26. Sebastian
Chapter 26
Sebastian
T he wreckage I left scattered across the last twenty-four hours follows me no matter how far I run. Not that I’m running. They’re coming. Here. Today. Soon. Fuck.
I pace. Twelve steps to the window. Twelve steps back. I should be working, preparing for tomorrow’s meetings or the board call scheduled in two hours, but none of it registers. None of it matters. My mind keeps dragging me back to her. To the slow, devastating realization that Genevieve is carrying my child.
Ours.
Not Silas’s. Not Max’s. Mine.
The fact should bring clarity. A clear objective. A path forward. But it doesn’t. It twists in my chest, a low, gnawing thing that threatens to tear me apart from the inside out.
I’ve spent my entire life building structures—controlling outcomes, minimizing risk, eliminating threats before they could take root. And somehow, the greatest threat to the life I’ve built slipped under my defenses with nothing more than a shy smile and a soft laugh.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, the bruised tenderness where Silas hit me a dull throb under my fingertips. A fitting reminder. One I deserve.
No matter how many times I rerun the timeline, the facts don’t change. I walked away from her before she could become a weakness I couldn’t afford.
Every excuse I’ve leaned on for the last two months crumbled under the weight of seeing her. Under the brutal certainty that no matter how far I ran, some part of me had already been claimed.
And I gave it away without a fight.
The thought should make me furious. And it does. But the rage isn’t clean or sharp, the way I’m used to wielding it. It’s messy. Self-inflicted. I’m angry at her for moving on, furious at Silas and Max for stepping into a space they had no right to touch—but mostly, I’m drowning in a quiet, vicious rage at myself. For leaving. For making it so easy for them to take what I should have fought for.
I’m angry.
I’m happy.
I’m fucking confused.
I’m not prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared for how much I would still want her, not when I did everything I could to lose her. And now she’s stuck with me when I’m the very last thing she wants. Because I didn’t leave her alone. I didn’t just abandon her . I left her pregnant and alone, and she’s going to walk into this building with two men who would burn the world down to keep her. These are two men who are not me.
The clock on the wall ticks past eleven-fifty. Ten minutes. I check my reflection in the dark glass of the windows, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt, straightening the line of my jacket. Anything to make me look like I’m not losing every little bit of my sanity.
I might have lost the upper hand with her, but I won't lose it here.
Dom steps in first, his expression as unreadable as always. He nods once to me. They're here.
I don't acknowledge him beyond a glance. My focus is already narrowing, locking down into the cold, calculated place where emotions don't interfere. Where strategy rules.
My office isn’t exactly neutral ground, but it’s three against one, and I need all the power I can get.
I glance down at my hands. They’re steady. Good.
Outwardly, I look calm. Inwardly, every nerve is stretched to the breaking point, the need to move, to act, to fix surging through me with enough force to make my muscles ache.
I close my eyes for a moment, just long enough to shove the emotion back where it belongs, sealing it behind walls too thick for even her to breach.
When I open them, the door is swinging wider.
It’s time.
Genevieve steps through first, framed by the harsh light of the hallway. She’s dressed simply—black leggings, an oversized sweater that swallows her frame—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can conceal her beauty.
Max and Silas flank her. Silas keeps a hand on her back. It’s a claim laid bare without a single word. Max brushes his fingers against her arm as they cross the threshold, his touch lingering in a way that makes my teeth grind. The two of them move around her instinctively, shepherding her forward, shielding her as if they expect me to attack.
I see it all. Every detail. Every touch. Every flinch. The way Genevieve shifts subtly closer to Max when my gaze hits her. The way her fingers curl into the hem of her sweater. The way her eyes dart past me for a fraction of a second before she locks them in place, refusing to meet mine.
They’re protecting her.
From me.
I force my body into stillness, planting my hands on the desk behind me. I don’t trust myself to move. I can’t. Not when every instinct is tearing at the leash, screaming to tear Silas’s hand from her back, to shove Max halfway across the room just for the way he’s looking at her.
Mine.
The word burns through my bloodstream, searing everything in its path.
But she’s not, not anymore.
She’s theirs now.
And it’s my fault.
I drove her straight into the arms of the only two men who know the real me. Baby or not, I’ll never be able to escape her. I deserve the slow burn torture after what I did to her.
I don't miss the way they both glance at each other before guiding her to the chairs arranged across from my desk. Coordinated. Protective.
Possessive.
Genevieve sits between them without hesitation, her knees brushing against Max’s, her shoulder nearly touching Silas’s. A unit. A front. A barrier.
I can’t fucking breathe.
I want to tear the room apart. I want to drag her away from them, pull her into my lap, bury my face in her neck until the world dissolves around us. I want to feel her body soften against mine, hear her say my name the way she used to—soft, trusting, full of something I have no right to claim anymore.
But I don't move.
They don't deserve her.
Neither do I.
But that doesn't change the fact that I want her.
I clear my throat. "Thank you for coming."
Genevieve doesn’t look at me. Her gaze fixes somewhere over my shoulder, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"We need to discuss custody," I say, my voice flat, clinical. Businesslike.
Genevieve flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.
Max’s jaw tightens. Silas leans forward slightly. And me? I try to breathe evenly and look like I’m not tearing apart at the seams.
I ignore them both, keeping my focus locked on Genevieve. She’s still avoiding my eyes, her hands white-knuckled in her lap. Every instinct I have screams to reach across the desk, to grab her wrists, to force her to look at me, but I know it would only push her farther away.
"I’m not here to take anything from you," I assure her. "But we need a plan."
Genevieve exhales slowly. She leans back into her seat, her body pressing subtly toward Max, seeking the physical reassurance of him there beside her. It’s a small movement, a tiny betrayal, and it tears through me with brutal efficiency.
I push the reaction down. Again.
"You’ll be involved," she says, her tone carefully neutral. Measured. The same way I would speak to a hostile contractor or uncooperative client.
Not the way she used to speak to me.
"You'll be part of the baby's life," she continues, voice steady but detached. "But I decide what happens to me. I decide what happens to my body."
I nod once, sharp and short. That was never in question. I want her, but not through force. Never through force.
"And after the baby is born?" I press.
"We figure it out," she says finally, each word clipped. "Together. All four of us."
I want to believe her. God, I want to. But the distance between us feels insurmountable. Every second she sits there wrapped in their silent protection, I feel her slipping farther out of reach.
I lean back, forcing myself to keep my body relaxed even as my mind races.
"You’re living with them."
It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement. A fact I already know, but need to hear confirmed.
Genevieve hesitates, then nods once. “Not officially.”
The confirmation guts me, but I don't let it show. They both shift toward her again. I want to break something.
Preferably both of them.
"Are you—" I stop, jaw tightening, forcing the words out. "Are you happy?"
Genevieve finally looks at me then. Not fully—just a flicker of her eyes meeting mine across the distance. But it’s enough to level me.
"I’m trying to be," she says softly.
The conversation continues. She’s still withdrawn. She still won’t look at me. But we’re talking. For a moment, it feels like maybe we’re finding some kind of ground to stand on. Shaky. Unsteady. But something.
Then the door swings open without warning. And the energy in the room shifts instantly, the fragile balance we were teetering on collapsing in an instant.
Heather Langley strides in, heels clicking sharply against the hardwood, her designer suit a little too tight, her expression a little too smug.
She just storms straight into the room with all the entitled confidence of a woman who believes the world—and everything in it—belongs to her. Her gaze sweeps across the room, sliding dismissively over Max and Silas before landing on Genevieve.
"Oh," she says, her voice syrupy and false. "I’m so sorry to interrupt."
Heather moves toward my desk, her hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, the overwhelmingly chemical scent of her perfume hitting me a second later.
I don't react. Not externally.
But the damage is instant.
Every muscle in Genevieve’s body goes rigid. I see it. I feel it. The way she shrinks inward, pulling the pieces of herself tight like armor.
Heather places a manicured hand casually on my arm, tipping forward just enough to make her blouse gap at the chest.
"Sebastian," she purrs, as if we’re picking up a private conversation no one else is invited to overhear. "You didn’t tell me you were having company."
Her tone is a mockery of innocence.
Heather doesn’t acknowledge Genevieve again. She’s too busy trying to reassert her place at my side, marking territory that’s not hers and never will be.
"I thought we had a lunch scheduled today," she says, voice dripping with false sweetness, each word crafted to land where it hurts most. "Or did your plans change?"
Her meaning is clear. Intentional.
Plant the idea in Genevieve’s head that there’s something between us. Remind her that she’s replaceable. That she was never enough.
It’s a cruel, calculated move.
And it works.
Genevieve flinches.
Something snaps in my chest.
Before I can speak, before I can even move, I watch it happen—the moment Genevieve shuts down completely.
Her face smooths out, all emotion wiped clean in an instant. Her shoulders draw back. Her chin lifts. She retreats behind a carefully constructed mask.
And just like that, she’s gone.
The girl who laughed against my mouth, who trembled when I touched her, who trusted me with the softest, most breakable parts of herself—that girl vanishes behind steel walls I’m not sure I can breach again.
Heather smirks, clearly pleased with herself and the destruction she’s left in her wake.
My hands curl into fists against the desk.
I could destroy Heather. It would take three words, maybe four, to end her career, her reputation, everything she values.
But none of it would fix this.
None of it would bring Genevieve back to me.
I swallow the rage burning through my throat and focus on the only thing that matters: Genevieve, sitting there with her back ramrod straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes blank.
I did this.
Heather just drove the knife in deeper.