chapter 5
Sebastian's POV:
For three heartbeats, I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
I haven't decided if I'm keeping it.
The words kept repeating in my head, drowning out everything else.
I set the spoon down. Picked up her plate with hands that were steadier than I felt. Placed it in front of her.
"We'll get married," I said.
Simple. Clear. The only logical solution.
I watched her stare at me, those blue eyes wide with something between shock and disbelief.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"We'll get married." I sat down beside her—close enough to feel the heat of her, to catch that subtle scent of lavender from her hair. "Before you start showing. A small ceremony, if you prefer. Or we can do something larger. Whatever you want."
"Are you—" She stopped. Drew in a deep breath, visibly trying to steady herself. "Are you actually insane? Did you hear what I just said?"
I met her eyes. Tried to make her understand.
"I heard you." I wanted to reach out—to touch her stomach, to feel the place where our child was growing—but this wasn't the time. "That's our child, Elena. Ours. And I'm not letting him—or her—be born a bastard."
She looked at me then. Just looked.
And laughed—that same sharp, humorless sound that made something twist in my chest.
Then she stopped. Picked up her fork. Started eating.
Not a word. Not a glance in my direction.
I watched her work through the eggs, the toast, even the fruit I'd cut for her. Methodical. Silent. Like I wasn't sitting three feet away.
When she finished, she stood. Walked to the sofa. Curled up against the cushions and turned on the television.
Just like that. Like before. Like all those months ago when she'd finally realized she couldn't fight me, couldn't escape, couldn't win. So she'd stopped trying. Stopped arguing. Just... retreated into herself and pretended I didn't exist.
It was going to drive me insane.
I rubbed my jaw. Felt the muscle jump in my cheek.
"Elena—"
"Shhh." She didn't even look at me. Just raised one hand in a silencing gesture, eyes fixed on the screen.
Christ.
I couldn't yell at her. Couldn't force her to talk to me. Couldn't—
Couldn't do a damn thing.
The frustration sat in my chest like a living thing, hot and clawing. I needed to hit something. Break something. Anything to bleed off this useless rage before I said something I'd regret.
I turned on my heel. Walked out. Called Marcus on my way to the gym.
"Get your gear. Now."
---
Twenty minutes later, Marcus was in my private gym, circling me on the mats.
"Again," I bit out, shaking out my hands.
He came at me. I blocked. Countered. Let the familiar burn of muscle and impact drown out the image of Elena's blank face, her silent treatment, her fucking hand gesture dismissing me like I was an annoying interruption to her television show.
Punch. Block. Pivot.
She doesn't want our child.
Jab. Duck. Strike.
She won't even talk to me.
I caught Marcus with an uppercut that sent him staggering back. He recovered, came at me again, and I—
"Well, well." A familiar drawl from the doorway. "Who pissed you off this time? Poor Marcus looks like he's been your punching bag again."
I didn't break stance. Didn't look.
"Fuck off, Damian."
"Can't." Damian Morrison sauntered in, all expensive suit and irritating smile. "This is too entertaining. What'd your secret lover do? Finally, tell you to go to hell?"
Marcus wisely took that moment to step back, breathing hard.
I turned. Fixed Damian with a look that had made grown men reconsider their life choices.
He just grinned wider.
"Marcus," I said, not breaking eye contact with Damian. "Take a break. Mr. Morrison here can take your place."
The smile vanished.
"Wait—what? Sebastian, I'm in Tom Ford—"
"I'll buy you a dozen more." I gestured to the mat. "So—are you coming here, or do I drag you over?"
"I—no, hang on—" Damian actually took a step back, hands raised. "I was joking. Obviously joking. You know I have a lunch meeting at noon—"
"It's ten-thirty."
"I need time to fix my hair after you murder me—" He switched tactics, that calculating look sliding across his face. "Look, how about this. You tell me what happened, and maybe I can actually help. Fresh perspective and all that."
I raised an eyebrow.
"You? Help?"
But even as I said it, I reconsidered. Damian was a notorious playboy—had a different woman on his arm every month, somehow managed to stay friends with most of his exes, and had never met a conflict he couldn't charm his way out of.
The bastard was insufferably good at making women smile.
Maybe... maybe he'd actually have something useful to say.
"Fine." I jerked my chin toward the bench. "Talk."
Damian visibly relaxed, that grin creeping back. He dropped onto the bench, stretched out his legs like he owned the place.
"Well, well. This I have to hear. What kind of woman has Sebastian Vane wrapped around her finger?" His eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Come on. Who is she? Do I know her? Is she—"
"Ask questions you shouldn't, and you'll still end up on that mat," I cut him off. "Don't push your luck."
He raised both hands in mock surrender, but the curiosity didn't leave his face.
"Alright, alright. No interrogation. Just... tell me what happened."