chapter 63
Sebastian's POV:
Nicholas set down his glass with deliberate care, studying me with those sharp eyes that had seen too much of my particular brand of suffering.
A rueful smile curved his lips as he raised his whiskey in a mock toast. "Well then, here's to us—brothers in misery, fellow prisoners of our own making."
I watched him over the rim of my glass, noting the bitter edge beneath his attempt at levity. "Elena and I aren't quite at that point."
The bitter laugh that escaped him held no humor.
He slumped back against the leather, the chair creaking under his weight as he stared at the amber liquid in his glass. "Then I suppose that makes me the more pathetic one."
The admission hung between us, raw and unvarnished. Nicholas Black, heir to one of the city's oldest banking dynasties, reduced to stolen glimpses of his daughter in public parks. At least Elena was still in my bed each night.
"I don't understand," Nicholas said after a long pull from his glass. "Last time I visited, you two seemed... settled. What happened?"
I considered how to explain the inexplicable—that giving Elena space felt like slowly bleeding out, that every moment I didn't monopolize her attention was agony.
"She asked me to try caring less," I said finally, each word carefully measured. "So I've been... attempting to give her the freedom she wants. I leave early, come home late. I don't ask where she's been or what she's done. "
Nicholas stared at me as if I'd suddenly started speaking in ancient Greek. "Let me get this straight. Your pregnant wife made one offhand comment about needing space, and you decided the solution was to essentially abandon her?"
"I haven't abandoned—"
"You're an idiot." He cut me off, shaking his head in disbelief. "She's carrying your child, probably feeling vulnerable and hormonal, and your response is to withdraw completely? Christ, Sebastian, you really know how to take things to extremes."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Hormonal. Of course. How had I been so blind?
I'd read every pregnancy book I could get my hands on, memorized statistics about fetal development and nutritional requirements, but somehow I'd managed to overlook the most basic fact—that the woman carrying my child was riding a rollercoaster of hormonal changes that could shift her emotional state from moment to moment.
"Fuck," I breathed, the full weight of my stupidity crashing down. "She's four months pregnant, and I've been taking everything she says at face value."
"Finally catching on?" Nicholas's voice carried equal parts amusement and sympathy. "Pregnant women can want distance one minute and desperate reassurance the next. Their bodies are going through hell, and their emotions are all over the place. You can't just disappear because she made one comment about needing space."
"I'm a fucking fool," I said, already standing, the need to get home suddenly overwhelming.
"I should go," I said abruptly, draining my glass and standing. The alcohol had done nothing to dull the sharp edges of my need.
Nicholas looked up, surprised. "Already? We've barely started drinking."
"I'm going home to my wife." The words tasted like salvation on my tongue.
This self-imposed martyrdom served no one.
The December air hit like a slap as I exited the club, but I barely noticed.
I stopped at her favorite patisserie on the way home, selecting an assortment of the delicate French pastries she pretended not to crave.
The pregnancy had awakened a sweet tooth she tried to hide, but I'd noticed how her eyes lingered on dessert menus, how she unconsciously licked her lips when passing bakery windows.
The drive home stretched endlessly despite the empty streets.
I found myself checking the time obsessively—barely past nine. She'd be in her studio perhaps, working on those mysterious fragrance combinations that filled our home with unexpected scents. Or reading in the library, curled into the corner of that ridiculously oversized armchair she'd claimed as her own.
I took the private elevator up, balancing the pastry box while anticipation built in my chest like pressure. Four days of self-imposed separation, and I was returning like some conquering hero bearing sweets. Pathetic, really, but I'd accept whatever small victories I could claim.
The elevator ride to our penthouse stretched interminably, each second increasing my anticipation.
The penthouse was dark when I entered, only the ambient city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Elena?" My voice echoed off marble and glass, swallowed by rooms that felt too large without her in them.
I set the pastry boxes on the entrance table, their cheerful ribbons mockingly bright in the dim light. The living room stood empty, her usual nest of throw pillows undisturbed. My steps quickened as I moved through our home, checking each room with growing unease.
The library, shadows and silence.
The bedroom—empty, the bed still made with military precision.
The bathroom—cold, no lingering steam or scent of her preferred bath oils.
She was gone.
The realization hit like ice water in my veins, chasing away the warm anticipation I'd foolishly allowed myself to feel. I pulled out my phone, her contact already on the screen, and pressed call before I could second-guess myself.
The automated voice that answered made my blood run cold: "The number you have dialed is switched off. Please try again later."
The same mechanical message mocked me, each word driving home the reality of her absence.
I'd loosened my grip, and she'd slipped through my fingers like water. Just as I'd feared, just as some part of me had always known would happen.
The pastries sat abandoned on the entrance table, ribbon still perfectly tied, waiting for someone who wasn't coming home.