Chapter 57 Chapter Fifty-seven
Lena's POV
The moment I get home, the quiet hits me like a wave.
Sebastian’s SUV has barely driven away before the gate closes behind me, sealing me inside my small, familiar compound—so painfully different from the private jet, the marble floors of the resort, and the constant presence of his body near mine. I limp to my front door with the crutches the nurse insisted I use. The driver has already dropped my luggage inside, neatly arranged like I’m someone important.
But the house feels too still. Too normal. Like the past few days were a dream that evaporates now that I’m back in my own space.
I drop the crutches on the sofa and sink down slowly, toe throbbing lightly beneath the bandage. I rest for a few minutes, breathing in the scent of my own furniture—lavender, detergent, and maybe a little dust. It’s grounding. But not comforting.
Because without Sebastian’s presence, without his warmth, everything feels a little… cold.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, replaying the entire week in my mind. The private island. The massages. The way he looked at me during dinner, like I was the only woman in the room. The way he touched me—effortlessly, constantly—as if his body was always seeking mine. That last night…
God.
My face heats painfully at the memory.
I sit up quickly, needing a distraction.
Food. I need food.
I hobble to the kitchen reluctantly, wincing each time my toe reminds me of its existence. “Stupid bathtub,” I mutter under my breath, opening the refrigerator. It’s mostly empty except for a container of leftover gnocchi Avery dropped off probably days ago.
“Oh thank God,” I whisper dramatically, dragging it out.
I microwave it, humming to myself to fill the silence. The kitchen light feels too bright, the house too quiet, but I try to pretend everything is normal.
The microwave beeps. I take the container out and sit at the small dining table, blowing lightly on the steaming gnocchi.
Before I take a bite, I grab my phone and try calling Avery.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then: A number you are trying to reach is currently not reachable.
I frown. “What is she doing?” I mutter, dialing again.
Same thing.
Ugh.
Fine. I text her:
Hey babe, are you alive? I'm back. I broke my toe. Well… slightly. Long story. Call me.
I drop the phone on the table and finally start eating.
God, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. The gnocchi tastes heavenly, chewy and soft with that subtle creamy sauce Avery always manages to get right. I eat quietly for a while, the fork scraping lightly against the container.
My mind drifts.
Back to the jet.
Back to his voice, low and commanding, telling the pilot to “speed it up.”
Back to the way he glared at the doctor like he was about to throw the man outside the hospital window.
Back to the moment he kissed my forehead before leaving me at my door…
A shaky breath escapes me, and I shake my head. No. No falling deeper. No reading meaning into everything. No imagining more.
But it’s too late.
Every part of me already aches for him.
Even now, in the silence of my home, I hear echoes of him—his teasing voice, the way he says my name, that warm, deep laugh he only used when we were alone.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mumble to myself like a scolding mother, taking another bite.
I check my phone again.
Still no message from Avery.
I sigh and set it aside.
I finish my food slowly, trying to savor something, anything, so the emptiness inside me doesn’t swallow me whole.
But just as I’m swallowing the last bite, my phone vibrates.
My heart leaps into my throat before I even pick it up.
Sebastian.
My fingers tremble slightly as I unlock the screen.
Sebastian:
I’m home.
Use your drugs and sleep early.
A smile spreads across my face so quickly it almost hurts.
It’s simple. It’s short.
But it feels warm. Protective.
He didn’t have to text me at all. He could have gone straight to bed, or straight to his desk, or straight to reorganizing his multi-million-dollar empire the way he always does.
But he thought of me.
Enough to message.
Enough to make sure I’m okay.
I reread the message—twice, then a third time—letting it settle into my chest like a spark I didn’t know I needed.
I type back slowly, fingers brushing the keyboard with a warmth I can’t fight:
Okay. I will. Thank you for today. Get some rest too.
I hesitate for a second, then add:
Sweet dreams.
No. That sounds too… girlfriend-y.
I delete it.
I settle for:
Goodnight.
I hover over “send” for a full five seconds.
Then I finally press it.
The message sends. No read receipt. He probably turned off his phone. Or he’s showering. Or maybe—no. Stop.
I push the phone face-down on the table, refusing to obsess.
I get up—slowly, carefully—and take my plate to the sink. I rinse it, then lean heavily against the counter as my toe throbs again.
I should take my drugs.
I glance toward the living room, where I left the hospital bag with the medication inside.
But the sofa looks… soft.
Dangerously soft.
Let me just sit for a little bit, I tell myself, limping to the couch and sinking onto it with a sigh.
Just a few minutes. To rest my toe. To rest my mind. To rest—
My phone vibrates again.
My heartbeat jumps.
I reach for it quickly.
A second message from him?
A call?
Something sweet?
I flip the phone over quickly, pulse racing.
But it’s only a notification from my bank app.
I deflate dramatically against the cushion.
“Why am I like this?” I groan into the darkness of my living room.
I turn on the TV for background noise—some random show about cooking—and lay back. I tilt my head, letting my eyes drift shut.
I try to think about work.
I try to think about my scheduling tasks.
I try to think about Monday.
But all my brain does is drift back to him.
His voice.
His scent.
His touch.
His lips—
I shake my head sharply and pull the throw pillow closer to my chest, hugging it tightly.
Emotions are dangerous.
Especially when it comes to him.
He’s not mine.
He’s not a boyfriend.
He’s not even technically anything to me except my boss.
My very problematic, very intoxicating, very impossible boss.
But the memories keep flooding anyway.
The way his hand brushed mine every few minutes like he needed the contact.
The way he scolded me when he saw my toe—actually scolded me, like I’m something precious he needs to protect.
The way he held my hand at the hospital even though he tried to pretend he wasn’t doing it.
I press a hand to my chest.
“Oh, Lena,” I whisper to myself. “You are in trouble.”
My eyes grow heavier.
The TV sounds fuzzier.
The pain in my toe becomes dull, then more distant.
I blink slowly, trying to fight the sleepiness.
But the cushions are soft. The house is quiet. And thinking about him feels like a lullaby I can’t escape.
I clutch the pillow tighter, curling slightly on my side as my eyelids drift shut
Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just for a few minutes.
I’ll clean up later.
I’ll take my drugs later.
I’ll go to bed properly later.
But for now…
For now, I let myself remember the warmth of his voice.
The security of his arms.
The gentleness he tries so hard to hide.
And I fall asleep.
Right there in the living room.
Still thinking about him and smiling faintly.