Chapter 104 Chapter 104
Sebastian’s POV
The café smells like burnt espresso and impatience.
I arrive ten minutes early and regret it immediately. The place is too small, too loud, too full of conversations I don’t want to hear. I choose a table near the window, back straight, shoulders tight, hands folded like I’m bracing for impact.
This is not a date.
This is not reconciliation.
This is something sharp waiting to cut.
When Lena walks in, I feel it before I see her. The air shifts. My chest tightens in that familiar, unwelcome way.
She looks… composed. Too composed. Hair neat. Expression carefully neutral. The kind of calm people wear when they’ve already decided what they’re going to do.
Our eyes meet briefly.
She doesn’t smile.
“Sebastian,” she says, stopping at the table.
“Lena.”
That’s it. No pleasantries. No wasted words. She sits across from me, folding her hands in her lap.
Silence stretches.
I study her face—searching for cracks, for nerves, for anything that suggests she’s as unsettled as I am. If she is, she hides it well.
“I thought we could talk somewhere more private,” I say finally.
Her eyes flicker. “This isn’t private enough?”
“It’s public,” I reply evenly. “And this conversation shouldn’t be.”
She considers me for a moment, then nods once. “Okay.”
I gesture toward the door. “My car’s outside. If that’s alright.”
Another pause. Then: “Fine.”
The walk to the car is quiet. Not awkward—worse. Deliberate. Controlled. Like two people walking toward a verdict.
Inside the car, I shut the door and sit behind the wheel. I start the engine out of habit, then turn it off again. The silence presses in immediately.
I exhale slowly.
“I have a lot I want to ask you,” I say. “But you asked to meet. So—you go first.”
She stares straight ahead. “I’d rather you ask.”
“No,” I reply gently but firmly. “Say what you came to say.”
She shakes her head. “Just ask your questions, Sebastian.”
There’s something closed-off in her tone that makes my jaw tighten.
“I don’t want an interrogation,” I say. “I want a conversation.”
“And I don’t want to start something I can’t finish,” she replies.
That lands wrong.
“Lena,” I say, turning toward her, “if you asked me here just to sit in silence—”
“I didn’t,” she interrupts. “I just don’t want to go first.”
I hold her gaze. “Why?”
She swallows. “Because if I start, you won’t like where it goes.”
A warning. Or an excuse.
I lean back in my seat, fingers tightening against the steering wheel. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
She doesn’t look relieved.
I take a breath. Another.
Then I ask the question that’s been tearing at me since last night.
“Did you come to me because of Wes?”
Her head snaps toward me.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I keep my voice steady. “Did you get close to me because of him? Or did everything between us happen… naturally?”
Her lips part slightly, then press together again. She looks away, staring out the windshield like the answer is written somewhere beyond the glass.
“Answer me,” I say quietly.
She inhales. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Wes cheated on me,” she says.
The words land flat—not explosive, not dramatic. Just… factual.
“More than once,” she continues. “Lied about it. Gaslit me. Made me feel insane for suspecting anything.”
I don’t interrupt.
“I loved him,” she says, her voice tightening just slightly. “Or I thought I did. And when I found out the truth, it broke something in me.”
She turns to face me now.
“So yes,” she says. “Part of why I noticed you was because of him.”
My chest tightens.
“Part of?” I ask.
She hesitates. Just a second too long.
“I dated you to get back at Wes,” she says finally.
The words echo in the small space between us.
I stare at her. “You what?”
“I dated you to hurt him,” she repeats, more firmly now. “To prove I could move on. To prove he wasn’t special. That he didn’t own me.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
“And everything else?” I ask. “The nights. The way you looked at me. The way you—”
“Was real,” she cuts in quickly. “It wasn’t fake.”
“But it was motivated,” I say sharply.
She exhales. “Yes.”
I laugh once, harsh and humorless. “And here I was thinking we found each other by accident.”
She flinches.
“I never said I loved him,” she says. “I don’t. I don’t love Wes.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I snap.
She stiffens. “What do you want from me, Sebastian? A confession? Fine. It started as revenge.”
My hands clench.
My voice is low now. Dangerous in its calm.
“So tell me,” I say, “what part of this was real?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
And that silence tells me everything.
“Lena,” I press, “look at me.”
She does.
Her eyes are glassy, but steady. Determined. Like she’s made a decision and now she’s forcing herself to stand in it.
“I don’t love you,” she says.
The words land clean. Surgical. No apology attached.
I feel my breath leave my body like I’ve been punched.
“What?” I say quietly.
“I don’t love you,” she repeats, firmer this time. “Not the way you think. Not the way you want.”
My jaw tightens. “Then what was this?”
She swallows hard. “It wasn’t real.”
The air in the car becomes unbearable.
“Say that again,” I demand.
She shakes her head, tears finally spilling. “I can’t keep lying anymore. Everything between us—being with you—it was about Wes.”
Rage flickers through me, sharp and blinding.
“You’re saying you slept with me,” I say, each word controlled, “to punish my son?”
Her voice cracks. “I didn’t plan for it to go this far.”
“But you let it,” I snap.
“Yes,” she admits. “I did.”
I laugh once, bitter and hollow. “So I was convenient.”
“No,” she says quickly. “You were… powerful. Untouchable. And I wanted him to feel small.”
My hands tremble against the steering wheel.
“So every look,” I say, “every word—”
“Was real in the moment,” she interrupts desperately. “But the reason wasn’t.”
I close my eyes.
This—this is worse than betrayal.
Because betrayal assumes affection first.
“You used me,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t deny it.
“I didn’t think I’d care,” she whispers. “I didn’t think I’d hurt you.”
I open my eyes and finally look at her fully.
At the woman I trusted.
At the woman who stood between me and my son and never told me the truth.
At the woman who let me believe I mattered for myself.
And the realization settles in, cold and absolute.
Lena didn’t fall into my life.
She walked into it with an agenda.
And I was never the point.
I was the weapon.