28. Sebastian
Chapter 28
Sebastian
S he’s gone. She’s gone, and I let her go.
I stand there for a long moment, frozen in place, the weight of her absence pressing down on me. I should go after her. Chase her down, make her listen.
Instead, I return to my office.
Heather is still standing there, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at her overly glossed mouth.
She thinks she's won something.
She thinks she matters.
My fury is instantaneous and cold enough to clear the haze Genevieve left behind. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt slowly, tamping down the urge to lash out. Giving her any more of my energy would be a mistake. She’s not worth the anger coiling low and tight in my gut.
Without looking at her, I speak.
"Get out.”
Heather blinks, thrown for a fraction of a second. Then her smile falters, warps into something petulant.
"Sebastian—" she starts, taking a step toward me, that cloying scent of hers hitting me again. "You’re upset. I understand. But you’re not thinking clearly. We should talk?—"
I lift my gaze to hers, and whatever she sees in my expression stops her mid-step.
"No," I say, voice flat and precise. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about. I have no interest in hiring you. I have no interest in sleeping with you. In fact, I’ll be instructing my lobby staff to ban you from this building.”
For the first time since she burst into this room, real unease flickers across her face. Her lips part, searching for an argument, some foothold she can claw onto. But there isn’t one. There never was.
"You don’t mean that," she says, but the confidence has drained from her tone.
I step further into my office, deliberately erasing the distance between us, forcing her to take a stumbling half-step back.
"I don’t give warnings, Heather," I tell her. "You had one shot to conduct yourself professionally. You failed."
Her mouth snaps shut.
"Now," I continue, my voice dropping even lower, "you’re going to walk out of this office, and you’re going to pray I’m feeling generous enough not to bury your career where you stand."
She stiffens, her mouth flattening into a thin line. For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to argue. But then she remembers where she is—and who she’s dealing with. She holds my stare for a long moment, something ugly twisting her features. But she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns on her heel and stalks toward the door, throwing it open with more force than necessary. The bang of it hitting the wall echoes in the otherwise silent office.
Good riddance.
I stand there long after she’s gone, the office finally empty. The city sprawls out beyond the windows, but I don’t see a thing. I drag a hand down my face, my fingers pressing into my temples as if I can physically squeeze the tension out of my skull.
I could have fixed it.
I had one chance to stop the hemorrhaging. I could have said three words— no, I didn’t —and none of this would have happened.
Genevieve would have stayed.
Instead, I hesitated.
I froze. I let my silence destroy the last fragile thing between us. And I don’t know if we’ll ever recover from what I just did. The taste of failure is bitter on my tongue.
I didn’t sleep with Heather. I would never. But in the end, I might as well have.
I cross the office in two strides, slamming my hand against the button for the intercom.
"Dom," I bark.
"Yes, sir."
"I want everything on Heather Langley. Background, recent communications, financials. Anything suspicious in the last month, especially the last seventy-two hours. I want to know who she's been talking to, who she's working with, and why the fuck she chose today to show up in my office."
There’s a brief pause.
Then Dom’s voice returns. "Understood."
I kill the line before he can say anything else. Dom knows the standard. Thorough isn’t enough. I want her gutted, professionally speaking. Every weakness exposed, every betrayal catalogued. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a single corner of her world I haven't dismantled.
The suspicion is already gnawing at me. Heather's timing wasn't a coincidence. Someone sent her. Or leveraged her ambition. Either way, the result is the same: Genevieve walking away from me again.
And once again, I have no one to blame but myself.
Only this time, I’m not sure she’ll come back. The thought digs in deep, sharp enough to leave a mark even beneath the armor I've spent a lifetime building.
My spiral is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Three raps. Dom. He doesn’t wait for a response, just steps in. It’s too soon for him to have information on Heather, but the unreadable expression he’s wearing...I know that look. It’s the same one he wears when he’s about to tell me something he knows I’m not going to want to hear.
He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, moving into the room with the kind of cautious precision reserved for volatile situations. I’d be offended if it weren’t an accurate assessment. I’m a ticking time bomb at this point. His hands are at his sides, loose but ready, his face blank in a way that sets every one of my instincts on edge.
I stay where I am, leaning against the desk, arms crossed tightly over my chest. I’ve given him enough space to speak. Whatever it is, he’ll say it. He always does. That’s one of the things I like about Dom. He’s efficient, cutthroat, and he doesn’t sugarcoat bullshit. He speaks truths, even if they’re not what I want to hear.
"Sir," he starts, voice even. "I know you didn’t call me up here to speculate."
I raise an eyebrow, impatient now.
"But I have concerns." He hesitates, weighing the risk of continuing. "About Genevieve. About this situation."
I say nothing.
"The timing is...convenient," he continues carefully. "The pregnancy. Her proximity to Thorne and Whitmore. The optics aren’t great. Especially if this becomes public knowledge."
I let the words hang there, refusing to react immediately. He’s baiting me, intentionally or not, laying out worst-case scenarios the way he’s trained to do. Dom’s job is to spot threats before they become catastrophes. It’s why I keep him close.
But this?
This is different.
"I’m aware of the optics," I say, voice clipped.
Dom shifts his weight slightly.
"I’m not questioning your judgment," he says. "But people in our position...we have enemies. Competitors who would love to weaponize a scandal. A child. Questions about paternity. Allegations of manipulation. It’s the perfect storm."
I study him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until the tension tightens the room around us.
When I speak, my voice is cold enough to frost the air between us.
“Are you implying that I manipulated her into?—”
“Not at all, sir. I’m saying there is a case to be made about her manipulation of you. And them.”
"She’s not like that."
A lesser man would flinch at the finality in my tone. Dom doesn’t.
"Sir, you’re emotional," he says. Not an accusation. A fact.
My mouth hardens into a grim line. Emotional? No. Emotional is messy. Unpredictable. I am furious. I am focused. I am dismantling every piece of this situation in my mind, building it back from the ruins she left behind. Emotion has nothing to do with it.
Genevieve didn’t plan this. She didn’t engineer her way into my life, into my bed. She didn’t manipulate Max or Silas into stepping into the space I abandoned. She survived me. That’s the difference. She adapted to the void I left behind.
And now, she’s carrying a piece of me I didn’t deserve to give her.
That’s not convenience.
That’s consequence.
"Stay focused on Langley," I say, pushing off the desk and adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves with slow, deliberate movements. "Leave Genevieve out of it."
Dom gives a short nod. No argument. No further protest. He knows better.
He steps back toward the door, pausing only once.
"If there’s anything I can do, sir, say the word."
I don’t respond.
There’s nothing he can do other than get me the information I’ve requested about Heather.
The damage is already done.
All that’s left is deciding whether I’m willing to burn down whatever’s left of myself to fix it.
And somehow, I already know the answer.