The Billionaire's Dangerous Redemption (by Claire Winters) novel Chapter 123

123 A Tender Advance, A Tense Goodbye

Hazel’s POV

“How’s your arm feeling now?” Sebastian asked, his eyes fixed on my bandaged

forearm.

We sat at a quiet corner table in his favorite restaurant, the one he’d insisted on bringing me to after unexpectedly showing up at my office this afternoon. He’d just returned from a business trip and wanted to check on me.

“Much better,” I admitted. “That ointment you sent works wonders.”

Sebastian nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. “Good. I had it specially formulated.”

“Specially formulated?” I blinked in surprise. “You didn’t just order it?”

“No. I called in a favor from a pharmaceutical company I invested in.”

I stared at him, speechless. The casual way he mentioned creating a custom medication for my minor injury left me stunned. Who did things like that?

“That’s… excessive,” I finally managed.

“Not to me.”

His simple response hung in the air between us. Not to me. As if moving mountains for my small cut was perfectly reasonable.

The waiter arrived with our meals, momentarily saving me from having to respond. I busied myself with arranging my napkin, grateful for the distraction.

“I ordered the grilled salmon for you,” Sebastian said as the plates were set down. “The omega-3 will help with healing.”

Of course he’d considered the nutritional benefits. I bit back a smile at his

thoroughness.

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched. “But you really don’t need to worry so much.”

“I disagree.”

His phone buzzed. Sebastian frowned at the screen but didn’t pick it up. Instead, he reached across the table and gently touched my wrist, just below the bandage. His fingers were warm against my skin.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” he said.

My heart skipped a beat at his serious tone. “Yes?”

“Would you please stop calling me Mr. Sinclair? I’d prefer if you used my first name.”

The request caught me off guard. “Oh.”

“Is that a problem?” A slight smile played at his lips.

“No, it’s just… it feels strange. You’re my client and-”

“I’m also the man who’s been bringing you lunch for weeks, sending you medicine, and checking on you daily,” he pointed out. “I think we’ve moved past strict professional boundaries, haven’t we?”

Heat crept up my neck at his direct assessment of our… whatever this was. He wasn’t wrong. Our relationship had evolved into something undefined yet undeniably personal.

“Sebastian,” I tested the name aloud, watching his expression soften instantly.

“There. Was that so difficult?”

Before I could answer, the door to the restaurant opened, and a tall, serious man in a dark suit entered. He spotted Sebastian and headed straight for our table.

“Mr. Sinclair,” the man said, his voice low and urgent. “There’s a situation at

headquarters requiring your immediate attention.”

Sebastian’s expression hardened. “Did Phillips authorize the server migration without approval?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed deeply, then turned to me with genuine regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Hazel.

I have to handle this.”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“The car will take you home when you’re finished.” He stood, buttoning his suit jacket in one smooth motion. “Please eat everything. You need your strength.”

As he turned to leave, his assistant stepped forward, placing a small bag beside my plate.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Sebastian paused. “Scar cream. Apply it every night before bed. It will prevent any permanent marking.”

Before I could thank him, he’d turned and was striding toward the door, his assistant hurrying to keep pace. I watched him go, the restaurant suddenly feeling much emptier despite the other patrons.

I stared at the small bag, overwhelmed by the attention to detail. He’d thought not just about healing my wound but preventing scarring afterward. The level of care was… disconcerting.

What did Sebastian Sinclair want from me?

My mind drifted back to our conversation at the hospital, his cryptic comments about knowing me longer than I realized. The way he seemed to anticipate my needs before I knew them myself.

The salmon was perfectly cooked, but I barely tasted it as I ate mechanically, lost in thought. By the time I finished, I’d come no closer to understanding his intentions.

Was this merely the behavior of an extraordinarily considerate man? Or was there something more driving his persistent attention?

And more troubling-why did part of me hope it was the latter?

Saturday arrived gray and drizzling, fitting weather for a memorial service. I counted the large flower wreaths as the delivery man arranged them in my car-ten in total, each more extravagant than the last.

“Are

you sure you don’t want us to deliver these directly to the venue, Ms. Shaw?” he asked, struggling to fit the last one in.

“I’m certain,” I replied. “I need to present them personally.”

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