chapter 4
Elena's POV:
The silence that followed my words was so absolute I could hear the hum of the ventilation system.
Sebastian's face had gone perfectly still. Not angry—not yet. Just... frozen. Like I'd reached into his chest and yanked something vital loose.
Good.
"Separate rooms," I repeated, keeping my voice level. "That's what I want."
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then his hand came up to cover mine, pressing it harder against his face. "Elena—"
"You said anything." I pulled my hand free, folding my arms across my chest. "Or were you lying? Again?"
His jaw worked. I watched the war play out across his features—frustration, desperation, that dangerous spark of temper he was barely keeping leashed.
"I wasn't lying." The words came out tight. Controlled. "But surely there's something else—"
"What, you want to negotiate now?" I let out a short, bitter laugh. "You just told me I could punish you however I wanted. Was that conditional?"
"Fuck." He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. The towel slipped lower on his hips. I didn't look. "You know that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Sebastian?"
He braced both hands against the glass, head hanging between his shoulders. The muscles in his back were taut with tension.
Don't feel sorry for him. Don't.
"I meant—" He turned back to face me, and there was something raw in his expression. Almost vulnerable. "I meant I'd try to be better. I'd give you space. Freedom. But sleeping apart—Elena, you can't just—"
"Stop." I cut him off, my voice flat and cold. "Don't make promises if you can't keep it. "
His mouth snapped shut.
For a long moment, he just stared at me. I watched the war play out across his face—the urge to argue, to fight back, to demand warring with something else.
Finally, his shoulders sagged.
"Fine." The word came out rough. Defeated. "Separate rooms. But I'm right next door. If you need anything, just call me. Understood?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He crossed back to the bed, and for a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to touch me. Instead, he reached past me to grab his phone from the nightstand.
"Take care of yourself." His voice had gone flat. The Sebastian Vane who closed billion-dollar deals and destroyed competitors without breaking a sweat. And yet here he was, compromising.
I stared at his retreating back, something like shock rippling through me.
The click of the door closing behind him sounded very final.
I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Then I collapsed back against the pillows.
Separate rooms wouldn't change anything. I was still trapped in this gilded cage. Still carrying his child. Still completely at his mercy.
I turned onto my side, hand moving automatically to my stomach. Still flat. Still impossible to believe there was actually a tiny life growing in there.
What am I going to do?
The questions chased each other in circles until my eyes grew heavy.
Then I was falling into sleep, and somehow I felt warm arms wrap around me. Gentle. Protective. The kind of embrace that whispered you're safe instead of you're mine.
Just a dream.
It had to be.
---
I woke to cold morning light and an empty bed.
My hand reached out automatically—searching for warmth, for the solid presence that had become such a fixture this past year.
Nothing.
Right. Separate rooms. My idea.
So why did it feel like something was missing?
I sat up, shoving the feeling down. This is good. This is what you wanted.
The clock read 9:47 AM. Late. I never slept this late.
My stomach rolled uneasily as I stood, and I had to grip the bedpost for a moment until the dizziness passed.
Morning sickness. Joy.
I padded to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and tried to make myself look less like a ghost.
The smell hit me halfway down the stairs.
Fresh coffee. Bread. Something savory and rich that made my treacherous stomach growl despite the nausea.
I found him in the dining room.
Sebastian stood by the table, still wearing dress pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The table was... ridiculous. Covered in enough food to feed a small army.
Pastries. Fresh fruit. Some kind of egg dish that steamed gently. Toast. Several kinds of jam. A covered dish that smelled like bacon.
And at the center of it all—a tall glass of what looked like freshly squeezed orange juice, garnished with a mint leaf.
He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face. Relief, maybe. Or hunger.
"Good morning." His voice was warm. "I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I... may have gone overboard."
"You didn't go to work." It came out more accusatory than I'd intended.
"No." He pulled out a chair—my chair, the one I always sat in. "I thought... given the circumstances... I should stay."
To watch me. To make sure I don't run again.
But I was too tired to fight about it. And the food smelled really, really good.
I sat. He immediately moved to pour the orange juice, then hesitated.
"Is orange juice okay? I read that citrus can help with morning sickness, but if it's too acidic—"
"It's fine."
He poured. Set the glass in front of me with the kind of care usually reserved for handling explosives.
Then he started loading a plate. A little of everything—scrambled eggs, a croissant, berries, some kind of yogurt parfait.
I watched him work, this powerful man who controlled billions, who could have anything he wanted with a single phone call, carefully arranging breakfast.
"Sebastian."
He looked up, serving spoon suspended over the eggs.
"I haven't decided if I'm keeping it."
The spoon clattered against the dish.