chapter 165

chapter 165
Sebastian's POV:
Jessica moved closer, the recorder still extended between us like evidence at a trial.
Her eyes held a glint of something that might have been triumph or madness or both. "If I'm going down for this, Sebastian? If I'm spending the rest of my life in prison for attempted murder?"
She pressed the recorder harder against my chest, her smile widening into something genuinely terrifying. "Then you're coming with me. Both of us, together, just like you promised—except instead of some tropical beach, we'll be in neighboring cells. Won't that be romantic?"
A laugh escaped my throat—harsh, disbelieving, edged with genuine amusement at the sheer audacity of her delusion—and before she could react, I'd knocked the recorder from her grip with a sharp backhand that sent it clattering across the hardwood floor, spinning twice before coming to rest against the baseboard.
"You think one recording is enough to condemn me?" I let my head fall back against the leather armchair, the laugh transforming into something darker, more derisive. "Christ, Jessica. I told you that you were stupid, but I didn't realize you were this fucking delusional."
"Even if you handed that pathetic little recording over to the police, I have a hundred different ways to make it disappear," I continued, my voice dropping to something softer, more insidious, the kind of tone that had always worked best when I needed someone to understand exactly how powerless they truly were. "A good lawyer could tear apart your credibility in minutes—mentally unstable woman with a documented history of obsessive behavior, spurned lover with a vendetta, unreliable witness suffering from acute emotional distress following a series of public humiliations."
I watched the words land like physical blows, each one carefully calculated to strip away another layer of the desperate hope she'd been clinging to.
Jessica's hands curling into fists at her sides as if the physical gesture might somehow grant her the strength she so obviously lacked. "If I give this to Maverick, he'll—"
"He'll what?" I let out a sharp, dismissive laugh, leaning back in my chair with deliberate casualness even as something cold and sharp twisted in my gut at the mention of Maverick's name.
"In case you haven't noticed, he's currently fighting for his life on an operating table—assuming he even makes it through the night. And even if by some miracle he survives, all you have is a recording of some heated words, some hyperbolic bullshit I said in the heat of the moment."
I paused, letting the words settle between us like a knife, watching her face crumble as the full weight of her situation began to dawn.
"Any competent attorney would argue it was nothing more than venting, frustrated rambling that no reasonable person would interpret as an actual criminal conspiracy. You're the one who got behind the wheel, Jessica. You're the one who tried to kill him."
The legal framework was airtight.
I continued. "No credible evidence, no witnesses, no leverage whatsoever. Meanwhile, I have a team of lawyers. I have connections in the police department, the district attorney's office, and half the judges in this city."
I turned back to face her, bringing the glass to my lips and savoring the burn of expensive liquor sliding down my throat.
"You know what you have, Jessica?"
The question came out soft, almost gentle, which made it all the more cruel when I delivered the answer she already knew was coming.
"Absolutely fucking nothing. Oh wait—" I paused, letting a smile curve my lips that held no warmth whatsoever. "That's not quite true. You did have something once. That pathetic little puppy Tyler McKinnon from his precious medical dynasty, the one who would have given you everything—money, status, a respectable future—if you hadn't been so goddamn desperate to throw yourself at someone who never wanted you in the first place."
The words were designed to cut deep, to remind her of every poor choice that had led to this moment, and I took a certain vicious satisfaction in watching them hit their mark with devastating precision.
The sound that tore from Jessica's throat was barely human—a shriek of pure, unadulterated anguish that probably carried through the walls to neighboring apartments—and then she was moving, her hand darting out to snatch the fruit knife from the bowl on the side table, the blade catching the light as she lunged toward me with a wild, desperate energy that spoke of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
Instinct took over before conscious thought could intervene, my body twisting to the side, but the confined space of the living room meant I couldn't dodge completely, and I felt the sharp, burning kiss of steel dragging across my forearm as her momentum carried her past me, the fabric of my shirt tearing with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that followed.
The knife was in my hand before I'd consciously decided to take it, my fingers closing around her wrist with bruising force as I twisted her arm behind her back and used my superior weight to drive her forward, her hip colliding with the edge of the coffee table hard enough to make her cry out.
Pain exploded through my broken fingers as I instinctively shifted my weight, a sharp hiss escaping through my clenched teeth.
"You want to die?" The words came out in a voice I barely recognized as my own, cold and flat and utterly devoid of anything resembling human compassion.