chapter 177

chapter 177
Sebastian's POV:
The leather chair in my office creaked as I leaned back, scrolling through quarterly reports that should have demanded my full attention but instead blurred into meaningless numbers.
All I could think about was Maverick—how he'd survived that crash, how he'd walked away from twisted metal and shattered glass like some invincible fucking golden boy, how he was probably at home right now with Grace curled against him, safe and whole and his.
The injustice of it gnawed at me like acid. He should have died.
The impact had been brutal enough, the car mangled beyond recognition, and yet somehow he'd pulled through with nothing more than some broken ribs and a concussion. Meanwhile, I was stuck here, my carefully laid plans in ruins, every avenue to Grace now completely blocked by his watchful presence.
It had started as a strategy, I reminded myself. Grace had been a means to an end—a way to hurt Maverick where it would cut deepest, to claim something he treasured and watch him suffer for it.
But somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred.
Now I caught myself thinking about her at odd moments. The graceful line of her neck during performances. The sound of her voice, even when it was cold with rejection. It had become an obsession, a fixation I couldn't quite name or control.
My phone's sudden vibration shattered the monotony—Father's name flashing across the screen like a warning flare.
"Sebastian." His voice hit me before I could even greet him, sharp and breathless in a way that made my spine straighten involuntarily. "Get home. Now."
I frowned at the skyline beyond my window, the city sprawling beneath Cross Tower's fortieth floor like a kingdom I'd never quite inherited. "I'm in the middle of—"
"I don't give a damn what you're in the middle of." The words came through clenched teeth, each syllable weighted with something that sounded dangerously close to panic. "Get in your car. Drive to the estate. Now."
My father rarely used that tone with me—the same clipped authority he reserved for incompetent board members and failed business ventures. With me, there had always been a softness, a careful gentleness born from guilt over my bastard status and the childhood spent watching him build a family I could never fully join.
"What's going on?" I kept my voice level, professional, even as unease began to coil in my gut.
"Just get here." The line went dead.
I stared at the phone for a long moment, then grabbed my jacket.
---
The drive to the Cross estate took forty minutes through early evening traffic, forty minutes in which my mind catalogued every possible reason for the summons.
A business crisis? Unlikely—Father would have led with that. Something about Mother? No, his anger would have been different, colder. Maverick? The thought made my jaw tighten reflexively, but what could that bastard have done now that would warrant this kind of urgency?
The mansion loomed ahead, all Gothic revival architecture and old money pretension, its windows glowing amber against the darkening sky.
The butler let me in without a word, his expression carefully neutral in that way servants perfected when they knew family drama was brewing.
He gestured toward Father's study, and I followed the familiar path through halls lined with portraits of Cross ancestors I had no claim to.
Father sat in his preferred leather wingback chair, a tumbler of what looked like scotch clutched in one hand. He didn't look up as I entered, didn't acknowledge my presence beyond a slight tensing of his shoulders.
I settled into the chair across from him with practiced ease, reaching for the crystal decanter on the side table.
The weight of it was familiar in my hand as I poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler. The sharp scent of aged whiskey filled the space between us.
"So," I began, keeping my tone light as I worked a section of peel free, "are you going to tell me what this—"
The back of his hand connected with my cheek before I saw it coming.
The tumbler flew from my grip, expensive scotch splashing across the Persian rug in a dark stain as my head snapped to the side.
Pain exploded across my face, sharp and hot and shocking in its suddenness. I tasted copper where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth, the burn of alcohol mixing with blood on my tongue.
For a moment, I could only sit there, one hand rising slowly to cup my throbbing cheek, staring at this man who had never raised a hand to me.
"What the fuck—" I started, my voice raw with disbelief.
"How stupid are you?" He was on his feet now, looming over me with his face flushed and his eyes blazing. "How many times did I tell you? How many goddamn times did I say you could do whatever you wanted, sleep with whoever you wanted, ruin whoever you wanted, but the one thing—the ONE THING—you couldn't touch was drugs?"
The blood drained from my face. My hand fell away from my cheek, forgotten, as his words registered. "How did you—"
"How did I know?" A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and ugly. "How long did you think you could keep it hidden, Sebastian? "
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. I'd been careful, so fucking careful. Private suppliers, cash transactions, never using in public, never—
"Who the fuck told you?" The words came out sharp, defensive, my hand still pressed against my throbbing cheek.
Father's second blow was harder than the first, catching me across the same cheek and sending me half out of my chair. This time I tasted more than copper—there was the salt of blood mixing with spit as I braced myself against the armrest.
"Don't you dare," he snarled, and I'd never heard him sound like this—not angry, but disappointed
"Even now, even with everything crashing down around you, you still don't understand what you've done wrong. You still think you can talk your way out of this, blame someone else, make excuses. When will you learn, Sebastian? When will you finally take responsibility for the mess you've made?"