Chapter 77 Chapter Seventy-seven
Sebastian’s POV
I choose a place where I don’t belong.
A café on the edge of the city, the kind with chipped mugs and soft lighting and students hunched over laptops, pretending the world is small and manageable. No private rooms. No polished marble. No security at the door. The kind of place where I can sit in a corner and look like just another man killing time.
I hate it.
That’s why I’m here.
Marcus arrives three minutes late. He always does that now. It used to be deliberate, a power move. Today it feels cautious.
He spots me immediately. People always do. I’m dressed down, but there’s no disguising what I am. The way I sit. The way I scan exits without thinking. The way my shoulders stay tight, like I’m braced for impact.
He slides into the chair across from me and doesn’t order anything.
That’s new.
“Talk,” I say.
He exhales slowly, folding his hands on the table. “The situation has… clarified.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
I glance around the café. No one is listening. No one ever looks twice. Privacy through invisibility. I lean back slightly, crossing my arms.
“Start from the beginning,” I say. “Not the version you give clients. The real one.”
He hesitates.
That alone tells me how bad this is.
“The man behind this,” he says finally, “isn’t improvising. He’s executing something he’s been planning for years.”
I don’t blink. I already know that. You don’t dismantle someone’s life piece by piece without patience.
“What did he lose?” I ask.
The expert’s eyes flick to mine, then away. “Everything.”
I wait.
“His company,” he continues. “Obviously. That was the visible part. The headlines. The numbers. But it didn’t stop there.”
My fingers dig into my sleeve.
“After the acquisition, his board turned on him. Investors vanished. The press stopped calling. Friends distanced themselves. People like him,” he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “aren’t built to be ordinary.”
I let out a short breath through my nose. “No.”
“He tried to rebuild,” the expert says. “Smaller ventures. Consulting. Advisory roles. Nothing stuck. The reputation followed him. Then came the divorce.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
“His wife left,” he goes on. “Not immediately. But eventually. She couldn’t live in the shadow of what he became. Couldn’t forgive the fall.”
I picture it without wanting to. A man used to command. To respect. To rooms that went quiet when he spoke. Reduced to whispers and pity.
“And his influence?” I ask quietly.
“Gone,” the expert says. “That’s the part that broke him. Money can be earned again. Status can be rebuilt. Influence?” He shakes his head. “That’s identity.”
My chest tightens.
“He believes,” the expert continues, “that you didn’t just take his company. You stole his life.”
I look down at the table.
For a moment, the café fades, replaced by a boardroom years ago. Polished glass. Stacked documents. Lawyers speaking in careful language. Me sitting at the head of the table, calm, controlled, certain.
On paper, it was clean.
In reality—
“You humiliated him,” the expert says, as if reading my thoughts. “You beat him at his own game. Publicly. Irrefutably.”
I remember the final meeting. The way his face went pale when he realized the deal was airtight. The way his hand shook when he signed.
I remember thinking it was over.
I was wrong.
“What does he want now?” I ask.
The expert leans forward slightly. “He doesn’t want restitution. He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t even want you ruined.”
My stomach twists. “Then what?”
“He wants you to feel what he felt,” the expert says. “Not remember it. Live it.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“Pain should be lived, not remembered,” the expert adds quietly. “That’s his philosophy. We’ve intercepted variations of it in his communications. It’s… personal.”
I open my eyes again.
Lena’s face flashes behind them uninvited. Confused. Hurt. Still soft, despite everything I’ve done.
“He’s escalating,” the expert continues. “Not randomly. Symbolically.”
“How?” I demand.
“He wants her to choose,” he says.
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Choose?” I repeat.
“You,” he clarifies. “Or the truth. Safety or understanding. Ignorance or agency.”
My hands curl into fists beneath the table.
“He’s forcing a scenario where,” the expert says carefully, “if she walks toward danger, it’s by her own will.”
I shake my head once. “No.”
“He believes,” the expert continues, unflinching, “that watching someone you love walk into harm willingly is worse than having them taken.”
I stare at him.
“That’s his revenge,” the expert says. “Not her pain. Yours.”
The café noise swells suddenly. Laughter. Cups clinking. A barista calling out an order. Life continuing, indifferent.
I swallow hard.
“This is why he pushed direct contact sooner than planned,” the expert adds. “The burner phone. The hints. He wants her curious. He wants her close to the truth.”
“And if she gets there?” I ask.
The expert doesn’t answer immediately.
I already know.
“She becomes leverage,” I say.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us.
I think of Lena alone in her apartment. Of her searching my name late at night. Of her piecing together fragments I buried years ago. I think of how smart she is. How she never lets questions go unanswered.
“She won’t stop,” I murmur.
“No,” the expert agrees. “She won’t.”
I drag a hand down my face.
The option I’ve been avoiding rises up, ugly and unavoidable.
Telling her.
Everything.
I imagine it vividly. Sitting across from her. Watching her eyes widen as I explain the acquisition. The man. The threat. The reason I turned into a stranger overnight. I imagine the anger first. The betrayal. Then the understanding creeping in, because Lena always understands.
I imagine her saying my name softly.
And then I imagine her becoming a target not by association, but by choice.
I look back at the expert. “If I tell her everything—”
“She’ll try to help,” he interrupts. “She’ll confront. Investigate. Push. That’s who she is.”
“And that’s exactly what he wants,” I whisper.
The expert nods. “If she knows too much, she stops being collateral and starts being strategy.”
I feel sick.
“I can’t keep lying to her,” I say.
“You can,” he replies. “You just don’t want to.”
I think of the day I destroyed her trust on purpose. The way her face crumpled before she hid it. The hatred in her eyes afterward. I chose that pain because it felt contained.
This pain isn’t.
“What happens if I go to the authorities?” I ask, even though I already know.
The expert’s expression hardens. “Then everything surfaces. The gray areas. The settlements. The coercive tactics that never made it to court.”
“And her?” I press.
“She gets pulled into it,” he says. “Publicly. Permanently.”
I nod slowly.
Every path leads to loss. The only difference is who I sacrifice.
I stand abruptly, unable to sit any longer.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
The expert watches me carefully. “You already are. That’s the problem.”
I turn to leave, then stop.
“If I tell her,” I say quietly, “does it end this?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“No,” he says. “It completes it.”
I walk out of the café into the cold air, my chest tight, my head spinning.
Lena’s face is everywhere I look.
Her trust. Her fear. Her strength.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering over her name.
One conversation could change everything.
One confession could end her safety forever.
I lower the phone.
If she knows too much, she becomes the final move.