chapter 49
Elena's POV:
I stared at Sebastian, heat flooding my face as Nicholas's voice filtered through the phone speaker.
Having someone else explain what happened felt mortifying—like being caught passing notes in class and having them read aloud.
"Ah." Nicholas's voice turned crisp, efficient. "The blonde? She was escorted out within two minutes of arriving. Sebastian's reputation remains intact, I assure you."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow at me, clearly waiting.
I couldn't stay silent without seeming petty, but speaking felt like admitting I cared.
I cleared my throat, desperately searching for a change of subject. "Um, so who exactly is Rose? To you, I mean."
The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if the call had dropped. When Nicholas finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "Former... acquaintance."
Former acquaintance? I'd stumbled onto something juicy.
Nicholas Black—eternally composed, perpetually detached Nicholas—had relationship drama?
"Well," I said, mind racing, "if she's someone from your past, the gift should probably trigger memories. "
"Meaningful memories," Nicholas repeated slowly, as if testing the words. "Right. Thank you, Elena."
The call ended with an abruptness that left questions hanging in the air.
I handed the phone back to Sebastian, curiosity getting the better of caution.
"So what's the story there? With Nicholas and this Rose person?"
Sebastian's expression shifted, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. "Shouldn't you be more concerned about us first?"
The accusation in his tone made me pause, but only for a moment.
As I examined my own reaction, relief flooded through me. I hadn't fallen for him. With that clarity came confidence. The reassuring words flowed easily, naturally, with the practiced smoothness I'd perfected over months of managing his volatile moods.
"I just don't like the idea of other women getting too close to you."
Sebastian's eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his features before melting into deep satisfaction. He moved closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek with unexpected tenderness.
"I promise you," he said, his voice low and intense, "no other woman can get near me. No one but you."
"So," I said lightly, tilting my head, "now can you tell me what happened between Nicholas and Rose?"
Sebastian sighed, the sound carrying both resignation and a hint of amusement at my persistence. "They were supposed to get married. Then she vanished the morning of the wedding."
She ran. The words echoed in my mind, carrying a weight Sebastian probably didn't intend.
"That's..." I searched for the right word. "Intense."
"Nicholas hasn't been the same since." Sebastian's arms came around me, pulling me against his chest. "Keeps insisting she'll come back. "
"What kind of woman could make Nicholas..." I trailed off, genuinely curious about someone who could inspire such lasting devotion even after abandoning him.
Sebastian's arms wrapped around me, pulling me down onto the bed with him. I found myself pressed against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head.
"Stop thinking about other men," he murmured. "I don't like it when you focus your attention on other men."
I let the subject drop, recognizing the warning beneath his gentle tone. Besides, there was something hypnotic about the way his fingers traced patterns on my back, the warmth of his body gradually melting my defenses.
His lips found my temple, then my cheek, each kiss soft but insistent. When I tried to protest, he silenced me with a kiss that made rational thought impossible. His hands were clever and patient, coaxing responses from my body even as my mind tried to maintain distance.
By the time he finally let me rest, I was breathless and pliant in his arms, any thoughts of Nicholas and Rose thoroughly chased away.
Sleep came easily, wrapped in his possessive embrace.
---
I woke to cool sheets and filtered sunlight.
The space beside me held only a faint indentation and the lingering scent of his cologne. A glance at the bedside clock showed it was nearly ten—Sebastian must have left hours ago.
After a quick shower and a simple breakfast, I wandered downstairs. The sound of voices drew me toward the main sitting room.
"—really think the Pemberton girl would be suitable, though she's rather young..."
I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.
Margaret sat on the cream sofa, looking regal as always in a lavender dress. Beside her, Catherine Vane perched nervously, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Between them, spread across the coffee table like a deck of cards, were dozens of photographs.
Professional portraits, all of them. Young women in their early twenties posed with practiced elegance against neutral backgrounds.
"Elena, darling!" Margaret spotted me immediately, her face brightening. "Perfect timing. Come sit with us—we need a fresh perspective."
I hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. Catherine's gaze lifted to meet mine, her expression complicated and unreadable.
"We're selecting potential matches for Adrian," Catherine explained, her voice carefully neutral but her eyes avoiding mine. "It's time he... moved forward."
Helping choose Adrian's future bride? The very thought made me want to bolt from the room, to escape this surreal nightmare.
My legs tensed, ready to flee, but Margaret's expectant smile pinned me in place.
"I should—this is really a family matter," I started, but Margaret was already patting the space beside her.
"Nonsense. You have excellent taste, and you know what young people like these days. Come, help us choose someone who'll make Adrian happy."
The irony was sharp enough to cut.
I found myself pulled down onto the sofa, trapped between social obligation and sheer horror. The photographs stared up at me—blonde, brunette, redhead, all variations on the same theme of appropriate breeding and careful grooming.
"This one's lovely," Catherine said, holding up a photo of a willowy blonde. "The Ashford girl. Excellent family, studied at the Sorbonne..."
My stomach churned as they discussed Adrian's future like items on a menu. Did he know about this? Had he agreed to it?
"What do you think, dear?" Margaret was looking at me expectantly, a photograph in her hand.