He opens his eyes.
My heart stutters—because instead of fury, I see devastation.
“You should have told me,” he says quietly.
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you again,” I whisper. “This time for good.”
His hands come up, framing my face. His thumbs brush away tears I don’t remember shedding, gentle in a way that almost breaks me.
“I’m the one who left,” he murmurs. “I’m the one who broke something I didn’t understand. I’m the one who deserved your anger.” His forehead rests against mine. “But you didn’t deserve to carry this alone.”
A sob tears out of my chest before I can stop it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Sebastian kisses me—not with heat, not with desperation, but with aching, deliberate tenderness.
“I forgive you,” he breathes against my lips.
My knees nearly buckle.
He lowers me to the couch, sliding beside me, pulling me into his lap with quiet finality. My face buries against his neck as I cry into his skin, every tremor, every gasp, every frantic apology spilling uncontrollably.
He holds me through it all, strong and unyielding, his hands mapping my back, his warmth grounding me in a way Inever thought possible. For the first time, the weight in my chest doesn’t feel like it’s mine alone—it’s shared.
When my tears finally fade, he strokes my hair, his touch gentle but deliberate.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers, voice low and certain, “we take everything he tried to use against us. And we turn it into his downfall.”
I nod weakly, my chest still heaving.
“And after that?” I murmur, almost afraid of the answer.
He tilts my face up, eyes blazing, fierce and raw.
“After that,” he says slowly, deliberately, “we start over. Properly. No lies. No revenge. Just you and me.”
My breath catches in my throat. My heart beats so loud it feels like it might shatter the quiet.
Then he kisses me again, his hands tangling in my hair, anchoring me. The world falls away. In that moment, everything feels right again. Safe. Whole. Us.
Just when I think he’ll go deeper, take me the way he promised earlier, he pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and careful. “About your mother. I…I want to know how she died. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “She was sick…when I was seven. It lasted until I was eight, and then…she died.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, just studies me, and I feel the weight of his concern pressing gently against me.
“How did you cope so young…without her?” he asks quietly.
I shrug, voice catching. “Aunt Isla did her best, but mostly…I was raised by nannies. A different one almost every year, because my father…he wasn’t the easiest person to work for. He raised his voice too much. He’s arrogant.” I pause, thememory bitter. “I went to boarding school as well. And…I just…got through life on my own, mostly.”
Sebastian doesn’t hesitate.
