chapter 126
Sebastian's POV:
The skyline blurred past my window as Marcus navigated through evening traffic, but I barely registered the familiar sights.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks since Elena had kissed my forehead and whispered those three words before Margaret whisked her away to Blackwood Manor.
The separation had driven me to push my body beyond reasonable limits, but apparently, my obsessive determination had yielded results. Even Dr. Harrison, conservative as he was, couldn't argue with the mobility assessments and healing markers.
"Sir, should I inform Mrs. Vane of our arrival?" Marcus's voice cut through my brooding.
"No." The word came out sharper than intended.
I wanted to see her face when she realized I was home—the surprise, the joy I desperately hoped would bloom across her features.
The familiar approach to Blackwood Manor felt different from this angle, confined to the wheelchair as Marcus pushed me through the evening shadows.
Through the drawing room windows, I could see her—curled on the sofa, absentmindedly eating strawberries while staring at her phone, probably waiting for our nightly call.
The warm lamplight caught the golden undertones in her hair, and my chest tightened with longing.
Alfred opened the door before we reached it, his professional composure cracking slightly at the sight of me. "Master Sebastian, welcome home." He stepped aside, and Marcus wheeled me into the foyer.
"Is my grandmother in?" I asked quietly.
"Lady Margaret went out, sir. Mrs. Vane is in the drawing room."
Perfect. I wanted this moment with Elena alone first.
Marcus wheeled me forward, and I couldn't suppress the smile spreading across my face at the thought of surprising her.
The soft sound of wheels on hardwood made her glance up from her phone.
She looked up at my approach, and the strawberry froze halfway to her lips. "Sebastian?" Her voice cracked on my name, phone clattering forgotten onto the cushions.
"Surprised, darling?" I managed a brilliant smile, the kind that came so rarely these days but felt utterly natural in her presence.
The tears came instantly, streaming down her face as she struggled to stand, one hand bracing her rounded belly.
"You're here—you're really—" She crossed the room with surprising speed, then stopped abruptly, taking in the wheelchair with eyes that held too much sorrow.
"Oh, Sebastian. Look at you," she whispered, and I could see her remembering how I used to tower over everyone, how I'd once lifted her effortlessly.
"Careful," I said, injecting deliberate lightness into my tone. "I seem to recall someone insisting she didn't love me for my ability to reach high shelves. Unless you've changed your mind?"
That startled a watery laugh from her.
She reached for my hand with both of hers, gripping it. Her fingers trembled against mine, and I could feel her struggling to compose herself, emotions still raw and overwhelming.
"Share your strawberries with me?" I asked, nodding toward the abandoned bowl.
She laughed again, softer this time, and fetched the bowl.
We shared them in companionable silence, her perched carefully on the arm of my wheelchair, feeding me berries between her own bites. The simple domesticity of it—being together, sharing food, existing in the same space—felt like coming back to life after weeks of merely surviving.
The sound of the front door opening interrupted our quiet moment.
Margaret's voice carried from the foyer.
My grandmother appeared in the doorway, still wearing her cream cashmere coat, and stopped dead at the sight of me.
The carefully composed expression she wore for public appearances cracked instantly, revealing something raw and wounded underneath. Her gaze moved from my face to the wheelchair, and I saw her age a decade in that single moment—this formidable woman who'd weathered every storm with steel in her spine suddenly looking fragile.
"Sebastian," she breathed, one hand gripping the doorframe.
The devastation in her eyes was harder to bear than any physical pain I'd endured.
I sighed, exasperation creeping into my voice. "It's temporary, Grandmother. "
Margaret's shoulders visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of her rigid posture. Relief flickered across her features before she schooled them back into her usual composed expression.
Margaret crossed the room with measured steps, her composure reassembling itself like armor.
But when she reached us, her hand trembled slightly as she touched my shoulder. "Of course it is," she said, and I loved her fiercely for the certainty she injected into those words, even as I caught the sheen of moisture in her eyes.
Elena broke it by standing carefully, her hand still linked with mine. "We should let you rest," she said softly. "It's been a long day."
She took the position behind the wheelchair, pushing me toward our bedroom with careful movements.
Once inside, she stood there staring between me and the bed, biting her lower lip in that way she did when overthinking a problem. The look of intense concentration on her face, as if calculating complex physics equations for a simple bed transfer, was so earnest it was almost comical.
I couldn't help the amused smile that tugged at my lips. "The bed won't bite, darling."
Without waiting for her response, I locked the wheelchair wheels and simply stood, using the armrest for balance as I pivoted and lowered myself onto the mattress. The movement was fluid enough, only a slight favoring of my right leg betraying any difficulty.
"It's primarily my left leg that's being uncooperative," I said, settling back against the pillows with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm not completely helpless, Elena. Though I appreciate your concern, you're looking at me like I might need assistance with basic functions. Should I be insulted that you've already mentally demoted me to invalid status?"