Chapter 56 Chapter Fifty-Six
SEBASTIAN’S POV
The jet touches down smoothly, but my jaw is locked the entire time.
Lena is pretending to be fine.
She isn’t.
Her tiny toe is swollen to hell, and she’s sitting beside me with a stubborn look that is both infuriating and painfully adorable. I watch her from the corner of my eye as the jet slows, the runway lights streaking past us.
She thinks I don’t notice the way her fingers grip the armrest every time the engines vibrate.
She thinks I don’t notice the slight twitch of pain that crosses her face when she tries moving her foot.
She thinks she’s hiding it well.
She’s not.
The moment the plane comes to a full stop, my decision is already made.
“Stay seated,” I say quietly.
She turns her head, meeting my gaze with those soft, brown eyes. “Sebastian, I can walk.”
“No,” I say simply. “You can’t.”
“I’ve walked before with worse—”
I raise a brow. “You’ve walked with worse?”
She freezes, realizing she accidentally admitted to something.
I lean back, lips curving.
“That’s interesting,” I murmur. “We’re discussing that later.”
She crosses her arms, flustered. “Stop twisting my words.”
“Stop pretending you’re okay.”
Before she can argue back, the door opens and the cabin fills with cool airport breeze. One of my security staff nods at me.
“The SUV is ready, sir.”
“Good.” I stand, then look at Lena. “I said stay seated.”
“I’m not an invalid—”
“You’re getting carried,” I warn.
She huffs dramatically, muttering something under her breath that sounds like: “Overbearing tyrant.”
My lips twitch.
I walk over anyway.
And when I bend down to lift her, she squeaks. Actually squeaks.
“Sebastian!”
“I warned you.”
Her arms instinctively wrap around my neck, her face flushing a deep red. She glares at me but doesn’t tell me to stop. Her body settles against mine as I carry her down the jet stairs, her hair brushing my cheek, her perfume faint and warm and soft.
This shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
Outside, the black SUV is parked with the door already open. My security team heads into the jet to fetch our luggage while I gently place her in the backseat.
She tries to scoot over but winces, and that is all the confirmation I need.
“We’re going straight to the hospital,” I tell the driver.
Lena gasps. “Sebastian—”
“Not a word.” My voice drops. “Not one.”
She slumps back with a defeated sigh. “You’re overreacting.”
“You’re injured.”
“It’s a toe.”
“It’s your toe.”
She goes silent.
I win.
On the way to the hospital, she stares out the window, arms folded like a furious little goddess. Her annoyance radiates off her in waves — but underneath it I see something else.
Nervousness.
Not about the pain.
About going home.
About us leaving the bubble of the past few days.
She’s quiet. Too quiet.
I want to ask what’s going through her mind, but I know Lena well enough to recognize when her walls are up.
So I stay silent too.
But my hand keeps drifting to her knee.
Then her thigh.
Then her hand.
Every time I touch her, she looks away, biting her lip like she’s fighting a smile.
Like she needs this more than she wants to admit.
So do I.
The moment we pull up to the private hospital entrance, two uniformed attendants rush out.
They recognize me instantly.
“Mr. Lancaster, right this way!”
“I have an injured passenger,” I say, stepping out. “Move fast.”
They nod vigorously. One brings a wheelchair, but as soon as I scoop Lena into my arms again, they scramble to make space.
“Sebastian—” she whispers near my ear, “you really don’t have to carry me everywhere.”
“I know,” I say, tightening my hold. “But I’m going to.”
Her breath catches.
Inside, they take her straight to a private VIP suite, bypassing waiting rooms and paperwork. Money has its uses — this is one of them. I place her gently on the examination bed.
Within seconds, a young doctor walks in.
Early thirties.
Glasses.
Too-smiley.
Too eager.
He looks at Lena like she is a delicate flower that just bloomed in his hospital room.
And I already hate him.
“Good afternoon,” he says warmly. “You must be Miss Lena.”
She gives a shy smile. “Hi.”
His eyes soften — too much.
“What seems to be the issue?”
“She hit her toe,” I answer crisply.
He doesn’t look at me. He only looks at her.
“And how are you feeling? Any numbness? Tingling? Sharp pain? Throbbing? Pressure?” His tone is too gentle. Too… intimate.
Lena shifts, uncomfortable. “Uh… it hurts when I walk.”
Of course it does. She almost fell off the jet.
“I see,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “May I?”
He gestures to her foot.
Lena nods.
I fold my arms, stepping back, barely resisting the urge to break his fingers when he touches her.
He examines her toe — clinically, professionally — but the way he speaks to her is borderline flirtatious.
“So, Lena… does the pain get worse when you apply pressure here?”
She nods.
“Here?”
Another nod.
“And when did this happen?”
“This morning,” she says.
His brows lift. “You walked on it all day?”
“She shouldn’t have,” I cut in sharply.
He gives me a quick look, annoyed I interrupted.
Good.
Then he looks back to Lena with a smile.
“Well, I will take good care of you.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.
I stand up abruptly.
“I’ll be outside.”
Lena blinks in surprise. “Sebastian—”
“I’ll be right outside,” I repeat, then turn and leave the room before I say something that’ll get me banned from this hospital.
I stand in the hall, hands in my pockets, trying to calm the tightness in my chest.
Why the hell am I this angry?
Doctors talk to patients. They ask questions. They touch injuries. It’s normal.
But the way he looked at her—
No.
I don’t like it.
Lena is soft. Stunning. Gentle.
People gravitate to her. They flirt without even trying. Investors, waiters, random strangers, and now doctors.
They all want her.
And the stupid part is — she doesn’t even notice.
Ten minutes pass.
Then the door opens.
Lena appears, using one crutch and holding the strap of her handbag.
Her eyes meet mine.
She looks frustrated.
And relieved.
And beautiful.
And mine.
Not mine.
But mine.
“Sebastian,” she says softly, “he said I’m fine to go home. He’s sending pain meds and anti-inflammatory pills. And he said I can use the crutches just for today.”
I nod stiffly.
“Good.”
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes.
“You okay?”
“Perfect.”
She stares. “You left earlier.”
“Had things to think about.”
“What things?”
I exhale through my nose. “He was flirting with you.”
Her mouth opens in shock. “Sebastian! He wasn’t flirting. He was asking about my toe.”
“He didn’t need to stare into your soul to do that.”
She throws her hands up — well, her free hand, because the other grips the crutch.
“He was being polite!”
“He was being interested.”
“In my toe!”
“In you.”
She groans loudly. “Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re jealous.”
My silence answers for me.
She gives a breathy, exasperated laugh. “Wow. A doctor can’t even ask basic questions—”
“He asked too many questions.”
“HE WAS DOING HIS JOB!”
“HE ENJOYED IT TOO MUCH.”
She chokes on disbelief. “Sebastian!”
I shrug casually. “I’m allowed to notice things.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”
I lean in, voice low. “Maybe.”
Her cheeks flush.
We both look away at the same time.
A nurse steps in with a small paper bag and hands it to Lena.
“These are your medications, ma’am. Take the anti-inflammatory tonight and tomorrow morning. Ice the toe every few hours. And please avoid pressure.”
Lena nods sweetly.
The nurse glances between us, sensing the tension, then quickly scurries off.
I take the bag from Lena’s hand.
She frowns. “I can hold it—”
“I’ve got it.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re not careful enough.”
We glare at each other.
It’s… stupid how natural it feels.
Outside, the SUV is already waiting.
I place a hand on her lower back and guide her into the car. “Watch your step.”
She obeys without argument — which tells me she’s tired.
Or in pain.
Or both.
I sit beside her, placing her medication on the seat between us.
“Driver,” I say, “take us to Miss Lena’s home.”
She looks at me quickly. “You’re taking me home?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“But you are?”
“Yes.”
She swallows.
“Okay.”
Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulls up in front of her house.
Small. Cute. Warm-looking.
It fits her.
My driver steps out, opens the trunk, and carries her suitcase and bags to her front door.
I help her out of the car, letting her balance with her crutches while I steady her elbow.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
She looks nervous. And sad. The light in her eyes is softer, dimmer.
The trip is over.
Reality is setting in.
I lift her hand gently.
“Lena.”
She meets my eyes.
“If you’re not fully okay by Monday,” I say, brushing my thumb over her knuckles, “you’re taking the day off.”
“What? No— I can still—”
“No,” I interrupt quietly. “I don’t want you walking around if you’re in pain. You’ll rest.”
“But—”
I place a finger under her chin and tilt her face up.
“No arguing.”
Her lips part.
She nods slowly.
“Okay.”
Good.
I lean forward and kiss her forehead — slowly, deliberately, letting my lips linger.
She closes her eyes.
When I pull back, she whispers, “Text me when you get home… please.”
“I will.”
I step back as she turns toward her front door.
She hobbles slowly up the small pavement.
I stay where I am — watching.
Waiting.
She reaches the door.
She looks back at me one last time.
I nod.
She disappears inside.
Only when the door closes — only when I am sure she’s safe — do I turn toward the SUV.
“Let’s go,” I say quietly.
And we drive off.