chapter 143
Sebastian's POV:
The moment the door closed behind Luna and Michael, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.
Elena stood by the window, still holding her teacup, the late afternoon light casting a golden glow across her face.
The remnants of our impromptu gathering littered the living room – empty teacups, the tin of my precious Darjeeling still on the counter, cushions slightly askew from where Luna had made herself comfortable.
But my attention was entirely on my wife, on the way she absently rubbed her belly while lost in thought.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, already mentally cataloging what we had in the kitchen. "I could make those lamb chops you've been craving."
She smiled, that soft expression that still had the power to undo me. "Actually, yes. The baby's been doing gymnastics since Luna mentioned food."
In the kitchen, I focused on preparing dinner while Elena settled at the breakfast bar, content to watch.
This had become our routine – me cooking while she kept me company, her presence transforming mundane tasks into something precious. I'd never imagined domestic life could feel like this, like something I'd kill to protect.
"Elena," I said suddenly, keeping my voice casual as I seasoned the lamb. "Have you ever heard of the Smith family? John Smith and his wife?"
She looked up from where she'd been absently tracing patterns on the marble countertop. "The Smiths?"
Her brow furrowed slightly in thought. "I think I heard them once at the newspaper,..."
"What was your impression?" I asked, careful to keep my movements steady, though Marcus's report about their inquiries had been bothering me all afternoon.
"Honestly? I barely remember them." She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "You know I've never paid much attention to the finance world. "
The casual dismissal in her voice told me everything I needed to know – she had no idea of any connection between the Smiths and her past. Whatever they were after, Elena remained blissfully unaware of their interest.
"Why do you ask?" She tilted her head, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "Did something happen?"
"No, nothing like that," I said smoothly, plating the perfectly seared lamb chops. "Just some business dealings recently. Nothing you need to worry about."
I carried our plates to the dining table, effectively closing the subject.
Elena seemed satisfied with my answer, her attention shifting to the aromatic meal before her. We ate in comfortable silence, though I noticed her movements were slower, more deliberate – the weight of her pregnancy beginning to take its toll.
After dinner, she barely made it through helping me clear the table before exhaustion overtook her. "I think the baby's using my energy reserves," she murmured, one hand pressed to her lower back.
In our bedroom, I watched her struggle to find a comfortable position, the size of her belly making it nearly impossible. She'd tried every pregnancy pillow on the market, but nothing seemed to help anymore.
"Come here," I said, pulling her back against my chest, my arm sliding under her belly to support its weight. She sighed in relief, melting into me.
"Better?" I asked, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"Much," she mumbled, already half-asleep. "You make a good pillow."
I held her like that, taking the weight she'd been carrying all day, feeling our child shift and move between us.
Her breathing gradually evened out, but I knew it wouldn't last. She'd wake in an hour or two, uncomfortable again, needing to use the bathroom or struggling with heartburn.
Watching her face in the dim light, seeing the faint shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there months ago, I made a silent decision. This would be our only child. I couldn't put her through this again.
As long as Elena was safe and whole, our family would be complete.
My phone buzzed. Marcus.
"Sir, I've found something. The current Mrs. Smith? She bears a remarkable resemblance to the photos we have of Elena's mother."
I stared at the images he'd just sent, my blood running cold. The woman in the photographs could have been Scarlett Ross's sister. Or...
"How recent are these photos?"
"Taken last week at a charity gala in Manhattan."
My mind raced through the implications. If Scarlett Ross was alive, if she'd somehow become Mrs. Smith, then Elena's entire understanding of her past was built on lies. And more concerning – why was she surfacing now?
"Keep digging," I ordered. "Discretely. And Marcus? Find out if this is the same person. I need confirmation. "
"Understood, sir."
I ended the call and felt frozen, the weight of this potential truth crushing down on me.
Elena had mourned her mother for years. She'd built her entire identity around that loss – the artistic daughter of a woman who'd died too young, who'd left her to face the Sterlings' cruelty alone.
If Scarlett Ross was alive... Christ. How would Elena handle learning her mother had chosen to disappear, to let her daughter believe she was dead? The betrayal would destroy her, especially now, when she was so vulnerable.
I resumed my position as her human pillow, but sleep eluded me entirely.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Elena's face crumbling as she learned the truth. I saw her spiraling back into the depression that had consumed her after her father's death. Could she survive another betrayal of that magnitude?
The hours crawled by.
Just before dawn, my phone vibrated with an encrypted message from Marcus. My stomach dropped as I read it:
Confirmed. Mrs. John Smith is Scarlett Ross. Facial recognition match 97.3%. Full report encrypted in your secure folder.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. So it was true.
My hand trembled slightly as I deleted the message. How the fuck was I supposed to tell her this?