The Hero Was Never Mine

Chapter 5

Quinn Hearst had a plan.

It was a very good plan, in her opinion.

Step one: save the Hearst family fortune.

Step two: expose Eric Winthrop before he could destroy her reputation.

Step three: rebuild her life into something that did not revolve around Sebastian Vanderbilt.

Step four: absolutely, positively, under no circumstances, fall in love with him.

It was a practical plan. A sensible plan. A plan that should have been easy enough for any intelligent woman to follow.

Unfortunately, Quinn had made one crucial mistake.

She had agreed to have lunch with Sebastian.

And now, at eleven forty-five on Thursday morning, she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, holding two handbags and questioning every decision that had brought her to this moment.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered.

She placed the black handbag on the bed.

Then she picked it up again.

The cream-colored one looked too formal. The black one looked too serious. The burgundy one was beautiful, but wearing it might suggest that she had spent an unreasonable amount of time choosing an accessory for a man she was absolutely not interested in.

She put all three bags on the bed.

Then she stared at them as if they had personally betrayed her.

"You're going to a business lunch," she reminded herself. "Not a wedding. Not a date. Not a secret meeting with the love of your life."

She paused.

"The love of your life?"

She shook her head violently.

"No. Absolutely not."

The problem was not that Sebastian was attractive. She had known that from the beginning.

The problem was that she had written him to be attractive.

She had given him dark hair, sharp eyes, a commanding presence, a complicated past, and the emotional availability of a locked filing cabinet. She had made him the kind of man readers wanted to understand, even when he refused to explain himself.

She had also made him the hero.

The hero belonged to the heroine.

The heroine was Astrid.

And Quinn was supposed to be the villainess who got in their way.

It was a simple arrangement.

A perfectly logical arrangement.

So why had Sebastian asked her to lunch himself?

Why had he written that note?

And why had he looked so disappointed when she told him that attention wasn't the same as affection?

Quinn picked up the black handbag.

"Because he's curious," she decided. "That's all. He's used to being chased, and now that I'm not chasing him, his ego has developed a minor medical emergency."

That explanation was comforting.

She intended to believe it.

Her phone rang.

Hannah's name appeared on the screen.

Quinn answered immediately.

"Hannah, please tell me the car is ready."

"It is, Miss Hearst."

"Wonderful."

"May I ask why you sound as though you're preparing to go to war?"

"Because I am."

A pause.

"With whom?"

"An emotionally complicated man."

Another pause.

"Mr. Vanderbilt?"

Quinn closed her eyes.

"Why does everyone immediately assume that?"

"Because he's the only emotionally complicated man you've mentioned this week."

"That's not true. I also mentioned a restaurant critic who called my favorite café overrated."

"And did you plan to fight him?"

"No. I planned to write a strongly worded review."

Hannah laughed.

Quinn glanced at the clock.

"I have to go."

"Good luck with your meeting."

"It's not a meeting. It's lunch."

"Of course."

"Hannah."

"Yes, Miss Hearst?"

"Stop smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You sound like you're smiling."

"That must be the reception."

Quinn ended the call before her assistant could become any more insufferable.

She chose the black handbag, grabbed her coat, and left the penthouse.

One hour.

She could survive one hour with Sebastian.

She had survived being transported into a fictional universe, waking up in another woman's body, discovering that she was scheduled to die, and realizing that her own writing had condemned her to an awful fate.

One lunch should not be a problem.

She hoped.

The restaurant was located on the thirty-eighth floor of a luxury hotel overlooking Central Park.

Of course it was.

Sebastian did not appear to believe in ordinary restaurants. If a place had fewer than three hundred employees, a private dining room, and a view that could make a person reconsider their financial decisions, he probably considered it unsuitable for business.

Quinn stepped out of the elevator and followed the host toward a table near the windows.

Sebastian was already there.

He stood when he saw her.

She immediately resented how well he wore a suit.

"Quinn ."

"Sebastian ."

He pulled out her chair.

She looked at it.

Then at him.

"Are you trying to impress me?"

His hand paused on the chair.

"Would it work?"

She almost laughed.

Instead, she sat down.

"Not if you keep asking questions like that."

Sebastian pushed the chair in and took his seat across from her.

"Noted."

A waiter approached with menus.

Quinn opened hers and immediately wished she hadn't.

The prices were outrageous.

Not because she couldn't afford them. As Quinn, she could probably purchase the entire restaurant and still have enough money left to buy the building next door.

But she had spent the previous evening reviewing the Hearst's Foundation's finances, and every overpriced dish reminded her of the children who needed books, the programs that required funding, and the executives who apparently thought accountability was an optional feature of corporate life.

She closed the menu.

"I'll have the pasta."

Sebastian looked at her.

"That's all?"

"Is there a minimum number of dishes required to qualify as lunch?"

"No."

"Then I believe we've established that I can order whatever I want."

A faint smile appeared on his face.

"You used to order half the menu."

"People change."

"So you've mentioned."

The waiter took their orders and left.

Quinn reached into her handbag and removed a folder.

"Now, if we're finished discussing my personal development, I'd like to review the revised partnership agreement."

Sebastian looked at the folder.

Then at her.

"You brought documents to lunch."

"You invited me to discuss business."

"I did."

"So I brought the business."

"Of course."

He sounded amused.

Quinn opened the folder and placed the first document between them.

"The revised agreement is better than the original. The independent oversight provisions are clear, and the reporting requirements are reasonable. I still want the audit clause expanded to cover any external organizations receiving funds through the partnership."

Sebastian leaned forward.

"That's already included in section seven."

"Only for organizations receiving more than five million dollars."

"Which covers most of the major partners."

"Not all of them."

He studied her for a moment.

"What would you suggest?"

"Lower the threshold. One million. Any organization receiving that amount or more should be subject to an independent review."

"That will increase administrative costs."

"Then we should include those costs in the partnership budget."

"And if a partner refuses?"

"Then we should ask why they're afraid of transparency."

Sebastian's eyes held hers.

For a moment, she forgot about the restaurant.

This was the part of him she had not expected to enjoy.

He listened.

He challenged her ideas, but he didn't dismiss them simply because they came from her. He considered the arguments and responded to the substance of what she said.

In the original manuscript, Seraphina had often tried to impress him by agreeing with everything he said.

She had mistaken obedience for compatibility.

Now, for the first time, she was speaking to him as an equal.

And he seemed to like it.

"I'll have the legal team revise the clause," he said.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She made a note in the margin.

Then she looked up.

"There's something else."

"Go ahead."

"I want to discuss the Vale Foundation's current financial position."

Sebastian's expression became more attentive.

"Has something happened?"

"Not yet."

"That's an interesting way to describe a problem."

"I'm trying to be optimistic."

"Should I be concerned?"

Quinn hesitated.

She couldn't tell him everything. She couldn't explain that Eric Winthrop was a character she had created as the mastermind behind a financial scandal. She couldn't admit that she knew how the betrayal was supposed to unfold because she had written the story herself.

But she could tell him the truth about the documents.

"We've identified several irregular transactions," she said. "Some of the payments involve external consulting firms that don't appear to have substantial operations. I'm arranging an independent audit."

Sebastian's expression changed.

"How extensive are the discrepancies?"

"We're still investigating."

"Does Eric Winthrop know?"

"Yes."

"And how did he respond?"

"He told me I was overreacting."

Sebastian leaned back slightly.

"That's rarely a reassuring response."

"Agreed."

"Do you have reason to suspect misconduct?"

"I have reason to suspect that the foundation's financial controls are inadequate. I'm not going to accuse anyone until we have evidence."

He nodded slowly.

"That's sensible."

"Thank you."

"Would you like help?"

Quinn looked at him carefully.

"Help with what?"

"The audit. Vanderbilt International has a compliance team that handles complex financial reviews. We could recommend an independent firm with no existing relationship to either company."

She hadn't expected that.

In her original novel, Sebastian had been the man who offered Quinn no help when her life began falling apart. He had assumed the worst of her, accepted the evidence presented against her, and turned away when she needed someone to believe her.

Of course, the original Quinn had also spent much of the story insulting him, manipulating him, and trying to undermine his relationship with Astrid.

Sebastian's distrust hadn't come from nowhere.

Still, the memory stung.

She looked at him across the table.

"Why would you help me?"

His expression grew thoughtful.

"Because we're business partners."

"That's the official answer."

"It's also the practical one."

"And the unofficial answer?"

He held her gaze.

"Because I don't think you deserve to be left alone with a problem just because people have decided they know what kind of person you are."

Quinn went quiet.

The restaurant seemed to fade around them.

For one dangerous moment, she was no longer thinking about Sebastian as the hero of a romance novel.

She was thinking about him as a man who had offered help without demanding anything in return.

A man who had noticed that she was trying.

A man who might believe in her even when she had trouble believing in herself.

She looked down at the documents.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I would appreciate the recommendation."

"Consider it done."

He didn't ask her to explain herself.

He didn't make a joke about her changing personality.

He simply accepted her answer.

Quinn found that more unsettling than any flirtatious remark he could have made.

The waiter returned with their food.

She seized the opportunity to focus on her plate.

Business.

They were discussing business.

Nothing more.

Halfway through lunch, Sebastian asked a question that nearly made Quinn choke on her water.

"What are you planning to do with your life?"

She set down her glass.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your life. Outside the company and the foundation."

She stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because you've spent the last several days discussing financial audits, charitable partnerships, and corporate governance. I'm curious whether you have any interests that don't involve correcting other people's mistakes."

Quinn considered lying.

She could have said that she enjoyed traveling, shopping, or attending social events.

Those were the activities the original Quinn had used to fill her days.

But Tiffany Yang had always loved books.

Writing had been the center of her life before she woke up in this world. She had spent years creating characters, building imaginary cities, and inventing impossible romances.

She had loved the freedom of it.

She had loved the feeling of turning an idea into something real.

She had also spent far too much of her life alone, typing until her eyes burned and convincing herself that the next deadline mattered more than everything else.

Perhaps being trapped inside a novel was the universe's way of telling her to reconsider her priorities.

"I want to build something," she said at last.

Sebastian's attention sharpened.

"What kind of thing?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet."

"That's unusual."

"What is?"

"You're speaking about the future without mentioning a business plan."

Quinn gave him a dry look.

"Don't worry. I'll prepare one so you can sleep at night."

He smiled.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

She set down her fork.

"I want to do something meaningful. Not just donate money at events and pose for photographs. I want to build programs that actually help people. Education, literacy, maybe scholarships for students who can't afford university."

Adrian listened without interrupting.

"I've been looking at the foundation's existing projects," she continued. "We have the resources to do more, but we need better oversight and a clearer long-term strategy."

"That's a substantial undertaking."

"I know."

"You'll need people who understand education policy, nonprofit management, and financial accountability."

"I know that too."

"And you'll need to accept that you can't do everything yourself."

Quinn paused.

Then she sighed.

"That last part sounds particularly unpleasant."

Sebastian laughed.

"You'll survive."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Sebastian's smile faded slightly.

"What do you mean?"

Quinn's heart stumbled.

She had to be more careful.

"Nothing. It's an expression."

He continued watching her, clearly unconvinced.

Then he asked, "Have you ever considered writing?"

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

The question hit her with the force of a physical blow.

Writing.

She hadn't thought about it seriously since arriving in this world.

She had thought about her old life, of course. She had remembered her apartment, her laptop, her bookshelves, and the unfinished manuscript that had been open on her computer when she fell asleep.

But she had not allowed herself to think too deeply about the fact that she might never write again.

Her career as Tiffany Yang was gone.

Her readers were gone.

Her world was gone.

And the only story she could finish now was the one she was living.

"Why do you ask?" she said carefully.

"You seem to have a talent for understanding people."

Quinn nearly laughed at the irony.

"That's a generous interpretation."

"You notice things other people overlook. You remember details. And when you disagree with someone, you usually have a reason."

"Usually?"

"I've heard stories about your shopping habits."

"Those stories are exaggerated."

"Are they?"

"Entirely."

He looked amused.

Then he grew serious again.

"You also seem to understand that people can be more complicated than their reputations suggest."

Quinn stared at him.

For a moment, she wondered whether he knew.

Not the truth about the novel, of course. That was impossible.

But perhaps he had noticed that she was trying to understand the people around her rather than simply control them.

"Perhaps," she said, "I've started paying attention."

Sebastian nodded.

"That's a good place to start."

She looked down at her plate.

Writing.

The idea remained with her long after the conversation moved on.

Maybe she could write again.

Not the story she had written before.

Not the story that had trapped her.

But something new.

Something honest.

Something that belonged to her.

The thought was frightening.

It was also the first thing she had wanted for herself in a very long time.

When lunch ended, Sebastian walked her to the elevator.

The corridor was quiet, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows overlooking the park.

Quinn adjusted the strap of her handbag.

"Thank you for lunch."

"Thank you for the business meeting disguised as lunch."

She smiled despite herself.

"I was very clear about the purpose."

"You were."

"And you agreed."

"I did."

"So we have no reason to complain."

"None whatsoever."

The elevator doors opened.

Quinn stepped inside, then turned to face him.

"Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

"I appreciate your offer to help with the audit. But I want to be clear about something."

His expression became attentive.

"What is it?"

"I don't want you to feel responsible for fixing my problems. The Hearst Group is my responsibility, and the foundation is my responsibility. If I ask for advice, it's because I value your professional opinion, not because I expect you to rescue me."

Sebastian studied her.

"I never thought you expected me to rescue you."

"Good."

"I thought you wanted me to fall in love with you."

Quinn's mouth fell open.

The elevator doors began to close.

She reached out and pressed the button to keep them open.

"Excuse me?"

Sebastian looked entirely too calm.

"Isn't that what you wanted before?"

She stared at him.

"That was a very different situation."

"Was it?"

"Yes."

He folded his arms loosely.

"Then what do you want now?"

The question echoed in her mind.

What did she want?

To survive.

To build a life.

To repair the damage she had caused.

To become someone she could respect.

To never again feel as though her worth depended on whether a man chose her.

She looked at Sebastian.

"I want to be happy," she said.

For the first time, he didn't smile.

"And what would make you happy?"

She took a breath.

"That's something I need to figure out for myself."

Sebastian was silent for a moment.

Then he nodded.

"Fair enough."

The elevator doors remained open.

Neither of them moved.

Finally, Quinn stepped backward.

"Goodbye, Sebastian."

"Goodbye, Quinn."

The doors closed between them.

She leaned against the wall of the elevator and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

That had been far too close.

Not because he had confessed anything.

He hadn't.

Not because she had admitted anything.

She hadn't done that either.

But because, for a few seconds, she had genuinely wanted to tell him the truth.

And that was dangerous.

By Friday morning, the headlines had changed.

Quinn discovered this while sitting at her desk, drinking coffee and trying to decide whether the Hearst Foundation should prioritize scholarships or literacy programs in its next funding cycle.

Hannah entered her office with a tablet.

"Miss Hearst?"

"Good morning."

"Have you seen the news?"

Quinn's stomach tightened.

"What news?"

Hannah held out the tablet.

The screen displayed a photograph from the gala.

Quinn stood beside Astrid, smiling as they spoke. In the background, Sebastian was looking in their direction.

The headline read:

QUINN HEARST AND ASTRID WATSON END THEIR FEUD?

Below it was another article.

FROM SOCIALITE TO PHILANTHROPIST: HAS QUINN HEARST TURNED OVER A NEW LEAF?

And another.

SEBASTIAN VANDERBILT'S MYSTERIOUS NEW BUSINESS PARTNER HAS MANHATTAN TALKING.

Quinn stared at the screen.

"How did they manage to make three different stories out of one conversation?"

Hannah shrugged.

"Journalists are creative."

"That is one word for it."

She scrolled through the articles.

Some of the comments were surprisingly positive.

Others were suspicious.

A few people accused her of staging the entire interaction with Astrid to improve her reputation.

One commenter wrote that Quinn was probably trying to win Sebastian back by pretending to be friends with the woman he loved.

Quinn closed the article.

"Wonderful. I'm being accused of a public relations campaign I didn't even know I was running."

Hannah sat down across from her.

"At least the coverage isn't entirely negative."

"Yet."

"Miss Vale, you can't control what people say about you."

"I know."

"Then perhaps you should focus on what you can control."

Quinn looked at her assistant.

There it was again.

Simple advice.

The kind that seemed obvious until a person desperately needed to hear it.

"You're right," she said.

Hannah smiled.

Quinn turned back to the tablet.

She could try to correct every headline.

She could issue a statement denying that she was attempting to win Sebastian's affection.

She could arrange an interview to explain her new philanthropic priorities.

Or she could do something much more useful.

She could give people a reason to believe that she had changed.

Not through photographs.

Not through carefully written statements.

Through action.

"Schedule a meeting with the foundation's program directors," she said.

Hannah opened her tablet.

"When?"

"Monday morning. I want a full review of our current projects, including the literacy program, the scholarship fund, and the community learning centers."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Ask the communications team to prepare a public report on our existing programs. Not a promotional piece. I want actual figures: how much money we've spent, how many students we've helped, and which projects need more support."

Hannah nodded.

"That will take some time."

"Then we'll give them time."

"And the reporters?"

Quinn smiled faintly.

"Let them write whatever they want."

Hannah looked impressed.

"You're not worried about your reputation?"

"Of course I am."

Quinn set down her coffee.

"But I think I've spent enough time trying to convince people I'm a good person. I'd rather spend that time doing something good."

For a moment, Hannah said nothing.

Then she nodded.

"I'll arrange everything."

After she left, Quinn returned to the article on the screen.

The photograph of her and Astrid was strangely comforting.

Two women who had been written as rivals.

Two women who might, in another version of the story, become allies.

She wondered what would happen if she stopped treating every relationship as a competition.

What if she stopped trying to be the most beautiful woman in the room?

What if she stopped trying to be the most desired?

What if she stopped believing that being chosen by someone else was the only way to prove she mattered?

The questions frightened her.

But they also made her feel free.

The first meeting of the Hearst Foundation's program directors lasted three hours.

Quinn had expected a few polite presentations and a collection of reassuring statistics.

Instead, she discovered that the foundation had several projects operating on outdated budgets, a scholarship program with more applicants than available funding, and a community learning center that had been waiting almost a year for repairs.

The information was overwhelming.

It was also useful.

For the first time, Quinn understood the full scope of what she had inherited.

She was not simply a wealthy woman with an expensive apartment and a family business.

She was responsible for people who depended on the foundation's work.

Students who needed scholarships.

Children who needed books.

Teachers who needed resources.

Families who needed support.

She couldn't save everyone.

But she could stop treating the foundation as a name on a charitable invitation.

"How much would it cost to repair the learning center?" she asked.

The program director, a woman named Margaret Ellis, checked her notes.

"Approximately two hundred thousand dollars, including the electrical work and accessibility improvements."

"And how much is currently allocated?"

"Seventy-five thousand."

Quinn looked at the budget.

"What's preventing us from covering the difference?"

Margaret hesitated.

"The remaining funds were redirected to another initiative last quarter."

"Which initiative?"

"The executive community outreach program."

Quinn frowned.

"Who authorized the transfer?"

Margaret glanced at the finance director.

He cleared his throat.

"That would have been approved by Mr. Winthrop office."

Of course it had.

Quinn made a note.

"All right. We'll review the transfer as part of the audit. In the meantime, I want a proposal outlining the repairs, the expected timeline, and the number of students who use the center."

Margaret looked surprised.

"You want us to prepare a new proposal?"

"Yes."

"How soon?"

"Next Friday, if possible."

Margaret nodded.

"We can do that."

Quinn closed her notebook.

"Good. And I want to make one thing clear. We're not going to announce new programs just because they sound impressive. We're going to make sure the programs we already have are working."

The room grew quiet.

Several directors exchanged glances.

Then Margaret smiled.

"I think that's a very good idea, Miss Hearst."

Quinn felt a small rush of satisfaction.

Not because everyone agreed with her.

Because she had finally done something that mattered.

When the meeting ended, Margaret approached her.

"May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course."

Margaret waited until the other directors had left.

"I've worked with the foundation for twelve years," she said. "I've seen several executives come and go. Most of them wanted to know how the foundation could improve their public image."

Quinn listened quietly.

"You asked how we could help more students."

Margaret smiled.

"I wanted you to know that it makes a difference."

Quinn swallowed.

"Thank you."

After Margaret left, Quinn sat alone in the conference room.

She thought about the original Quinn .

The woman she had written as a shallow socialite who cared about nothing but money, status, and Sebastian.

Had she ever been given the opportunity to discover what she was capable of?

Had anyone ever asked her what she wanted to do with her life?

Had anyone ever told her that she could be more than the worst things she had done?

Tiffany had written her as a villainess because the story needed one.

But perhaps the woman herself had always been more complicated than that.

Perhaps Quinn had never been destined to be a villain.

Perhaps she had simply been a woman who had never learned how to become anything else.

On Saturday morning, Quinn did something she had not done since waking up in this world.

She went to a bookstore.

Not a private bookshop attached to a luxury hotel.

Not a designer boutique that sold beautifully bound books as decorative objects.

An actual bookstore.

It was a small independent shop on the Upper West Side, tucked between a bakery and a café. The windows were filled with handwritten recommendations, and a little bell rang when she opened the door.

The scent of paper and coffee greeted her.

Quinn stopped just inside the entrance.

For one brief moment, she forgot that she was trapped in a fictional world.

She was simply a woman in a bookstore.

A woman who loved books.

A woman who had spent years building entire universes out of words.

She walked slowly through the aisles, running her fingers along the spines.

Romance.

Mystery.

Fantasy.

Literary fiction.

There were books she recognized and books she had never seen before. Some had beautiful covers; others looked as though they had been designed by someone who believed a title should be readable from space.

She smiled.

This was familiar.

This was safe.

She picked up a novel from a shelf and read the first page.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Before she knew it, she had been standing in the same spot for fifteen minutes.

"Good book?"

Quinn looked up.

A woman in her sixties stood nearby, holding a stack of paperbacks.

"Very good," Quinn replied.

"Then you should buy it. Otherwise you'll stand there until closing time."

Quinn laughed.

"Is that how you sell books?"

"Only to people who look like they need a reason to stay."

The woman smiled.

"First time here?"

"Yes."

"Welcome. I'm Margaret."

Quinn hesitated.

"Quinn ."

Margaret's expression changed slightly.

Recognition.

Quinn braced herself for a comment about the headlines.

Instead, Margaret said, "Well, Quinn , I hope you find something wonderful."

That was all.

No questions.

No gossip.

No mention of Sebastian.

Quinn felt absurdly grateful.

She bought three books and a notebook.

The notebook was plain, with a dark green cover and cream-colored pages. She held it for a moment before placing it on the counter.

"Are you planning to write something?" Margaret asked.

Quinn looked at the notebook.

"I think I might."

"Then I hope you do."

Margaret wrapped the books in a paper bag.

"Writing can be a good way to figure out what you think."

Quinn smiled faintly.

"Sometimes it's a good way to avoid figuring it out."

Margaret laughed.

"That too."

She paid for the books and stepped outside.

The afternoon sun warmed the pavement. People walked past carrying shopping bags and takeaway coffee, talking on their phones or laughing with friends.

Ordinary life.

She had never appreciated it enough before.

Quinn carried her purchases to a nearby café and ordered a latte.

Then she opened the notebook.

For several minutes, she stared at the blank page.

What should she write?

A new novel?

A diary?

A list of things she wanted to accomplish before the end of the month?

She uncapped her pen.

At the top of the first page, she wrote:

Things I Want That Have Nothing to Do With Sebastian Vanderbilt

She paused.

Then she began making a list.

Save the Hearst Foundation.

Find out what Eric Winthrop is hiding.

Repair the learning center.

Expand the scholarship program.

Read more books.

Learn to cook something other than instant noodles.

Travel somewhere without checking the stock market.

Make a friend who doesn't care about my family name.

Write again.

She stared at the final item.

Then, beneath it, she added another.

- Learn to be happy without needing someone to choose me.

Her pen hovered over the page.

She wanted to write more.

She wanted to explain why that mattered, why the thought frightened her, and why she had spent so much of her old life waiting for validation from people who barely knew her.

But she didn't know how to put it into words.

Not yet.

She closed the notebook.

For now, it was enough to have started.

To be continued...