Chapter 45 Chapter 45
Lily
I choose to sleep in a separate room from Sebastian. The bed feels cold, unfamiliar, and my thoughts won’t quiet down. The silence is too loud. The air too still. I toss and turn, but sleep won’t come. My heart is a mess, my head worse.
Eventually, I give up.
I rise from the bed, my bare feet brushing the cool marble floor as I head to the kitchen. I figure maybe something to eat will help me settle. But the moment I step in, I freeze.
Sebastian is already there—sitting in the dark like some ghost haunting the place. Only the faint city glow from the massive windows outlines him in shadow. Two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the hard lines of his chest. His sleeves are rolled up. A glass of whiskey hangs from his hand, heavy and half-empty. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the coffee table looks nearly finished.
He doesn’t even flinch when I enter.
I inhale slowly, then reach for the switch. The warm light flickers on.
“You should be sleeping,” he says without looking directly at me. His eyes briefly flick to his watch. “It’s late.”
“Well. I can’t.” I shrug and walk over to the island bar like I own the space, like I don’t feel his gaze crawling over me. I open the fridge and pull out a small cup of yogurt. I find a spoon, peel the foil back, and take a bite.
“Come sit,” he says, finally locking his eyes on me. There’s a slow drag in the way he scans me from head to toe. I know what he’s thinking—I’m wearing nothing but an oversized shirt, one of his old ones, maybe, from another life.
I lean against the counter. “No.”
He tilts his head. “No?”
“I want to return back to California,” I say calmly but firmly, staring him dead in the eyes.
His jaw twitches. “Then the answer is no.”
“Well I won’t stay with you,” I counter, my voice steady, unaffected.
His grip tightens around the glass. “You are mine.”
That sentence slaps across the room like thunder. The way he says it—possessive, unapologetic—as if I’m some artifact he won in a gamble.
I stare him down. “No, I’m not.”
“You were given to me in a debt,” he states coldly, like it’s a fact I can’t erase.
The truth pierces through my chest, sharp and ugly. “Then you should have killed my stepbrother instead of taking me.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, that goddamn smirk playing on his lips. “Anyone would choose you over murdering someone.”
“Oh, just shut up, Sebastian.” I roll my eyes, exhausted from his twisted logic, from his arrogance. “I just hate you.”
His voice hardens immediately. “Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me. You know exactly what I can do to you.”
I lower my spoon, step around the counter, and stand my ground. “Do what? Kill me?” I ask, daring him.
He rises slowly, towering, the glass still in hand. He steps closer, too close. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, sharp and bitter.
“No,” he says, lips curving into a wicked smile. “Worse than that.”
The tension in the room could split the walls. But I don’t flinch. I don’t step back.
He wraps his hand around my waist, his grip firm, needy—like nothing’s changed. Like he didn’t vanish for eight months and leave me behind in ruins.
“No. You’re drunk, Sebastian.” I utter, shoving him away. My hands tremble as they press against his chest, but I don't let him see that. I won’t.
He takes a step back, his expression unreadable. The glass of whiskey in his hand tilts slightly as he stares at me, silent and brooding.
“I’m not mentally ready for this,” I breathe. “You came back out of nowhere and expect me to just... what? Accept you? Go back to how things were?”
His eyes flicker, something dark flashing in them. But I don’t stop. I can’t.
I point at the kitchen island—the long stool where I used to sit during lonely nights, waiting for a ghost to come home. My voice breaks, but I speak anyway.
“Just a normal day,” I say, “I sat there. Right there. I was about to eat, thinking of you. And then it started—I started bleeding. I started shaking. Panicking.”
My chest tightens. The memory slams into me like a wave. “Blood spilled everywhere—here, on the floor, on my legs—right where you're standing now.”
He looks down, like the memory has stained the tiles under his feet.
“I was suffering a miscarriage, Sebastian. You weren’t here. You were gone.”
My voice cracks completely now.
“How can I be mentally fine?” I whisper. “How can I ever be fine after that?”
I wrap my arms around myself, holding the shattered pieces of me together. The pain is rising in my throat, hot and bitter.
Sebastian’s jaw clenches, and I see the way his hand tightens around the empty glass. His eyes are wide, lost, guilty—but that doesn’t undo anything.
It doesn’t unspill the blood.
It doesn’t bring back the baby.
It doesn’t erase eight months of silence.
He takes a shaky breath, but I don’t give him the chance to speak. I walk away, slowly, barefoot and bruised in all the ways no one can see.
And this time, I don’t look back.