REMI
After a tense, heart-pounding drive, pushing Ian’s car to its limits without quite breaking the law, I finally pull up outside the house where Sebastian grew up. The neighbourhood is pristine, almost clinical in its perfection. Every trimmed hedge and gleaming driveway radiates wealth and quiet superiority. It fits exactly what Ian told me about the Arnettes: status, reputation, control.
But I’m not here to admire the landscaping or analyse the social dynamics of privilege. I’m here for Sebastian.
And if things are anywhere near as bad as I think they are, I’m not leaving without him.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and ring the doorbell, bracing myself for whatever, or whoever, awaits on the other side. I’m hoping for civility, but I’m ready for a fight. One thing’s non-negotiable: Iwillsee him.
The door opens after a pause.
The woman who appears is unmistakably related to Sebastian, same delicate features and the same graceful frame. But where his beauty is warm and alive, hers is polished to the point of lifelessness. Blonde hair perfectly styled, flawless skin, not a hint of emotion. Her eyes, Sebastian’s exact shade of green, are void of warmth, stripped of anything resembling vulnerability. Cold. Measured.
In that instant, I understand exactly what I’m dealing with.
This woman is made of ice.
“What do you want?” she asks, voice smooth and crisp, like glass on the verge of shattering.
“Good morning. Mrs Arnette, I presume?”
She gives a curt nod, those glacial eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Calculating.
“I’m Remi Elliott. I’m Sebastian’s flatmate and friend,” I add, hating the way it downplays everything we are. But I have no idea what Seb has told them, and I won’t betray his trust, no matter how much I want to scream that he’s mine.
“Forgive the intrusion,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. “I know Sebastian was meant to visit, but he’s been unreachable since yesterday. I just came to make sure he’s alright.”
She studies me in silence, eyes narrowing with thinly veiled suspicion, and I feel my spine stiffen beneath her scrutiny.
“Let me get this straight, you drove all the way from London because he didn’t return a message for a day?”
“That’s correct,” I reply evenly, refusing to flinch. “And now that I’m here, I’d like to see him.”
She turns without a word, visibly irritated, and I get the distinct sense she’s silently summoning someone from inside. It’s not Sebastian, because the next figure to appear in the doorway is a tall, broad-shouldered man. He must be Sebastian’s father. The resemblance is subtle: same black hair, now streaked with grey, but the rest is all contrast. Where Sebastian is slender and compact, almost delicate, this man is solid and imposing.
He studies me with cool detachment, measuring. But even with all that presence, he doesn’t unnerve me the way she does.
“Mr Arnette, I presume?” I offer with a polite nod.
“Mr Elliott,” he replies, voice deep and formal, tone unreadable. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m afraid my son is not receiving visitors today.”
“May I ask why not?”
“It’s a private matter,” he says curtly. “So if you’ll excuse us.”
He moves to close the door, but I step forward and press my hand firmly against it. Their eyes shoot to the contact point, then back to my face, stunned by the boldness.
“How dare you?” Mrs Arnette hisses. “What do you want from Sebastian?”
Her husband shifts to block me, but I meet his gaze without flinching.
“If you don’t leave this instant, we’ll call the police,” she snaps.
“Please do,” I reply evenly. “But do consider what your neighbours might think when a patrol car pulls up on your lovely, quiet street.”
That stops them. They exchange a silent, fraught glance. Then, reluctantly, she steps aside.
Inside, the house is as pristine and soulless as the couple standing in front of me. Everything is polished to perfection, carefully designed to impress, but there’s not a hint of warmth or personality. It feels more like a showroom than a home. A mausoleum. I find myself wondering how Sebastian managed to grow up in a place like this.
