Chapter 96 Chapter ninety-six
Lena’s POV
The party never really ends.
It just thins out—voices fading, laughter turning distant, music dropping into a low hum that lingers in the walls like an aftertaste. Guests leave in clusters, congratulating Sebastian, clinking glasses one last time, unaware of how heavy everything feels beneath the surface.
I stay.
Not because I’m comfortable, but because leaving feels like admitting something broke tonight.
Sebastian finds me near the corridor leading away from the main hall, my back pressed lightly against the wall, my heels kicked off beside me. He looks exhausted—not physically, but in the way a man does when he’s been holding too much together for too long.
“Lena,” he says softly.
Just my name. No title. No control.
I look at him, really look at him, and I see it—the tension still coiled in his shoulders from Victoria’s presence, the careful way he’s been watching me since she left, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks too long.
“I owe you more than an apology,” he says.
That stops me.
“I owe you accountability.”
My chest tightens.
He steps closer but keeps his hands to himself, like he’s relearning boundaries. “Tonight shouldn’t have happened the way it did. I shouldn’t have allowed her anywhere near you. I shouldn’t have let you feel… cornered. Or questioned.”
I swallow. “She wanted me to feel small.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “And I failed you by letting her get that close.”
The word failed hits harder than I expect.
“I’m not asking you to excuse my past,” he continues, voice low and steady. “Or my history with her. But I am telling you this clearly, without room for doubt—there is nothing between us. There hasn’t been for a long time.”
I search his face. There’s no defensiveness. No arrogance. Just truth, laid bare.
“She doesn’t get access to my life anymore,” he says. “And she certainly doesn’t get access to you.”
Something inside me eases—but it doesn’t disappear.
“I don’t want to be another complication,” I admit quietly. “You already have so many.”
He exhales, slow and controlled. “You’re not a complication. You’re the one thing that feels… real.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’ve survived.
“Come with me,” he says gently. “Please. Just somewhere quiet.”
I hesitate.
Then I nod.
His study feels different at night.
The lights are dimmed, casting shadows across the bookshelves. The room smells faintly of wood and something masculine I can’t name. This is not a room meant for performance—it’s a place of thought, of solitude, of truths he doesn’t share easily.
The door closes behind us.
Sebastian doesn’t touch me right away.
He walks to the desk instead, bracing his hands against it like he needs the support. When he turns back to me, his composure cracks just enough to show the man underneath.
“I hurt you,” he says. Not defensively. Not quietly. Just… honestly. “When I pushed you away. When I spoke to you the way I did. I told myself it was necessary. That cruelty would protect you.”
His jaw tightens. “But I underestimated the damage.”
My throat burns.
“I replay that day constantly,” he continues. “Your face. Your voice. The moment I saw what I’d done to you.”
He takes a step closer. “I’m sorry, Lena. Not as a man trying to fix things—but as someone who knows he crossed a line that should never have been crossed.”
I blink rapidly. “You broke my trust.”
“I know.” His voice drops. “And I don’t expect you to hand it back to me just because I apologized.”
Something inside me gives way.
“I didn’t just lose you,” I whisper. “I lost my sense of what was real.”
He closes the distance slowly, stopping inches away. “I’m here now. And I won’t decide things for you ever again.”
His hand lifts—hesitates—then rests gently at my waist, like he’s asking permission even now.
I don’t move away.
“I missed you,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a confession. “Every day.”
The restraint in him is palpable. He’s holding himself back with everything he has.
My fingers curl into his jacket without conscious thought.
That’s all it takes.
He exhales shakily and pulls me into him—not roughly, not possessively, but like someone afraid of dropping something fragile. My cheek presses against his chest, his heartbeat strong and fast beneath my ear.
“I shouldn’t,” I murmur, even as I cling to him.
“I know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t.
His hand slides up my back, slow and reverent. When his lips brush my temple, it’s tender—aching rather than heated. The kiss that follows is deep but restrained, built on emotion more than desire.
For a moment, the world narrows to just us.
Then his phone rings.
Loud. Jarring.
Reality crashes back in.
Sebastian freezes.
He pulls back slightly, breath uneven, and looks down at the screen.
His face changes.
“Wes,” he says quietly.
The sound of that name lands between us like a fault line.
The phone keeps ringing.
And this time, Sebastian answers.