebastian replied, retrieving a slim leather folder from his coat and placing it on the bar between them with the reverent care of someone presenting important documents. “We’ve reviewed similar cases involving historical remains. Once the documentation process is complete, development can proceed on schedule.”

Tessa didn’t reach for the folder. Instead, her fingers drifted along the deep grooves worn into the bar’s surface by centuries of elbows and conversations and countless small human dramas. The gesture seemed unconscious, protective, as if she were drawing strength from the connection to all that accumulated history.

Tessa sighed. “We’ve been dancing around this for weeks. I want to hear you say it. What, exactly, does Westfield Development have planned for this location?”

Sebastian hesitated for just a moment—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he was suddenly, inexplicably reluctant to deliver it. “The Westfield Residences at Lion Square. Luxury apartments with modern amenities. Boutique retail spaces on the ground level. It would be a significant improvement to the neighborhood’s economic prospects.”

Her gaze sharpened with laser focus. “Lion Square?”

“We’ve already secured purchase agreements for most of the surrounding block,” he confirmed, though something about her expression was making him increasingly uncomfortable. “The project represents a substantial investment in the area’s future development potential.”

“And this building specifically?”

Here it came. The moment he’d been dreading without quite admitting it to himself.

“We would naturally preserve certain architectural elements in the main atrium design,” he said carefully, falling back on the language his development team had crafted for exactly these conversations. “Historic touches that honor the site’s cultural significance while maximizing the property’s potential.”

“You’re planning to tear it down.” Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, devoid of the emotion he’d been bracing himself to handle.

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to—they both knew what preservation of “certain architectural elements” actually meant in development terms.

“It’s likely the foundation will require extensive remediation,” he said instead, retreating to the safety of technical specifications. “Or that the structure will fail to meet modern building codes in several critical areas. From a safety standpoint, renovation simply isn’t practical.”

“This building has stood for over two centuries,” Tessa replied quietly. “I’d say it has a fairly impressive safety record.”

“And now it’s preventing progress,” Sebastian said, the words emerging more bluntly than he’d intended. The flash of pain that crossed her face made him want to take them back immediately, but it was too late. “Look, this pub is clearly draining your energy and resources for minimal financial return. Our offer would give you the freedom to pursue something more...sustainable.”

She placed her hand flat against the wooden surface of the bar, her palm covering scars and stains that probably had their own stories. “So that’s your pitch? Money solves everything?”

“Isn’t that usually the case, ultimately?” The words felt wrong even as he said them, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from falling back on familiar corporate rhetoric.

“How, exactly, do you know Oliver?”

Sebastian narrowed his gaze. After a moment he shrugged. “I’ve know him since Eton,” Sebastian replied, the words clipped but tinged with an old, familiar irritation. “And then university. We were...let’s call it academic rivals.”

Old memories stirred. ‘Rivals’ hardly did their relationship justice. Oliver had always been maddeningly brilliant—the kind of mind that could absorb entire volumes in a weekend and forget to eat while doing it. Not charming, not strategic—just...casually extraordinary. Oblivious to social cues, unaware of his own effect on people, and somehow still admired for it.

His parents had adored him, of course. Indulgent, proud, blind to the chaos he often left in his wake.

Sebastian’s childhood had been a different kind of battlefield. His father demanded perfection—sharp focus, polished manners, measurable results. Praise was rare; expectations were constant.

And maybe that’s why Oliver had always gotten under his skin. While Sebastian had clawed his way forward with discipline and grit, Oliver floated—drifting through life on raw intellect and unconscious entitlement.

That was part of what drew Sebastian to The Red Lion in the first place. He’d heard Oliver spent time there. And though he’d never said it out loud—not even to himself, really—he liked taking Oliver’s toys when he could. Just to prove he was better. Smarter. More capable.

Tessa’s question had startled him more than he cared to admit. Because somehow, without knowing the history, she’d zeroed in on the truth of it. The petty, competitive, unspoken part of him that hadn’t outgrown the need to win—not just in business, but over Oliver .

“Oliver mentioned The Red Lion during a conversation sometime in the past year,” Sebastian continued, trying to keep his tone neutral. “It caught my interest.”

“Mm-hmm.” Her brow arched, unimpressed. “And out of all the pubs in London, this one just happened to catch your interest? How convenient.”

Sebastian leaned forward, his carefully maintained composure beginning to slip. “Your heritage status application won’t stop this development. It might delay the timeline, create some additional paperwork—but ultimately, we will build here.”

“You sound remarkably certain about that.”

“I am certain. The economic case alone?—”

“—means absolutely nothing without proper cultural context,” she interrupted, her eyes flashing with something that might have been anger or might have been passion. “This pub isn’t just a building, Mr. Westfield. It’s the heart of this community. People mark the important moments of their lives here. Celebrations, commiserations, first dates, last drinks before shipping out to war. You can’t just erase that and replace it with luxury apartments.”

Sebastian faltered, thrown off balance by the sheer force of her conviction. Most people negotiated from positions of financial necessity or personal ambition. Tessa Lawson belonged here in a way that had nothing to do with contracts or spreadsheets.

Before he could respond, the atmosphere shifted. The air went still in that particular way that precedes a thunderstorm, and the light through the stained-glass windows seemed to dim—despite the clear skies outside.

On the bar between them, a half-empty pint glass began to move—gliding, impossibly, across the polished wood.

No hands. No breeze. No explanation.

Sebastian’s breath caught. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

The glass slid to a stop with eerie precision, resting dead center between them.

For a moment, the silence felt alive. Pressurized.

Tessa moved first, reaching for a bar towel with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

“I think we’re finished here, Mr. Westfield,” she said, her voice calm but clipped.

Sebastian glanced from the glass to her face. He was used to logic, to control. This?

This made his skin crawl.

“Sebastian,” he said automatically, still staring at the glass, trying to process what he’d just seen. “Please.”

She didn’t acknowledge the correction. “Unless you’re planning to order a drink, I think you should leave. I have a pub to run.”

His eyes met hers across the bar, and in that charged moment, he felt completely off-balance—unmoored from the certainties of his carefully ordered world. As if she were the one holding all the power now, and he was just a man who’d wandered into something far more personal—and far stranger—than a business negotiation.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he said, standing with what he hoped looked like dignity instead of retreat.

“No,” she agreed, resuming her cleaning with slow, deliberate movements. “It definitely isn’t.”

Sebastian found himself watching her hands with an intensity that was entirely inappropriate under the circumstances. There was something about the way she moved—fluid, sure, utterly at home in the space—that made him painfully aware of how rootless his own life had become.

She noticed his stare and slipped her hands beneath the counter. “Good evening, Sebastian.”

The use of his first name hit harder than it should have. He couldn’t tell if it was a warning, an invitation—or both.

He nodded once and turned toward the door, aiming for dignity. As he reached for the handle, a crystalline sound rang out behind him.

He turned. The pint glass was spinning—slowly, precisely—then came to a stop in the exact same place.

Sebastian pivoted halfway back toward Tessa, one brow raised in what he hoped passed for cool detachment. “We’re really not going to acknowledge that?”

Tessa met his gaze, completely unfazed. “No,” she said. “We’re not.”

He studied her, hoping to find something solid in her expression—some hint of logic or explanation. She gave him none. Only that maddening, calm stare.

So he stepped into the cool evening air. His pulse thrummed despite the chill. The London breeze helped clear his head—but not enough. Not nearly enough.

This wasn’t a routine acquisition anymore. Somewhere between her passionate defense and that unexplainable glass, the situation had shifted—become personal. Complicated.

A test of wills.

Between past and future. Logic and legacy. Himself and a woman who seemed to radiate purpose from every cell.

And if Oliver Graham was watching from the shadows, enjoying the spectacle of Sebastian being thoroughly outmaneuvered by a pub-owning woman with no formal business training—then failure was not an option.

He straightened his coat, jaw tight.

The Red Lion would fall. All buildings did, eventually. When the right pressure was applied with enough persistence.

Even if this particular building came with a keeper who was starting to haunt him more effectively than the pub itself.

A problem for tomorrow.

After a strong cup of coffee and a full reset of his professional equilibrium.

Definitely tomorrow.