Chapter 101 Chapter 101
Sebastian’s POV
I close the door behind Wes with more force than necessary.
Not a slam. I don’t give him that. Just a firm, final click that seals us into the quiet side room off the study—bookshelves, a low table, the faint smell of old paper and expensive wood polish. The house hums beyond the walls, guests still moving, laughter still leaking through corridors like nothing has detonated in my home.
Wes stands near the window, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at me.
Neither do I—at first.
I pace once. Twice. My pulse thunders in my ears. Every muscle in my body wants to erupt, but I keep it locked down, compressed into something sharp and controlled. Anger, when used properly, doesn’t shout. It cuts.
“Sit,” I say.
He scoffs, but he sits. Drops into the chair like he’s daring it to break.
I lean against the desk instead of taking my own seat. Distance. Control. I cross my arms and stare at a spot just above his head, because if I look directly at him too long, I’ll remember the sound—skin on skin, disbelief in his eyes—and the fury will tip.
“You don’t get to speak to anyone like that in my house,” I say, voice low. “Not her. Not ever.”
Wes laughs, brittle. “You’re really doing this?”
I finally look at him.
“What you did tonight,” I say, “was unacceptable.”
“What you did tonight,” he fires back, eyes blazing now, “was unforgivable.”
I inhale through my nose. Slow. Measured.
“We are not here to litigate my personal life,” I say. “We’re here to address your behavior.”
“My behavior?” He stands abruptly, chair scraping. “You were in your study with my ex. Your employee. Your—” He stops himself, lips curling. “You want to talk about behavior?”
I step forward without thinking, then stop myself. Two steps back into restraint.
“You will lower your voice,” I say.
He laughs again, louder this time. “You think you get to manage this? You think this is just a bad dinner conversation?”
“Sit. Down.”
He doesn’t.
Fine.
“Say what you need to say,” I tell him. “But you will do it without name-calling.”
Wes shakes his head. “You don’t even know what you’ve done.”
“That’s correct,” I say evenly. “I don’t. And I’m not going to pretend I do.”
He stares at me like I’ve insulted him.
“You want context?” he snaps. “You want the full picture?”
“I want restraint,” I say. “From both of us.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s hollow. “You really don’t get it.”
“Then explain it,” I say. “Without venom. Without slurs.”
Silence stretches between us. I watch his chest rise and fall, fast and shallow. For a moment—just a moment—I see something flicker there. Hurt. Betrayal. The child under the rage.
It doesn’t excuse anything. But it explains enough.
“I’m not going to explain everything,” I say before he can speak. The words surprise even me. “Because you’re not entitled to all of it.”
His eyes narrow. “Convenient.”
“This is not a negotiation,” I reply. “It’s a boundary.”
He scoffs. “You didn’t have boundaries five minutes ago.”
The image flashes unbidden—Lena’s hair under my hands, the way she breathed my name like it grounded her. The memory collides with Wes’s accusation, and something sharp lodges under my ribs.
I look away.
“You crossed a line tonight,” I say. “With your words. With your assumptions.”
“You crossed it first,” he says. “Months ago, With her.”
I freeze.
The room feels smaller.
I turn back to him slowly. “Choose your next words carefully.”
He studies my face, searching for something. Confusion. Recognition. Guilt.
He finds none. Because I don’t yet understand what he’s implying.
“Did you know?” he asks suddenly. “When she took the job. Did you know?”
My jaw tightens. “Know what?”
His mouth opens—then closes. He swallows. For a split second, he looks almost uncertain.
Then his pride snaps back into place.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You really don’t know.”
“Know what, Wes?” I snap, control thinning.
He throws up his hands. “This is pointless.”
“No,” I say. “What’s pointless is you detonating a room and refusing to own it.”
“Own what?” he yells. “That I walked in on my father with the woman who—”
“Stop,” I cut in sharply. “We are not finishing that sentence.”
He laughs, harsh. “You don’t get to censor reality.”
“I get to protect people in my house,” I say. “Including you—from yourself.”
He stares at me, chest heaving.
“You think you’re the only one who feels betrayed?” he says. “You think you’re the victim here?”
“I didn’t say that,” I reply. “I said your behavior was collateral damage—and you’re going to answer for it.”
“Collateral,” he repeats, bitter. “That’s what she is to you, isn’t it? Damage you didn’t plan for.”
The words land harder than he knows.
I close my eyes briefly. Not because he’s right—but because the question cuts too close to the truth I’ve been avoiding.
“I trusted her,” I say quietly.
He falters.
“I trusted her completely,” I continue. “I brought her into my life after months of distance and fear and restraint. I let her see parts of me I don’t show anyone.”
I open my eyes. “And tonight, that trust cracked.”
His expression shifts—not triumphant, not smug. Something closer to stunned.
“You’re angry at her,” he says slowly.
“Yes,” I admit.
“And at yourself,” he adds.
The words hit because they’re accurate.
“I should have asked more questions,” I say. “I should have slowed down. I should have protected all of us better.”
He scoffs. “So now you’re the martyr.”
“No,” I say. “I’m the adult.”
He looks away.
I watch him—my son, rigid with anger, standing on the far side of a line neither of us knows how to uncross. And for the first time tonight, my fury cools into something heavier.
Responsibility.
“This conversation is over,” I say. “For tonight.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters.
“You will not speak to her again,” I continue. “Not until you can do so without cruelty.”
He turns back sharply. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do,” I say. “As her employer. As the owner of this house. And as your father.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
“Go home,” I say. “We’ll talk later.”
He hesitates, then nods once. Stiff. Controlled. He turns toward the door.
Before he leaves, I add, “Whatever you think you know—keep it to yourself.”
He pauses, hand on the handle.
“You really don’t see it,” he says quietly.
Then he’s gone.
The room feels hollow in his absence.
I sink into the chair he vacated, the adrenaline draining all at once. My hands tremble slightly. I clench them into fists and rest them on my knees.
I replay everything.
The way Lena looked at me when the door opened. Shock. Fear. A flicker of shame that wasn’t guilt—but anticipation of impact.
I replay her silence.
I replay my certainty.
I trusted her completely.
And that trust cracked in one night.