chapter 47
Elena's POV:
The moment Sebastian's footsteps faded, the calm mask I'd been wearing crumbled like dried clay.
My hands trembled as I set down the basket of lavender, the purple stems scattered across the greenhouse bench in disarray that matched my inner turmoil. I pressed my palms against the cool glass surface, trying to steady myself against the wave of emotions I'd been holding back since seeing those photographs.
The truth was—and I hated myself for admitting it —I cared.
The image of that woman leaning into Sebastian had sent something sharp and unwelcome through me.
Isabella's insinuations from her morning visit haunted me, her knowing smiles and pointed observations about my feelings for Sebastian hitting far too close to home.
Could she be right? Had I really fallen in love with Sebastian? The thought crashed through my defenses before I could stop it, leaving me breathless with its implications.
No. I shook my head violently, as if the physical action could dislodge the thought.
I couldn't be in love with the man who'd kept me prisoner for a year, who'd manipulated my birth control to trap me with pregnancy, who'd threatened everyone I cared about to keep me by his side.
What I felt had to be something else—Stockholm syndrome, perhaps. A psychological response to prolonged captivity and dependence. Yes, that made more sense than the alternative.
Fortunately, the collaboration Isabella had introduced had already been finalized.
The boutique perfume house wanted me to create a signature lavender fragrance, and if the initial product met their standards, it could develop into a long-term partnership.
When I remembered the exceptional varieties in Margaret's greenhouse, I'd immediately arranged to visit. It was the perfect excuse—legitimate work that required my attention, giving me both purpose and distance from the confusing emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Now, entering the manor with my harvest, I found Margaret in the living room, her sharp eyes taking in my face and the basket clutched in my arms.
"Are you hungry, dear? " Her voice carried that particular blend of concern.
I shook my head, perhaps too quickly.
My eyes swept the room involuntarily. Margaret's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Sebastian is in the boxing room, if you're wondering. Third floor, east wing."
"I wasn't—" The protest tumbled out too fast, too defensive. Heat crept up my neck as I fumbled for an excuse. "I should clean up. I got dirt on my clothes in the greenhouse."
I fled before she could respond, taking the stairs two at a time like a child caught in mischief, my basket abandoned on the side table in my haste to escape her knowing gaze.
The suite they always prepared for me was exactly as I'd left it, down to the sketch pad still open on the desk. I stood under the shower spray longer than necessary, letting the hot water wash away the dirt and, hopefully, some of my confusion.
But clarity remained elusive.
Wrapped in a towel, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back at me seemed foreign—her cheeks flushed not from steam but from remembered images of Sebastian with another woman, her eyes bright with an emotion she refused to name.
I dressed carefully in a simple cashmere sweater and jeans, telling myself I was hungry, that I was only going downstairs for food.
The sound reached me before I'd made it halfway down the corridor—the rhythmic thud of fists against leather, punctuated by sharp exhales.
I should have continued to the kitchen. Instead, my feet carried me toward the sound as if pulled by invisible strings.
The boxing room door was ajar, offering a clear view through the gap.
Sebastian had stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming with perspiration as he circled the heavy bag. Each punch was delivered with controlled violence, the muscles in his back and arms flexing with practiced precision.
A bead of sweat traced the line of his jaw before dropping to his collarbone, and I found myself following its path with an attention that made my cheeks burn.
The droplet continued its journey, sliding down between his pectorals, trailing over the defined ridges of his abdomen before finally disappearing into the waistband of his training pants.
The silver crucifix at his throat caught the light with each movement, a glinting reminder of the darkness he claimed it helped him control. This was Sebastian working through emotion in the only way he knew how, through physical dominance.
This was wrong, I knew. I shouldn't be standing here like some voyeur, shouldn't be affected by the raw display of masculinity before me. Yet I couldn't look away from the play of light across his skin, the way his hair fell across his forehead, damp with exertion.
The realization struck me with the force of one of his punches—of course, I was attracted to him physically.
What woman wouldn't be? This body had been pressed against mine just last night, those hands had mapped every inch of my skin with devastating thoroughness. My reaction was purely biological, a response to an undeniably attractive man who happened to be my husband.
It didn't mean anything deeper.
The concern I'd felt seeing him with another woman wasn't jealousy—it was practical worry. If he were entertaining other women, if he was careless, diseases could spread.
As his wife, as the mother of his child, I had every right to be concerned about his sexual health affecting mine. This was self-preservation, nothing more.
Relief flooded through me at this rational explanation.
I wasn't jealous. The tightness in my chest loosened as I embraced this logical reasoning. I was simply being pragmatic about—
My phone chose that moment to ring, the shrill tone shattering both my thoughts and the spell. I fumbled to silence it, pressing my back against the wall as I heard Sebastian's movements pause.