The Billionaire’s Secret Quartet (Thalassa and Elowen) novel Chapter 1102

When Thalassa thought about Lysander coming to the Crawley Group to pick her up, only to find that she wasn't there, a secret thrill of delight bubbled up inside her. She felt a wicked urge to giggle.

After all, Lysander was always so domineering; letting him taste defeat once in a while didn't seem such a bad thing.

But before Thalassa's mirth could fully bloom, the icy tone on the other end of the phone call sent shivers down her spine. Even through the digital connection, his authoritative presence was palpable.

Quickly masking her amusement, Thalassa steadied her grip on the phone and cleared her throat, "After we hung up, I caught a cab. You didn't actually go to the Crawley Group, did you? I mean, I thought you were kidding. After all, who would presume to trouble a big shot like you for a mere lift? That would be downright presumptuous of me!"

Her words were a deliberate attempt to feign innocence and deflect any blame for standing him up. And yet, her tone was dripping with irony—not directed at Lysander, but at herself.

A man like Lysander, practically royalty in the Starhaven business empire, wouldn't ordinarily stoop to collect someone like her—a mere assistant.

As Thalassa finished her spiel, her phone suddenly felt as cold as ice in her hand. Despite the sweltering heat outside, nearing forty degrees, her phone seemed to have plunged to freezing temperatures.

She couldn't see Lysander's face, but she could well imagine his menacing scowl and the frosty aura surrounding him now.

Well done, she had managed to infuriate Lysander yet again.

Feeling the chill creeping through the phone, Thalassa's newfound bravado started to wane, and a hint of panic tinged her voice, "Look, I'm already home. If there's nothing else, I'll just hang up now."

Without waiting for a reply, she ended the call.

Lately, too many things had happened.

His handsome face clouded like a stormy winter's eve, presaging a blizzard.

She was growing bolder by the day.

With a flick of his hand, he tossed the phone onto the seat and ordered the driver, "Let's go!"

The driver, trembling with fear, fumbled to start the car. Being in the same space as Mr. Sinclair after he'd made a call was agonizing. The man's aura could drop ten degrees with a single word.

The poor driver was sweating bullets, hoping he wouldn't end up like David, exiled to some infernal outpost in Afriland.