Chapter 55 Chapter Fifty-five
Lena's POV
I fold the last of my clothes into the open suitcase, smoothing the fabric even though it doesn’t need smoothing. My hands stay busy, but my mind definitely doesn’t. It drifts everywhere — yesterday, last night, this morning, the unspoken things between Sebastian and me, the trip ahead, and the question I still haven’t asked:
What are we?
But instead of confronting the truth, I pack my dresses, my skincare, and all the things a normal woman would pack when traveling with a normal man — except my man isn’t normal. He’s Sebastian Hale, and he can ruin me emotionally with a single kiss.
The suite is quiet except for the sound of running water coming from Sebastian’s bathroom. He insisted we shower together, as usual. I told him no, as usual.
Earlier, he stood in the bathroom doorway with nothing but a towel around his hips, shameless and sinful.
“Come on. You know we’ll finish faster together.”
I nearly choked on air. “We won’t finish faster! You’ll touch me in the first thirty seconds and then we’ll spend forty-five minutes in there doing everything except showering.”
He didn’t deny it. He just smirked — that slow, wicked smirk that looks like a promise.
So now we’re in separate bathrooms. I’m grateful for the solitude because I need a few minutes to breathe. To collect myself. To stop overthinking.
You’re traveling with him. You’re staying with him. You’re… something with him.
The thought sends a flutter through my chest. Anxiety. Excitement. Both.
I step into the shower and let warm water spill over my shoulders. Today should be calm. Easy. A simple travelling back day.
I turn to grab my body wash, miscalculate the distance, and slam my little toe into the edge of the bathtub.
A white-hot pain shoots up my foot.
“Ouch! Oh my God—”
I grab the wall, eyes squeezing shut.
The pain throbs, then simmers.
“Are you okay?” Sebastian calls from his bathroom, his voice deep and way too attentive.
My pride answers for me.
“Yes!”
I am lying. I am absolutely lying. Because that pain felt personal — like the tub targeted me out of spite.
By the time I’m dried off, the pain shrinks into a dull ache. Manageable. Forgettable.
I get dressed, do a quick makeup look, and by the time Sebastian finally emerges from his bathroom — fresh, clean, wearing a fitted black shirt that hugs every sinful line of him — I’ve shoved the toe situation to the back of my mind.
“Ready?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves casually.
“Yeah.” I zip my suitcase. “Let’s go.”
And for a while, everything is perfect.
We check out of the suite, his hand resting on the small of my back like it belongs there. The elevator ride down is filled with jokes — mostly about how long he took in the shower.
“That was faster than usual,” I tease as we step into the lobby.
“I wasn’t trying,” he says smugly. “If you were with me, we’d still be upstairs.”
I elbow him, pretending I’m unaffected, even though my cheeks warm. He always notices the things I don’t want him to.
Outside, the black SUV waits for us. I climb in carefully, and the moment my foot bends, a sting shoots through my toe. I wince — silently — and settle before he notices.
Sebastian slides in beside me.
The city blurs by, glowing gold under the afternoon sun. He leans back, one hand resting on his thigh, the other reaching for mine.
I look down at our hands.
His thumb strokes my knuckles in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
But it doesn’t feel unconscious at all. It feels deliberate. Like a claim.
“You’re quiet,” he notes.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“Stuff.”
He laughs. “That narrows it down.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
His chuckle warms me in places I don’t want to admit.
For now, I just want the moment to last. This softness. This ease. This version of him that feels like… mine.
But fate is a dramatic bitch.
Because when we arrive at the private hangar and start climbing the jet staircase, the dull throbbing in my toe suddenly transforms into a spearing, vicious pain.
I grab the railing, inhaling sharply.
Sebastian’s eyes snap to me.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I lie too quickly
But he doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.
I reach the top of the stairs, step onto the jet floor, and pain shoots up my foot again — so sharp I stagger and grab the nearest seat.
Sebastian is at my side instantly.
“Lena. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
Lies. So many lies today.
But my betrayal becomes fully exposed when I take off my shoe… and see my toe.
Red. Puffy. Angry.
Swollen like it’s trying to audition for its own horror movie.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Sebastian’s jaw clenches. “What happened?"
“I… might have hit it earlier.”
“When?”
“In the bathroom.”
He stares at me like I’ve confessed to arson.
“And when exactly were you planning to tell me?”
“I thought it wasn’t serious,” I mumble.
He crouches in front of me — Sebastian Lancaster, billionaire CEO, kneeling at my feet like my personal medical emergency responder.
“This is not ‘not serious,’” he says, examining my toe with both hands. “You can barely walk.”
“It wasn’t hurting that much before—”
He cuts me a sharp look. “You walked through a hotel hallway, lobby, parking area, climbed stairs, and got on a jet — with this?”
“I didn’t know it would swell!”
He exhales that deep, borderline murderous exhale — the one that says he’s not angry at me, just the entire universe for daring to hurt me.
Then he stands abruptly.
“Rey!”
The pilot appears. “Yes, sir?”
“Ready for takeoff. And make it fast. We have a medical situation.”
I gape at him.
“Sebastian, stop! It’s not that serious!”
He turns to me, eyes molten steel.
“Not that serious?” he repeats. “You’re limping. Your toe looks like it belongs to a different species. And you think this isn’t serious?”
“It’s just a toe!”
“It’s your toe.”
His voice softens on your, and stupidly, dangerously, it warms something inside me.
“You’re overreacting,” I whisper.
“And you’re underreacting.”
He points at the seat. “Sit.”
“I’m already sitting.”
“Good. Don’t move.”
I cross my arms. Dramatically. “You’re being ridiculous.”
He raises a brow. “Done?”
“No.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead.
I freeze.
“You’re done now,” he murmurs.
My pulse stutters.
This man. This impossible man.
He returns to kneeling, cradling my foot gently as he inspects the swelling.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t think it was serious…”
“You can’t walk.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Show me.”
I stand.
I sit immediately, hissing.
He stares at me.
I stare back.
He folds his arms. “Say it.
“No.”
“Say it.”
“Sebastian—
“Say. It.”
I groan. “Fine. It might be a little serious.”
He smirks. Victorious. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be smug.”
He laughs. Then gently lifts my leg onto his lap, arranging me so I’m comfortable.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re not walking until we land.”
“Sebastian—”
“Not up for debate.”
“It’s my foot!”
“It’s my problem,” he counters quietly, eyes softening. “You’re mine to take care of.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t realize what he just said — or maybe he does.
I stare at him as the engines hum beneath us, the jet preparing for takeoff.
He keeps my leg on his lap.
Keeps his hand on my ankle.
Keeps me anchored with his presence.
“Next time you feel pain,” he says, voice low, “you tell me. Immediately.”
I swallow.
“Okay.”
His thumb brushes my skin — soft, unthinking, intimate
Too intimate.
The jet starts moving.
And as his hand stays on my leg, warm and protective, my heart whispers the truth I’m not ready to say aloud:
I’m falling for him.
And I don’t know how to stop.