“Who’s Luca?” Henry asked.
Sebastian slipped his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “My boyfriend.”
Oh.
Oh…
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over me. Of course he was seeing someone. My chest deflated so fast it almost hurt.
“Boyfriend?” Henry shot me a quick glance. “Like, seriously?”
“Yes,” Sebastian said. “For a couple of months now.”
A couple of months.
He had a boyfriend—and had had one for months. And I’d let myself get my hopes up over a fucking hug? How stupid could I be? Four years spent healing from the trauma that was Sebastian Langley, only to watch the wound reopen in under sixty seconds.
Fucking pathetic.
“Can’t wait to meet him,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “If he managed to tie you down, he must be the closest thing to a god there is.”
Judging by their expressions, that hadn’t landed.
After a couple of tense seconds, I said, “That was a joke.”
To his credit, Sebastian tried to smile.
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, his expression painfully awkward. “So, pretending this isn’t the most uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever been part of—Ash and I are off to lunch.” He gave me a look that practically begged me to behave. “See you at eight?”
“See you at eight,” I said politely. “It was great seeing you, Ash.”
Sebastian smiled again, lips pressed into a tight line, and nodded once. “Same, Ethan.”
They walked out, and I grabbed my phone, canceling my visit with the landlord.
Well, that was anticlimactic as fuck.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t pictured it going differently. I’d spent weeks running through scenarios in my head—me cool, collected, and detached. Him flustered and desperate, the one chasing this time. In every version, I had the upper hand. And no matter which one—even the ones with stiff hellos, icy silence, or pretending nothing had ever happened—they all ended the same way: him in my bed, the two of us tearing each other apart.
Not with him in a relationship.
Not with him walking away.
Later that day, I paced my room, phone pressed to my ear. My landlord had insisted on talking to me; apparently, theurgentmatter he needed to discuss was that the down payment hadn’t gone through—which made no sense. He’d already told me another applicant was waiting on the property, and I’d been onhold with the bank for nearly an hour trying to figure out what had happened.
“Mr. Bennett?” a voice came through.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Thank you for your patience. We’ve reviewed the account, and it appears the transaction failed due to insufficient funds.”
I frowned. “That can’t be right. Are you sure you’re checking the correct account?”
There was a short pause, the faint click of keys. Then he read back the account number—the one tied to my trust.
“That’s the one,” I said, a cold weight settling in my chest.
“We’ve also reviewed the recent activity,” the representative continued carefully. “There have been regular withdrawals over the past four months. Substantial ones. It also notes here that there’s a joint account holder?”
