Page 83 of The Owner's Temptation

Mr. Jenkins stands in the hall, arms crossed and mouth turned downward in his usual disapproving way. He always looks like a pissed-off rat with an oily comb-over and a vendetta against joy.

I open the door cautiously. “Morning?”

“There’s a locksmith here,” he grumbles. “Needs about fifteen minutes. Says he’s here to change your locks.”

I blink, stunned. “Wait—what?”

Before I can even gather my thoughts, he shoves a glossy packet into my hands. “And this too. Security alarm’s been activated. You just gotta set the code.”

I stare at the pamphlet and know without a shadow of doubt who did this.

Of course.

Lucian.

My shock gives way to hot, bubbling irritation. My blood starts to simmer.

Oh, he did not.

He did not go over my head, tangle up my already miserable landlord, and take control of my apartment without saying a damn word.

If he gets me evicted for violating some weird clause in my lease, I will skin him alive.

Mr. Jenkins is already walking away by the time I manage a strained, “Thanks, I guess.”

I let the locksmith in. He’s polite, quiet, and disturbingly fast, installing a shiny new electronic deadbolt in record time. When he hands me two fresh keys and tells me the system is ready to program, I give him a tight smile while fantasizing about throttling a certain steel-eyed control freak.

By the time everything’s finished, I check the time and nearly scream. I’m going to be late.

Fucking fantastic.

No doubt Lucian will use it as an excuse to sentence me to another humiliating stand-off in “time out” at his desk—like a misbehaving toddler in need of public shaming.

And it’ll be his fault. But that won’t matter.

I glance longingly at my untouched bagel, now slightly cold on the counter. I’m too pissed to eat it. I shove it into a napkin, toss it into my purse, and slam the door behind me after punching in the new alarm code.

Letting out a deep breath, I storm through the lobby, fuming, heels clicking with purpose. I’m ready to let Lucian Vale have it.

But the moment I push open the front doors, a man in a black suit steps forward from the sidewalk.

“Sienna Knight?”

My shoulders sag as I catch sight of the sleek black SUV parked behind him, polished to perfection. And then I see the logo—etched in gold, small and subtle on the rear passenger window.

BL.

Ledger transport.

Of course he sent a car.

The driver opens the door smoothly, offering me a respectful nod. “I’ll be driving you to work, ma’am.”

I stare at him for a second, debating whether to launch into a tirade here and now. But... fine. This guy is an innocent bystander.

And at least this way I might actually get to The Ledger on time and spare myself whatever demeaning punishment Lucian’s cooked up for tardiness.

With a huff and a dramatic eye roll, I climb into the backseat.

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