chapter 60
Sebastian's POV:
The sight of Nicholas Black slumped against our wall like some common drunk would have been amusing under different circumstances.
As it was, with Elena pressed against my side—still processing her triumph with Henri Beaumont—I found his timing particularly inconvenient.
His Armani suit, usually immaculate, looked like he'd been wearing it for days. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? Marcus wouldn't let me in. Said I wasn't on the approved list anymore."
I felt Elena's questioning glance, but kept my focus on Nicholas. "That's because you're not. The last time you showed up drunk at three in the morning, you tried to redecorate my living room with a bottle of Macallan."
"That's impossible," Nicholas protested, swaying slightly. "I would never waste good Macallan on—"
I didn't bother arguing with a drunk. Elena had already moved to unlock the door, holding it open as I grabbed Nicholas's arm and hauled him inside.
He stumbled slightly but managed to stay upright, muttering something about the injustice of being blamed for things he couldn't remember.
"Come on," I said, steering him toward the couch. "Before you fall over and I have to explain to the media why there's a billionaire passed out in my hallway."
Nicholas collapsed onto the leather couch with a graceless thump, his head falling back against the cushions. For a moment, he just sat there, eyes closed, looking more exhausted than drunk.
"So," I said, taking the chair across from him. "What's going on, Nicholas? Why are you here?"
The question seemed to drain whatever levity remained in him.
His eyes opened slowly, and the expression that settled over his face was heavy with something that looked dangerously close to despair.
"I needed..." He trailed off, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Christ, I don't even know anymore. I just needed to not be alone."
Elena, who had been hovering near the entryway, stepped forward with that instinctive compassion of hers. "I'll make you some honey water," she said softly, already moving toward the kitchen. "It'll help."
Nicholas blinked at her, clearly not expecting kindness. His gaze dropped at her retreating form, and his expression crumbled further.
"She used to do that," he mumbled, barely audible. "The honey water thing. Said it was better than coffee for sobering up."
If he hadn't looked so pathetically miserable right then, I would have thrown him back out into the hallway.
Elena returned with a large glass of honey water, pressing it into Nicholas's hands. He took it gratefully, drinking deeply.
"Thank you," he managed between sips. "You're too kind. Sebastian doesn't deserve—"
"I think I'll go upstairs," Elena interrupted diplomatically, shooting me a meaningful look. "You two clearly need to talk."
Elena continued up, giving us privacy. Only when I heard our bedroom door close did I turn back to Nicholas.
"Talk," I ordered. "And make it coherent. I'm not in the mood to decode your drunken ramblings."
He set down the glass with shaking hands. "She's seeing someone. Rose. She's... there's another man."
The pieces fell into place—his drinking, the desperation, showing up here in the middle of the night. "You're certain?"
"Saw them together. At that little French place in Kensington. The one she always loved." His laugh was bitter. "He was holding her hand across the table. She was smiling. That real smile, you know? The one that makes her whole face light up."
I watched Nicholas drowning in his misery and couldn't help the sigh that escaped me.
It wasn't so long ago that I'd been the one showing up at his door, bottle in hand, tormented by thoughts of Elena. How many nights had we sat exactly like this, positions reversed, while I obsessed over every detail of her attempts to escape, her resistance, her fear of me?
"Maybe you're wrong," I offered, trying for consolation. "Maybe you misunderstood what you saw. Try to look at it differently."
Nicholas took a long drink of the honey water Elena had brought him, then fixed me with a look that was equal parts disbelief and bitterness.
"Easy for you to say," he said. "What if it were Elena? What if you saw her with Adrian, holding hands across a table, smiling at him like—"
My eyes darkened at the mere thought. "That's not going to happen."
"It's just a hypothetical,"
"Then I'd take her back," I cut him off, my voice hard and certain. "Simple as that. She's mine. If someone tried to take what's mine, I'd reclaim her. By whatever means necessary."
Nicholas let out a bitter laugh. "Of course, that's your answer. Classic Sebastian Vane."
He shook his head, staring down at the glass in his hands. "But Rose won't forgive me. Not after everything. She left so decisively, Sebastian. Disappeared overseas while carrying—" His voice cracked. "While pregnant with our child. She was that desperate to get away from me."
"If I go after her now, if I try to force my way back into her life..." Nicholas continued, his words heavy with defeat. "It'll only make her hate me more. "
Though it was wrong of me to feel it, I couldn't help the flash of relief that swept through me—relief that Elena and I hadn't reached that point.
"You won't know unless you try," I said finally. "Better than drinking yourself to death."
"You've been waiting for her all these years, Nicholas. Even if the odds are slim, it can't be worse than this."
Nicholas was silent for a long moment, processing my words. The honey water sat forgotten in his hands as he stared at nothing, lost in whatever memories or regrets were haunting him. Finally, he set the glass down with careful precision.
"Take me home," he said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper. "I need to... I need to think."
I stood, ready to call for Marcus to bring the car around, when I caught it—the faintest sound of movement from the hallway. A soft rustling, like fabric against the wall.
My head snapped toward the doorway just in time to see a flash of silk nightgown disappearing around the corner. Elena. The little spy had been listening to the entire conversation.