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CHAPTER 7

A pewter sky hung low over Highgate Cemetery like a disapproving Victorian matron, threatening rain that never quite had the courtesy to actually fall. Sebastian stood in the carefully manicured quiet of the east section, hands buried deep in the pockets of his charcoal overcoat, staring at a headstone that somehow managed to be both imposing and utterly cold.

The grave marker was exactly what Raymond Westfield would have chosen—sleek black granite, minimalist design, polished to a mirror finish that reflected nothing but Sebastian’s own uncertain expression.

RAYMOND JAMES WESTFIELD

1958–2020

“Success is measured in legacy”

No flowers decorated the site. His father would have considered them frivolous—emotional capital that could be better allocated toward something with measurable returns. Even in death, Raymond Westfield remained ruthlessly practical, which was either admirable commitment to principle or deeply depressing, depending on one’s perspective.

Sebastian was leaning heavily toward depressing today.

“It’s been an unusually complicated week,” he said to the stone, feeling simultaneously foolish and strangely compelled to continue the conversation. The cemetery was nearly empty except for a distant groundskeeper who seemed entirely absorbed in his work, granting Sebastian the sort of rare solitude that made confessing to inanimate objects feel almost reasonable.

“The Lion Square acquisition is proceeding according to schedule,” he continued, settling into the familiar rhythm of quarterly reporting that had defined most conversations with his father. “Prime location, solid projected returns, minimal community resistance.” He hesitated, then added with considerably less confidence, “There’s just...one rather significant obstacle.”

Wind stirred the ancient trees overhead, scattering amber and crimson leaves across the foot of the grave like nature’s own funeral arrangement. Sebastian watched them settle before continuing, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

“I met someone.”

The words felt absurd spoken aloud, especially here in this monument to business-first pragmatism. But once started, he found he couldn’t stop.

“She owns the pub—the one standing directly in the path of our development plans.” He ran a hand through his hair. “From a strategic standpoint, the situation is entirely straightforward. The deal is financially sound, legally defensible, and economically beneficial to the area. Everything makes complete sense.”

A pause. A breath. The admission that was slowly eating him alive from the inside out.

“But she loves that place, Dad. Really loves it—not the way people love expensive cars or designer watches, but the way...the way I think people are supposed to love things that actually matter.” His voice caught slightly. “And I think I might be starting to...” He paused, the words catching in his throat. “Care about her. In a way I didn’t see coming.”

The sentence hung in the cold air like a confession he hadn’t meant to make, even to himself.

Sebastian turned abruptly from the grave and paced several steps along the narrow gravel path, as if movement might help him outrun the implications of what he’d just admitted. It was irrational—completely. He barely knew Tessa Lawson beyond a few increasingly charged encounters. Professionally, she was the opposition in a property deal that, while sizable, wasn’t exactly life-altering for someone in his position. He’d closed bigger. Faster. With less complication.

But this wasn’t about the deal anymore.

Philosophically, they were miles apart—she clung to history, sentiment, and stories carved into floorboards, while he favored progress, precision, and the kind of clean-slate efficiency that built legacies.

And yet...here he was. Pacing a cemetery, unsettled by a woman who wasn’t supposed to matter.

The memory of her eyes when he’d confessed about the dreams—not dismissive or skeptical, but genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. The warmth that had threaded through her voice when she’d poured that porter, sharing something she clearly treasured with someone she had every reason to distrust. The way she’d actually laughed at something he’d said, as if she’d glimpsed the person he might be underneath all the corporate armor and found him worth her time.

These weren’t business considerations. These weren’t supposed to influence strategic decision-making.

These weren’t supposed to matter at all.

Another gust of wind rustled through the cemetery’s carefully maintained landscaping, and for one disorienting moment, Sebastian could have sworn he heard Raymond’s voice cutting through the autumn air—sharp, commanding, echoing with the authority that had shaped Sebastian’s entire childhood: “Westfields don’t let sentiment interfere with business, Sebastian. Emotion is a luxury we can’t afford if we intend to build something lasting.”

And that, Sebastian realized with uncomfortable clarity, was precisely the core of his current crisis.

His phone buzzed insistently in his coat pocket. He pointedly ignored it.

It buzzed again, more demandingly.

With a sigh of resignation, he retrieved the device and glanced at the screen.

Board meeting moved to Monday morning. Updated acquisition timeline required by end of week. —Margaret Caine

Followed immediately by:

Need comprehensive progress report on Lion Square development. Board growing increasingly concerned about recent delays and lack of communication. Please advise. —Margaret Caine

Margaret Caine had been his father’s right hand for over two decades, a woman whose loyalty to Westfield Development was matched only by her complete inability to see Sebastian as anything other than Raymond’s designated successor. In her calculation, he existed purely as a vessel for his father’s vision, a continuation of established corporate values rather than an individual capable of independent thought or—heaven forbid—personal growth.

Sebastian stared at the messages, his thumb hovering over the reply button while competing loyalties warred in his chest.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket without responding. He didn’t have to answer—not to the board, not to anyone.

He turned back to face his father’s grave, feeling the weight of twenty-eight years of carefully cultivated expectations settling across his shoulders like a familiar but increasingly uncomfortable burden.

“I know exactly what you’d do,” he said quietly to the polished granite. “You’d increase the offer, apply pressure through zoning regulations, find some way to force the sale regardless of her personal feelings. You’d remind me that successful businesses are built on logic, not sentiment, and that allowing emotional considerations to influence strategic decisions is the fastest way to destroy everything you worked to build.”

The wind picked up again, sending more leaves skittering across the grave site in patterns that looked almost like scattered pages from a life story never quite finished.

“And for the first time in my entire life,” Sebastian continued, his voice gaining strength, “I’m not sure I want to follow that path. I’m not sure I want to be the person who destroys something beautiful just because it’s profitable to do so.”

The words hung in the cold air with the weight of revolution. No response came from the grave—no thunder of paternal disapproval, no ghostly reprimand for betraying family tradition. Just the sound of leaves drifting and the distant hum of London traffic beyond the cemetery gates, as if the world was quietly waiting to see what choice he would make.

Sebastian straightened his tie with hands that were steadier than he’d expected, smoothing the silk with the automatic precision of someone who’d spent decades presenting a flawless professional facade.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said, though whether that was meant as reassurance for his father’s memory or encouragement for his own uncertain future, he honestly couldn’t say.

He stepped through the cemetery’s wrought-iron gates with his father’s expectations still pressing insistently at his shoulders—but something else had begun to take root beneath all that inherited ambition. A question he’d never allowed himself to ask, much less answer:

What if I’m capable of being more than just Raymond Westfield’s legacy?

What if there was space—somewhere between the zoning ordinances and quarterly profit reports—for the kind of man who protected women from falling glass instead of calculating how to profit from their vulnerabilities?

What if there was room in his carefully structured life for something as messy and illogical and absolutely terrifying as falling for Tessa Lawson?

The thought should have sent him straight back to his office to draft an aggressive acquisition strategy. Instead, it made him want to return to The Red Lion, order another pint of that excellent porter, and find out what other pieces of her world she might be willing to share with someone who was finally ready to listen.