chapter 8
Margaret's POV:
The word marriage hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
My hands—still holding this sweet girl's delicate fingers—went perfectly, utterly still.
I felt my smile freeze on my face. Felt every muscle in my body lock into place, as if someone had just announced a funeral at a garden party.
Marriage.
He said marriage.
For a long, suspended moment, I couldn't quite process it. Couldn't reconcile the word with the boy standing before me—the same boy who'd been called a demon, a madman, who'd built an empire on ruthlessness and had the emotional stability of a caged wolf.
Sebastian wanted to get married.
To this slip of a girl with frightened blue eyes and trembling hands.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. His posture was rigid, that familiar intensity burning behind his eyes. He stood there in his perfectly tailored coat, hands loose at his sides, but I could see the tension thrumming through him. The barely-contained need.
Oh, God.
He wasn't joking.
"I'm sorry," I heard myself say, my voice coming out oddly strangled. "Did you just say—marriage?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just that flat, certain tone he used when negotiating billion-dollar deals. "Elena and I are getting married. I need my birth certificate."
The absolute audacity of it.
I released Elena's hands gently, carefully, and took a step back.
My mind was racing.
I let my gaze drift between them. Sebastian, all cold determination and predatory focus. Elena, pale and wide-eyed, her breath coming just a touch too quickly.
She didn't want this.
"Well," I said slowly, buying myself time. "This is... quite sudden."
"Not really." Sebastian's voice was maddeningly calm. "I've known for a while this was what I wanted."
God help me, he was just like his grandfather in that regard. That same bone-deep certainty that the world would bend to his will if he just pushed hard enough.
My late husband had been the same way. Obsessive. Possessive. When he'd decided he wanted something—or someone—nothing could dissuade him. Not propriety, not reason, not even common decency.
"I'm afraid," I said carefully, "that I can't quite remember where I put it. The certificate, I mean. It's been so long, and my memory isn't what it used to be—"
"You're lying."
The words were flat. Final.
I met his eyes steadily, saw the dangerous glitter in them—that particular shade of fury that meant he was seconds away from doing something reckless.
Oh, Sebastian.
I'd seen this before. Too many times. That moment when his control started fraying at the edges, when the careful composure cracked and something darker bled through.
And the poor girl was still standing right there, watching it all unfold.
"Alfred," I said calmly, not breaking eye contact with my grandson. "Would you be so kind as to show Miss Ross the gallery? I believe she might appreciate the art collection."
Alfred, bless him, understood immediately. "Of course, Lady Margaret. Miss Ross, if you'll follow me?"
The girl didn't need to be told twice. She practically fled—quick, light steps carrying her toward the door as if she couldn't get away fast enough.
Smart girl, I thought. Get out while you can.
My gaze followed them until Alfred guided her through the glass door, and I heard their footsteps echo down the hallway beyond.
Only then did I notice Sebastian hadn't moved.
His eyes fixed on the doorway where she'd disappeared. Watching. Tracking her absence like a man watching his anchor drift away.
The naked longing on his face made my chest tighten.
Then he turned back to me, and just like that, the vulnerability vanished. His expression hardened into something cold and determined.
"The birth certificate," he said flatly. "Where is it?"
I sighed. Of course, he wouldn't let this go.
I met his eyes steadily. "I'm an old woman, Sebastian. I misplace things."
"Grandmother." He moved closer. Too close. Invading the careful space I'd created. "I need that certificate. Today."
The air in the conservatory shifted.
And then—as if summoned by the rising tension—I heard footsteps. Quick. Purposeful.
Two figures appeared in the doorway: Two of Edward's old security team. Vincent and James. Both were former military, both fiercely loyal to my late husband's memory.
And to me.
They didn't speak. Didn't need to. They simply positioned themselves a few feet behind me, hands clasped loosely in front of them, their presence a silent wall between my grandson and myself.
Sebastian's gaze flicked to them, then back to me. His jaw tightened.
And then he smiled.
It wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the kind of expression that made boardroom opponents back down, that preceded hostile takeovers and crushed competitors.
"Do you really think," he said softly, dangerously, "that they can stop me?"
The air went very, very still.
Vincent and James didn't move, but I saw their shoulders tense slightly. They knew what he was. Knew what he was capable of.
"The certificate," he said quietly. "Please."
I sighed.
How did we get here?
I thought of all the years I'd watched him grow. Watched him suffer through his parents' deaths, through the whispers and the rumors, through that terrible fever that had nearly killed him when he was twenty.
I'd found him in his room that night, burning up, delirious, clawing at his own skin and screaming. The doctors hadn't known what was wrong. Said it was psychosomatic. Said perhaps he needed to see a psychiatrist, not a physician.
But I'd known better.
My grandson wasn't crazy. He was haunted.
Haunted by what he'd done to get where he was. Haunted by the bodies he'd left in his wake—metaphorical and otherwise. Haunted by the violence that lived in his veins, the same violence that had lived in every Vane man before him.
Edward had been the same. That terrible, consuming need to win. To dominate. To possess absolutely.
The priest at St. Michael's had given me the silver crucifix. Blessed it himself. Said perhaps what Sebastian needed wasn't medicine—it was protection. From himself, if nothing else.
I'd slipped it around his neck while he slept, fever-broken at last.
And the nightmares had stopped.
From that day on, I'd insisted he keep the crucifix with him. Always.
He'd resisted at first. Sebastian didn't believe in such things. Blessings. Divine protection. The power of faith. To him, it was all superstition, old woman's nonsense.
But he'd worn it anyway.
Not because he believed. But because I did. Because keeping it on his person was easier than watching me worry. Because somewhere beneath all that cold pragmatism, he still had enough heart left to humor his grandmother.
And perhaps that small concession was the only proof I needed that he wasn't entirely lost.
I met his eyes steadily. "I will not hand over that certificate until I hear from her that she wants to marry you. Do you understand?"
At the tension in his shoulders, the desperation barely masked behind that cold exterior, the white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"Love," I said quietly, "is not something you can take by force, Sebastian. No matter how much power you have. No matter how many documents you collect or vows you extract."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"If you want her to love you," I continued, my voice gentle but unwavering, "then you must earn it. You must ask for it. Seek it." I paused, letting the words settle. "But you cannot simply seize it and expect it to survive in captivity."
"Grandmother—"
"Taking her by force will destroy you both," I said firmly. "You'll have her body. Perhaps even her compliance. But you'll never have her heart. And one day—maybe not today, maybe not even this year—but one day, you'll look at her and realize you've broken the very thing you were trying to possess."
I took a breath, softening my tone.
"I don't want to see you live with that regret, darling. I don't want to watch you destroy yourself and that poor girl in the process. "
The silence stretched between us, heavy and fraught.
Sebastian stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on mine. I could see the war raging behind them—fury and frustration battling against something that might have been understanding. Or fear.
The moment stretched. And stretched.
Then, finally, he turned away.
Walked toward the glass door without another word.
I felt my shoulders sag slightly as the tension bled out of the room. Behind me, I heard Vincent and James both exhale—quiet, controlled, but audible nonetheless.
Please let some of it have sunk in. Please let him think about what I said instead of just finding another way around it.