My pulse jumps. I hate it for that.
His eyes lift—and find me instantly.
Not searching. Not scanning.
Finding.
The way his gaze locks onto mine sends a familiar, infuriating heat through my chest. There’s no softness there. Noapology. Just a slow, deliberate assessment, like he’s cataloguing damage and calculating distance.
Interest flickers. Brief. Sharp.
The chatter around us dulls, not because anyone announces him, but because presence like his demands attention. Conversations trail off. Heads turn. People straighten their posture, adjust their smiles.
He begins to walk toward me.
Each step is unhurried, like he knows exactly where he’s going and that nothing in his path has the power to stop him.
I don’t move.
I don’t retreat. I don’t soften. I don’t look away.
I meet his gaze head-on, my expression calm, my spine tall, my face carefully neutral. If he’s expecting hesitation, or emotion, or even anger, he won’t get it.
From somewhere behind me, a woman murmurs, almost reverently, “Sebastian looks so handsome.”
The compliment lands wrong.
A spark of irritation flares low in my chest, but I don’t turn. I don’t react. I don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.
Sebastian stops in front of me.
Close enough that I catch his scent—clean, familiar, dangerous. Close enough that I can see the faint line between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too hard or trying not to feel something.
Our eyes lock.
The heat that once burned between us is still there, but it’s changed.
No warmth now. No comfort. Just a sharp, electric tension, like exposed wire humming between two points that shouldn’t touch.
He reaches for my hand.
I let him take it.
His fingers are warm. Steady. His thumb brushes my skin once—an unconscious habit I remember too well—before he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
Polite. Public. Perfect.
“Hello, Sienna,” he says.
His voice is smooth, controlled. I smile.
“Hello.”
Before anything else can settle between us, Aunt Isla appears at my side, perfectly timed and glowing, her eyes sharp with expectation.
“Sebastian,” she says, her tone warm but edged. “You’re late.”
He doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t excuse himself clumsily. He simply turns to her, takes her hand like a man raised on manners and power, and bows his head slightly.
