Chapter 89 Chapter Eighty-nine
Sebastian’s POV
I know something is wrong the moment I step inside.
The house doesn’t smell like silence.
It smells like rosemary and garlic, like heat and intention. Like someone has decided this space needed to be filled without asking me first. My jacket is still halfway off my shoulders when I stop moving, listening. The lights are on farther in, soft and deliberate, not the automated glow I leave behind when I work late.
I close the door quietly, already irritated. Already tired.
“Sebastian,” Victoria says from the kitchen, as if she belongs here. As if this is normal.
I round the corner and find her standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back the way she used to wear it when she wanted to look effortless. There’s a pot simmering on the stove. Plates set out. Two glasses.
Two.
She smiles when she sees me. Not cautious. Not apologetic. Comfortable.
“You’re late,” she says lightly. “I was starting to worry you’d skip dinner again.”
I don’t return the smile. I don’t step closer.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She shrugs, turning back to the stove, stirring as if she hasn’t just crossed several lines. “I came by to drop off some paperwork for Wes. You weren’t answering your phone. And I knew you’d forget to eat.”
I glance at the counter. No paperwork. Just food. Just an attempt.
“You could’ve left it with the staff,” I say.
She turns then, leaning back against the counter, studying me the way she used to when she thought she still knew me. “I wanted to see you.”
That, at least, is honest.
“I’m not interested,” I say calmly.
Her eyebrows lift, offended. “In dinner?”
“In this,” I reply. I gesture vaguely between us, at the room, at the implication she’s trying to force into existence.
Victoria exhales sharply but recovers quickly. “You don’t have to be like this. We’re still family.”
“We’re parents,” I correct. “That’s not the same thing.”
She sets the spoon down harder than necessary. “You used to appreciate it when I did things like this.”
I did. Once. When it meant something different. When it wasn’t a strategy.
“That was before,” I say. “Before we ended things.”
She steps toward me then, closing the distance I haven’t invited her to cross. Her hand reaches for my arm, fingers brushing my sleeve in a gesture so familiar it almost feels rehearsed.
“You don’t have to shut me out,” she says softly. “We know each other, Sebastian. Better than anyone else ever could.”
I don’t move. I don’t react. I simply take one step back.
Her hand drops.
“This isn’t happening,” I say.
Something sharp flashes across her face — not hurt, not sadness. Pride. The kind that doesn’t take rejection well.
She laughs once, short and brittle. “You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”
“You’re acting like we’re still together,” I reply. “We’re not.”
She studies me more closely now, as if searching for a crack. “You’ve changed.”
“No,” I say. “I’ve stopped pretending.”
That’s when her tone shifts. The softness evaporates, replaced by something colder, more demanding. “Is there someone else?”
The question lands in the room and stays there.
I don’t answer immediately. Not because I’m unsure — but because she doesn’t deserve one.
“That’s none of your business,” I say finally.
Her eyes narrow. “So there is.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
I meet her gaze evenly. “I don’t need to. We are no longer together. I don’t owe you explanations about my private life.”
She crosses her arms, jaw tight. “So you can just move on? Replace me?”
“That’s not what this is,” I say. “And even if it were, yes. I can.”
Her voice rises. “After everything we built? After a child?”
“I’m not leaving my son,” I say, firmer now. “Don’t confuse that with staying married to you.”
She scoffs. “You’re cold.”
“No,” I correct. “I’m clear.”
She takes another step toward me, anger rolling off her now. “You think you can just shut the door on me?”
“I’m asking you to respect it,” I say.
She laughs again, louder this time. “You let me into your house.”
I straighten. This is the line.
“The only reason you are allowed in this house,” I say carefully, “is because you are Wes’s mother. That does not give you access to me. It does not give you permission to touch me. And it certainly does not give you the right to question my relationships.”
Her face flushes red. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“I do,” I say. “And I am.”
She stares at me for a long moment, breathing hard, searching for leverage she no longer has. When she finds none, she grabs her bag from the chair, movements sharp and angry.
“This isn’t over,” she snaps.
“It is,” I reply. “If you want to be here for our son, you’re welcome. If you want anything else, you’re crossing a boundary I won’t ignore again.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She storms past me, heels clicking against the floor, and slams the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Silence rushes in behind her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, at the dinner growing cold on the stove, at the life she tried to resurrect without my consent.
There’s no temptation. No regret.
Only certainty.
I turn off the stove, leave the plates untouched, and head upstairs, already shedding the weight of the encounter. Whatever Victoria wanted tonight, it wasn’t me.
And whatever comes next, I know exactly where I stand.