He Buried Me But I Painted My Own Resurrection novel Chapter 77

In this city, the name Grant Gauthier was the ultimate all-access pass. There was nowhere he couldn't go, no one he couldn't see.

He had lived his entire life with people constantly bowing their heads to him.

Yet now, he was being stonewalled by two security guards at an elevator and mocked by a bunch of receptionists.

"I'll say it one more time," Grant gritted out, word by word. "I want to see Lucas Lowery!"

Officer Miller remained entirely unmoving.

"Mr. Gauthier, I'll say it one more time too. You don't get to dictate our boss's schedule."

The two of them stood deadlocked at the elevator. People passing through the lobby were openly staring, and a few who recognized Grant even pulled out their phones to secretly snap pictures.

Grant knew that continuing this standoff would only humiliate him further.

Meanwhile, inside the CEO's office.

The secretary stepped quietly toward the massive desk, leaning down to report in a hushed tone.

"Mr. Lowery, Grant is still in the lobby. It doesn't look like he plans on leaving."

Lucas paused his pen mid-signature and let out a dismissive scoff.

He didn't even bother lifting his eyes, lazily closing the file in his hands as he spat with pure sarcasm.

"Let him throw a tantrum. Making a public spectacle of himself down there doesn't shame the Lowery family."

The secretary looked deeply conflicted. After weighing the consequences, she finally gathered the courage to advise, "But Mr. Lowery... the two families are currently in the middle of a massive collaboration for the West City project."

"If things get too ugly between the families, the company will suffer as well. For the sake of the bigger picture, maybe you should..."

Hearing this, Lucas's brows immediately snapped together, a flash of dark irritation and disgust crossing his deep eyes.

He absolutely loathed impulsive, idiotic men like Grant, and whenever he remembered what he had done to Sienna, he wanted nothing more than to wring his neck.

But his secretary's words acted like a bucket of ice water, perfectly extinguishing his blinding rage.

The office was massive, taking up almost half the entire floor.

The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the city's skyline. Sunlight spilled across the floorboards, though it provided zero warmth.

Unlike the extreme, rigid order of Grant's office, this space practically breathed an artistic, elegant aura.

There were abstract, highly expensive paintings mounted on the walls and sculptures placed casually in the corners, making the room look more like a private gallery.

Lucas sat loosely on the gray sofa by the window. He had one leg crossed over the other, holding a coffee cup as he stared at something off to the side.

No, not just stared. He was admiring it.

His gaze was fixed on a painting resting against the opposite wall.

When Grant's eyes landed on that painting, his footsteps instantly grounded to a halt.

The canvas exploded with fierce, desperate colors—a barren wasteland ravaged by a blizzard, where a single blooming crabapple tree burned bright in the snow, its petals shattered yet stubbornly blooming against the cold.