Lena’s POV
The conference room smells like stale coffee and tension, the kind that clings to the air when two people who hate each other are forced to share oxygen. I sit at the long glass table, my laptop open, notes scattered like battle plans. My ankle still throbs under the desk, but I’ve got it propped on a rolled-up jacket to keep the swelling down. It’s the first time I’ll be working with Sienna, and my stomach’s been in knots since Tessa’s email pinged this morning: Project kickoff, 10 a.m., Room 12B. Sawyer and Rowe. Be professional. Professional. Right.
The door swings open, and there she is—Sienna Rowe, strutting in like she’s on a runway, not a corporate battlefield. Red blazer today, cinched at the waist, skirt tight. Her hair’s in loose waves, lips a glossy pink that match
