chapter 68
Sebastian's POV:
The sound of running water from the bathroom gradually began to calm the storm raging in my chest, though my hands still trembled slightly where they rested on my knees.
I needed to hear her—needed the confirmation that she was still here, still real, still mine.
The past four hours had nearly driven me to the edge of complete madness, and I wasn't sure I'd fully pulled back from that precipice yet.
Christ, when I'd walked into this empty penthouse tonight, the silence had hit me like a physical blow.
Four days of deliberately staying away, of giving her the "space" she'd asked for, and I'd returned to find nothing—no warmth from the kitchen, no soft murmur of her voice on a call, no trace of her presence in any of the rooms where she usually spent her time. Just cold, empty darkness and the mocking echo of my own footsteps.
Then came the rage—hot, consuming fury at my own stupidity. I'd actually started drafting a text to Marcus, my fingers moving with mechanical precision as I planned to activate every resource at my disposal. Full surveillance sweep, traffic cameras, credit card tracking, and facial recognition at every major transport hub.
I'd been prepared to turn this entire city upside down until I found her.
The thought of what I would have done when—not if, when—I'd dragged her back made my stomach clench with self-loathing now.
I would have been furious, would have seen her absence as the ultimate betrayal after I'd finally begun to trust her with fragments of freedom. The things I would have said, the restrictions I would have put in place... it would have destroyed whatever fragile progress we'd managed to build between us these past weeks.
But then my phone rang.
I'd been sitting in the dark living room, thumb hovering over Marcus's contact, wavering between making the call that would unleash hell and simply accepting that perhaps this was how it ended—with her finally, inevitably, walking away from the monster she'd been forced to marry.
When that unknown number flashed on my screen, I'd rejected it automatically, assuming it was another business call or social obligation I had neither the patience nor the emotional capacity to handle.
The text message that followed had stopped my heart entirely.
Blue Moon restaurant, Kensington. Can you pick me up? - E
I hadn't even paused to wonder why she was texting from a different number, hadn't questioned the location or what she might be doing there. Relief had flooded through me so powerfully it left me dizzy, and I'd grabbed my keys and bolted from the penthouse like a man racing toward salvation.
The drive through London's late-evening traffic had been a blur of aggressive lane changes and barely controlled speed, my mind cycling frantically between residual panic and desperate hope. What if it wasn't really her? What if this were some elaborate setup and I was rushing headlong into a trap?
But then I'd seen her.
Standing outside that restaurant in her simple white dress, looking small and tired and utterly real, and the sight had hit me like a physical force. She'd been there, whole and safe and apparently waiting for me, and the relief had been so overwhelming I'd nearly lost control of the Bugatti right there in the street.
When our eyes had met through the group of people surrounding her, I'd seen something in her expression that had told me she hadn't been expecting me to appear quite so dramatically.
But I hadn't cared about subtlety or appropriate public behavior. I'd needed to touch her, to pull her against me and confirm that she was solid and warm and not some stress-induced hallucination.
The way I'd grabbed her had been desperate, possessive in a way that bordered on violent, and I'd felt her tense in my arms before gradually melting into the embrace.
For those precious seconds, holding her had felt like finding oxygen after drowning, and I'd had to force myself not to simply carry her to the car immediately and drive away.
She'd been tired, I could see that clearly. There had been something brittle in her composure, a fragility that suggested the evening hadn't been particularly pleasant for her. And when she'd quietly asked to go home, the simple trust implied in that request had nearly undone me completely.
Now, sitting here in our bedroom listening to the sounds of her shower, I found myself still processing the whiplash of emotions the past few hours had put me through.
The terror of losing her, the desperate relief of finding her safe, the lingering paranoia that this might somehow happen again—it all churned together in my chest like acid.
The truth was, I wanted to follow her into that shower—wanted to strip away the barrier of the bathroom door and reassure myself through touch that she was truly here with me.
But four days of careful restraint had left me uncertain of her boundaries, afraid that reaching for the intimacy I craved would only push her away again.
So instead I waited, hands clenched in my lap, listening to the familiar sounds of her evening routine and trying to convince my nervous system that the crisis had passed.
That she was here, she was safe, and she had chosen to call me when she needed help rather than disappearing into the night.
When the bathroom door finally opened, and she emerged in a cloud of steam and the scent of her lavender shower gel, I felt something in my chest loosen for the first time in hours.
She looked soft and clean and beautifully, reassuringly ordinary in her silk pajamas, dark hair damp and curling slightly around her shoulders.
She froze when she saw me sitting there, one hand flying to her chest in startled surprise.
"Jesus, Sebastian," she breathed, eyes wide with alarm. "You scared me. What are you doing?"
Before she could step away or retreat back into the bathroom, I was on my feet and crossing the space between us, my hands finding her shoulders and drawing her against my chest.
She came easily, though I felt the question in her posture, the way she tilted her head back to study my face with those perceptive blue eyes.
"You're acting strange tonight," she murmured, her voice soft but edged with concern. "What's wrong?"
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair, letting the reality of her presence sink into my bones.
"I thought you'd left," I said finally, the words coming out rougher than I'd intended. "When I came home and you weren't here, I thought... I thought you'd run away again."