Chapter 95 Chapter ninty-five
Sebastian’s POV
I wake before the sun, the city still holding its breath.
Birthdays have never meant celebration to me. They’re checkpoints. Markers of everything I’ve won and everything I’ve buried to get here. Another year of power. Another year of damage I pretend not to count.
Today should be simple.
It won’t be.
My first thought isn’t the venue, the guests, or the board members who will line up to shake my hand and remind me how indispensable I am.
It’s Lena.
I imagined way she looked this morning when I sent the dress. Quiet. Careful. Like she was already bracing for something to go wrong.
I sit on the edge of the bed longer than necessary, elbows on my knees, jaw tight. I’ve survived hostile takeovers, public scandals, and a man who tried to destroy my life from the shadows.
And yet this—
this feels worse.
⸻
The venue is flawless. Of course it is.
Private. Exclusive. Controlled.
Soft lighting. Champagne already flowing. Security positioned discreetly at every exit. The kind of place where nothing unexpected is supposed to happen.
I arrive early, greeting people with practiced ease. Smiles. Handshakes. Measured charm. The version of myself the world trusts.
But underneath, something hums too loudly.
I keep scanning the entrance without meaning to.
Waiting.
When Lena finally walks in, the room tilts.
The dress hugs her like it was designed with her body in mind—elegant, understated, devastating. The jewelry catches the light when she moves, subtle but unmistakably expensive.
Mine.
She looks… unreal.
For a moment, the noise fades. The years. The fights. The fear. The secrets she still doesn’t know how to tell me.
All I can think is:
This. This is what I want.
I don’t go to her immediately. I can’t. Public distance is still necessary, even now. Especially now. But my eyes betray me. I know they do.
When she glances up and our gazes meet, something tightens in my chest. Not fear.
Possession.
Belonging.
The room feels it. I see it in the way conversations falter, how attention subtly shifts toward us like gravity recalibrating itself.
I force myself to look away.
⸻
The evening unfolds the way these things always do.
Speeches. Toasts. Compliments disguised as calculations.
I play my role perfectly.
But the unease doesn’t leave.
It sharpens.
Then the air changes.
I feel it before I see her.
Victoria.
She walks in like she owns the place—chin lifted, smile too sharp, dressed to provoke rather than impress. The kind of elegance that demands attention and feeds on reaction.
My jaw tightens.
She wasn’t invited.
I made that clear.
She spots me immediately and makes a beeline across the room, heels clicking like a countdown. Guests notice. Of course they do. Whispers ripple outward.
She stops too close.
“Sebastian,” she says brightly, touching my arm as if it still belongs to her. “Happy birthday.”
Her eyes flick past me—to Lena.
Assessment. Disdain. Calculation.
Something ugly coils in my chest.
“Victoria,” I reply evenly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She laughs softly. “Is that how you greet the mother of your child?”
There it is.
The first cut.
“I came to celebrate,” she continues, voice loud enough to carry. “After all, family is important on days like this.”
My control creaks.
Around us, conversations quiet. People pretend not to listen while doing exactly that.
Victoria turns slightly, angling herself so Lena is fully in view. “So,” she says lightly, “is this who you replaced me with?”
Lena stiffens.
I step forward before I can stop myself.
“Enough,” I say, low and warning.
Victoria’s smile widens. “I’m just asking questions. People are curious.” Her gaze sharpens. “Is she worth humiliating your son?”
The word lands like a blade.
Something in me snaps—not explosively, but cleanly. Precisely.
Deadly calm floods my veins.
I straighten, voice dropping, every syllable deliberate. “Do not bring my son into this.”
She scoffs. “You’re choosing a woman over family.”
I meet her eyes fully now. No warmth. No nostalgia. No mercy.
“You are not my family anymore,” I say quietly. “And this is not your home. Not your place. Not your night.”
A hush falls over the space around us.
“You lost the right to question my choices when our marriage ended,” I continue. “You don’t get to challenge who I stand beside. You don’t get to make scenes in rooms you no longer belong in.”
Her face flushes. Anger sharpens her features, turning her beautiful in a way that used to fool me.
“Don’t do this,” she hisses. “Don’t embarrass me.”
“You did that yourself,” I reply. “Now leave.”
For a second, I think she might push further. That she’ll scream. Cry. Say something unforgivable.
Instead, she laughs bitterly.
“Enjoy your fantasy,” she says, eyes cutting to Lena. “They don’t last.”
Then she turns and storms out, the room parting for her like a wound.
The doors close behind her.
Silence lingers.
I exhale slowly, my heart pounding harder than it should.
Relief washes through me—followed immediately by dread.
Because I know.
I turn.
Lena stands where she was, face pale, eyes dark with too many thoughts colliding at once. She looks guarded. Afraid. Not of Victoria—
—but of what all this means.
My chest tightens.
This night was never going to be about candles or wishes.
It’s about lines being crossed.
I can’t control what comes next.