chapter 139
Elena's POV:
Sebastian's eyes narrowed dangerously, though I could see the amusement lurking beneath.
"Oh, so now you're disgusted by me? After clinging to me and crying just days ago?"
He caught my hand, pressing it more firmly against his face. "Tell me, Elena—when I lose my looks, will you go find yourself a younger man?"
"If you don't shave..." I rolled my eyes, summoning what little energy I had for our usual banter. "Maybe."
"Heartless woman." But even as he said it, he leaned down to kiss me, his stubble scratching against my skin in a way that was both irritating and oddly comforting.
When I tugged on his ear in protest, he finally relented. "Fine. But you're coming with me."
"Sebastian—"
"No arguments." He was already wheeling toward the bathroom, and I found myself following, drawn by that invisible thread that always seemed to connect us.
I perched on the bathroom counter while he lathered his face, watching the familiar ritual. Everything felt both precious and fragile now.
"You're staring," he said without looking at me, his voice lighter than it had been in days.
"Just making sure you don't miss any spots." I managed a small smile. "Can't have you looking scruffy at tomorrow's appointment with Dr. Klein."
His hand paused for just a moment before continuing. "You remembered."
"Of course I remembered." I offered him a small smile through the mirror, our eyes meeting in the reflection.
"Also," I added, trying to lighten the moment again, "you should definitely shower."
"Elena Ross Vane," he growled, setting down the razor with deliberate slowness. "If I'm dirty, then we'll be dirty together."
Before I could react, he rubbed his half-shaved, foam-covered face against my cheek, and I squealed, squirming away from him. "Stop! You're impossible!"
"That's the point," he murmured against my neck, spreading more shaving cream on my skin as I laughed and tried to push him away.
"Sebastian! Now I need a shower too!"
"Exactly my plan." His eyes gleamed with mischief as he dabbed a bit of foam on my nose.
I retaliated by grabbing the can of shaving cream, but he caught my wrist, both of us dissolving into something that felt almost like our old playfulness.
For a few precious moments, the bathroom filled with laughter instead of tears, and the weight on my chest seemed just a little bit lighter.
---
Two days later, I stood in the cemetery, wrapped in a black fur coat against the biting wind.
The small gathering had already dispersed, leaving only Sebastian and me at my father's grave. The headstone was simple, elegant—everything he would have wanted.
"I'll live well, Dad," I whispered to the polished granite, my gloved hand resting on the cold stone. "I promise. I'll be happy, just like you asked."
Sebastian's arm came around me, steady and warm. We stood there in silence for a long moment before I finally let him guide me back to the car.
John Smith's POV:
The news arrived at my New York estate three days late, as most intelligence from St. Valen did these days.
Aaron stood before my mahogany desk, his blonde hair gleaming under the amber light of my study.
"Sir, Rebecca Sterling and Robert Ross are dead."
I set down my Cuban cigar, the smoke curling between us like a question mark. The names hung in the air—ghosts from a past I'd spent considerable resources trying to bury.
"Robert Ross is dead?" My voice remained steady, though something cold stirred in my chest.
"Yes, sir. Threw himself into traffic on the highway."
Aaron expected satisfaction, perhaps even celebration. He found neither on my face.
"His daughter?" I asked, already knowing the answer would displease me.
"Elena Ross is now Lady Vane, sir. Our surveillance can't penetrate the Vane security perimeter. We only know she was discharged from the hospital and returned to their estate."
I rose from my leather chair, letting half my face remain in shadow. The old habits died hard—intimidation through presence alone, a skill learned in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
"She concerns me far more than her father ever did."
"Sir?" Aaron's confusion was evident. Good soldiers followed orders, but the best ones understood the reasoning behind them.
"Robert Ross was predictable. Broken by love, controlled by guilt. His daughter..." I paused, remembering intelligence reports, photographs, connections that ran deeper than blood. "She has her mother's strength. And now she has Sebastian Vane's protection."
The combination was troublesome. The Vane family's reach extended far beyond their London base.
Sebastian himself was no ordinary businessman—his background in special operations, his network of loyalists, his absolute devotion to what was his. I'd seen men like him before. They were the most dangerous when cornered, and positively lethal when protecting what they loved.
"Rebecca's mother still lives," I continued, settling on a course of action. "She still has value. Arrange a meeting. Personally."
"Yes, sir." Aaron bowed slightly, understanding the weight of 'personally.' I didn't send my best unless the matter was crucial.
He turned to leave, his footsteps measured on the Persian rug.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the dying embers of my cigar.
The door opened again. This time, no knock preceded it—only one person in this house had that privilege.
"John," Scarlett's voice floated across the room like silk. "It's so late. What are you and Aaron discussing at this hour?"
I turned to face my wife, studying her delicate features in the lamplight. She still moved like a ghost through this house, beautiful and brittle as spun glass.
"Business," I replied smoothly. "The St. Valen branch needs attention."
Something flickered in her green eyes at the mention of St. Valen.
After all these years, I could read her tells—the slight tightening around her mouth, the way her fingers found her pearl necklace. St. Valen meant something to her.
Her former husband, Robert lived there, and their daughter Elena too.
"I see." She glided closer, her silk robe whispering against the floor. "Will Aaron be traveling there?"
"Yes. There are matters requiring personal attention."
She nodded, seeming to wrestle with something internally. I
"There's a shop in St. Valen that preserves the pictures of butterflies beautifully. I used to..." She trailed off, lost in some memory I wasn't privy to. "Would you ask Aaron to bring one back? If it's not too much trouble."
"Of course," I said, making a mental note. "I'll have him visit the shop. Any particular species?"
"Blue morpho," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "If they have it."