Chapter 87 Chapter Eighty-Seven
Sebastian’s POV
I have survived boardroom wars, hostile takeovers, threats whispered through burner phones, and a man who wanted to ruin me by destroying the one thing I cared about days ago.
And yet, asking Lena to spend time alone with me again feels harder than all of it.
She stands across from me in my living room, arms folded loosely, eyes watchful — not cold, not angry, just careful. That look is my punishment. Earned. Fair.
I don’t deserve ease with her yet.
I clear my throat. “I was thinking… we could go out for a bit.”
Her head tilts slightly. “Out where?”
Anywhere but here, I almost say. Anywhere that doesn’t feel like a battlefield or a confession booth. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere quiet.
Instead, I say the most unromantic thing possible.
“Golf.”
She blinks.
Once.
Then again.
“Golf,” she repeats, like the word might change meaning if she says it slowly.
I brace myself.
“You want me,” she says carefully, “to play golf. With you.”
“Yes.”
She studies my face, clearly searching for the catch. There isn’t one. No grand gesture. No emotional ambush. Just space. Air. A chance to exist beside each other without bleeding.
“I don’t know how to play,” she says.
“I know.”
She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Sebastian…”
“I’m not trying to impress you,” I say quietly. “I just want time. The kind that doesn’t demand anything.”
That stops her.
Her shoulders relax a fraction. Just enough that I notice.
For a long moment, she says nothing. Then, finally—
“…Fine. But if I embarrass myself, that’s on you.”
Relief hits me harder than I expect.
“I’ll survive,” I say.
She doesn’t smile.
But she doesn’t walk away either.
And for now, that’s enough.
The golf course is quiet in the way only wealth and distance can afford.
Wide green stretches. Trimmed silence. A sky too blue to feel real.
Lena walks beside me, her steps careful, measured — not because she’s afraid of falling, but because she’s still deciding where she stands with me. That feels worse. I can fix injuries. I can’t rush trust.
She adjusts the visor I handed her earlier, clearly uncomfortable in it. She looks out of place and beautiful all at once.
“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” she says.
I pick up a club and test its weight. “Because we needed somewhere that isn’t work. Or danger. Or a room full of things we didn’t say.”
She hums softly. Skeptical. But she stays.
That matters.
We play badly at first — mostly because she’s never played and because I’m distracted watching her laugh under her breath every time she misses the ball. Each sound loosens something tight in my chest. It feels dangerously close to peace.
“Stop smiling like that,” she mutters after her third miss.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying this.”
I don’t deny it.
I guide her stance gently, careful not to overstep. My hands hover before touching her shoulders, silently asking permission.
She doesn’t pull away.
Progress.
After a while, we sit on a bench near the green, bottled water between us, the sun dipping lower. The quiet presses in again — heavier this time. Necessary.
This is the part I can’t avoid.
“Lena,” I say.
She turns toward me immediately, alert. Braced.
I hate that I put that instinct there.
“There’s something I need to be clear about,” I continue. “About us.”
Her jaw tightens slightly. She nods once. “Okay.”
I stare out at the course instead of her. If I look at her, I might soften the words too much. And clarity matters more than comfort right now.
“What happened to us before… it can’t happen that way again,” I say carefully. “Not publicly. Not yet.”
I feel her shift beside me, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“This isn’t shame,” I add quickly. “It’s protection. For you. For me. For things still settling.”
She’s quiet long enough that my chest tightens.
“I don’t want to rebuild trust under a spotlight,” I continue. “I want us to choose each other without noise. Without pressure. Slowly.”
Finally, she speaks.
“So… you’re saying we’re together,” she says, “but privately.”
“Yes.”
She studies my face like she’s reading fine print.
“And no more lies?” she asks.
I swallow. “No more lies.”
“No more cruelty,” she adds.
The word lands hard. Earned.
“Never again,” I say. “I won’t weaponize my fear against you. I promise.”
She exhales slowly. The tension in her shoulders eases, just a fraction.
“I don’t want to feel like I imagined everything,” she says quietly. “Like I loved alone.”
“You didn’t,” I say instantly. Too fast. Too honest.
Her eyes lift to mine, searching.
“I love you,” I don’t say.
But it’s there. In the way my voice cracks. In the way I don’t look away.
She nods once.
“Okay,” she says. “We rebuild. Quietly.”
Relief floods me so fast I have to grip the bench to steady myself.
“Okay,” I echo.
I turn toward her then, really look at her. The woman I nearly lost. The woman I chose pain over honesty for. The woman who stayed anyway.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull back.
She doesn’t.
The kiss is deep, unhurried, grounding — not desperate like before, not stolen, not frantic. It feels like intention. Like a line drawn forward instead of erased behind us.
When I pull back, her forehead rests briefly against mine.
I believe that the threat is gone.
The danger is over.
The hardest part is behind us.
And for once, I let myself think —
We’ve cleared all the obstacles.