Chapter 26 - Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I wake up angry, which shouldn’t happen on a Friday.
I’m not mad at anything specific. I’m just irritated with the universe. The laws of physics. The audacity of silence.
I’m so irritated, the air in my house is all wrong. It makes no sense, but nothing does right now.
Drew is already at the table when I walk into the kitchen. His laptop is open, earbuds in. He looks up when he hears me, takes in my expression, and immediately removes one earbud like a man preparing to witness violence.
“Morning,” he says cautiously.
I grunt, open the cabinet, and stare at the mugs like one of them personally betrayed me.
With a sigh, I make coffee with the old pot, not the fancy machine Drew got me. Ivy was skilled at using it. I know I’m not.
My only hope is to make something that tastes good enough that the first sip sparks some life into my dead soul.
Drew watches me for a beat too long. “You… okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I stare at the machine like I can will it to drip faster.
When it’s done, I pour some into a mug. It smells like failure. And the taste is worse—like bitter regret and poor choices.
When Ivy makes it, the taste is like Christmas morning and a lazy day at the beach wrapped into one.
Drew’s gaze flicks to the patio doors. Then back to me.
He doesn’t have to say it. The question hangs in the room anyway.
No balcony. No Ivy. No humming. No organized chaos. No vanilla-sugar scent in the air like the house has been claimed.
I take another sip and immediately wish I could spit it back into the pot and start over.
Drew clears his throat. “So…”
I cut him off before he finishes. “Don’t.”
He closes his mouth.
Good.
Because if he says her name, I’m going to do something unhinged, like admit I miss her. Or throw the coffee pot and my mug through the window.
Instead, I grab my keys and head for the door.
“You’re leaving already?” Drew asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to—”
“No.”
He raises his hands. “Okay. Right. Boundaries. Respect. I’m learning.”
I pause at the front door and glance back at him. “Lock the patio door if you want.”
His eyes widen. “Do you want me to?”
“No.”
His mouth opens.
Then closes.
I leave before my self-control careens further out of control.
By ten-thirty, I’ve rewritten the same email three times.
By eleven, I’ve checked the security camera feed in my bedroom twice.
There’s nothing new.
I debate throwing my phone in the trash.
By noon, I’m staring at my phone like it’s going to blink and reveal Ivy’s at my house.
It doesn’t. She hasn’t come by.
I sigh. This is ridiculous, because I do not track people. I track contracts. Timelines. Financial statements. Risk assessment.
Not a woman with green eyes and a tendency to climb my balcony like it’s her personal staircase.
My hand hovers over my phone again. I finally pick it up and check my text messages. Nothing.
I don’t even know what I’d do if she texted. What would she say, anyway? Hey, Sebastian. Didn’t creep into your bedroom last night. Hope you’re well.
No. That’s not her style.
If Ivy ever texted me, it would probably be something like, Your aura felt tense today. Drink water and stop pretending you don’t miss me.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
I’m losing it.
A knock taps against my glass.
Marcus steps in without waiting for permission, one eyebrow raised. “You look like you’re drafting a breakup letter to a printer.”
“I’m working.”
He glances at my screen. “That’s a blank document.”
“It’s strategic.”
He sets a file on my desk and leans back like he’s got nowhere else to be. “How’s your… neighbor?”
My jaw tightens. “We’re not doing this.”
Marcus smiles slowly. “You’re not denying she exists anymore. That’s growth.”
“I’m working. What do you want?”
“You’ve been staring at a blank document for thirty minutes. You call that working?”
I lean back in my chair and deadpan, “It’s a dense section.”
Marcus laughs under his breath. “You know what I think?”
“No, I don’t. Nor do I want to.”
He ignores me. “I think you’ve finally met someone who doesn’t care about your intimidation tactics.”
I glare at him, my jaw clenching.
Marcus nods like he expected it. “Yeah. That.”
He leaves, still smiling, and I sit there in the sudden quiet, staring at my computer like it might provide answers.
It doesn’t.
Because the only answer I want is the one that doesn’t exist.
Where is Ivy?
By the time I get home, I’m tense enough to snap a pencil in half.
Drew is in the living room, feet on the coffee table, watching something on TV with people screaming and a dramatic soundtrack playing in the background. He looks up when I enter, remote in hand like a shield. “How was work?”
“Fine.”
He waits. “Want to eat?”
“No.”
Drew’s face does that thing again—concern mixed with suspicion.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m just going to say it and accept whatever happens after.”
I turn my head a fraction. “Drew.”
“She didn’t come by,” he blurts.
Pure, deadly silence.
Drew swallows. “And before you say anything, yes, I know you told me not to, but—”
“Stop.”
He freezes.
I walk past him into the kitchen, open the fridge, and stare inside like she might be hiding behind the vegetables.
She’s not.
Drew follows, keeping his distance. His tone is careful when he speaks. “I just… thought you’d want to know.”
I grab a bottle of water and twist the cap too hard.
“Why would I want to know that?” I ask, my voice mild.
Drew stares. “Because you’ve been acting like a man who’s waiting for the apocalypse and thinks it might show up in the form of a brunette with boundary issues.”
I take a long drink.
Drew sighs. “Also, I’m worried.”
I set the bottle down. “About what?”
He gestures vaguely. “About you. About her. About the fact that I’m living inside an unhinged romance novel, and didn’t consent to it.”
I stare at him. Drew stares back.
Then his shoulders drop. “Okay. Fine. Here’s the real reason.”
I wait.
He takes a breath. “What if something happened to her?”
My body goes still.
Does he know something?
Drew rushes on. “She’s always around. She’s always… there. And now she’s not. And I know you’re going to pretend you don’t care, but—”
“I didn’t say I don’t care.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Drew’s mouth opens. Closes.
“Well,” he says faintly. “Okay then.”
I turn away quickly so he doesn’t see my face. I know she’s okay. I’ve been stalking her house.
But his words have cast doubt in my mind. A thought has already lodged inside my chest like a splinter. What if something happened to her since the last time I snuck over to her house?
No, that’s ridiculous.
I was just there last night.
And it’s not like she’s accident-prone. She climbs my railing and balcony without getting hurt. In fact, she’s surprisingly graceful when she does it.
Ivy is the kind of woman who could fall down a staircase and land elegantly, then lecture it for causing her emotional damage.
Still, the image of her asleep on the couch in that big house, all alone, won’t leave.
What if she got sick?
Or worse, what if Silas got to her?
My jaw tightens.
Drew watches me, eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
I blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t do whatever you’re thinking.”
I turn slowly. “I’m not thinking anything.”
Drew looks unimpressed. “Sebastian.”
I grab my keys.
Drew stands, alarmed. “Where are you going?”
I walk toward the hall. “Out.”
“Out where?”
“I have to—” I gesture vaguely, like that explains anything. “Check something.”
“You’re going to check on her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Drew stares. “You didn’t say you weren’t.”
I stop at the doorway, turn, and give him a flat look. “I’m not stalking her.”
“First sign of being a stalker is denial.”
I glare at him. “I’m doing a welfare check.”
Drew’s eyes widen. “On your stalker.”
“She’s not a stalker,” I snap.
Drew points at the ceiling. “She watches you sleep.”
“Not lately.”
Drew’s expression turns blank. “That’s not a defense.”
“It is in my house.”
Drew opens his mouth.
I cut him off before he speaks. “Don’t wait up.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Of course. Fine. Go stalk your stalker. But if you end up in a psychiatric facility, don’t cry to me for help.”
I freeze, his words echoing.
Drew smiles tightly. “Have fun. Get some counseling on your way home.”
I leave before I lose the last shred of dignity I have.
Ten minutes later, I’m in the garage dressed in what is now officially my stalker attire—black hoodie, sweatpants, and gloves. I shove the ski mask into my pocket and mutter, “This is simply a welfare check.”
The silence is enabling.
Sweat runs down my back as I slip out through the garage door. I check to make sure my keys are in my pocket as I duck behind a bush. I’ll need to change my clothes when I’m finished with my mission. Hide them—especially the mask—in the trunk of my car.
If Drew saw the mask, he’d never let me live this down.
Making sure I don’t go near the patio doors where Drew could spot me, I slink along the shadows, heading for the trail in the woods like a man with a new hobby and a rapidly deteriorating grip on reality.
My breathing is heavy when I stop at her property line. I’m not trespassing. Just making sure she’s safe.
A light flips on upstairs, and a wave of relief flows through me.
She’s fine.
Go home.
But my attention sharpens when the back door opens, and Ivy steps onto the patio. I adjust the binoculars to give me a clearer view—
Why the hell does she have a dish in her hand?
“Here, Mr. Pickles. Come get your dinner.” She sets it down and takes a step back. Then another.
A black cat comes running. He’s skinny and has matted fur. He looks like he’s seen better days.
He eyes her for a few beats, then moves closer. Then another step. Then he begins eating, watching her warily.
“One of these days you’re going to let me pet you.” Her lyrical voice floats into the night, the sound warm and uplifting. Like it hasn’t been tormenting me for the last twenty-four hours.
She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking pajamas. Her long hair flows loose around her shoulders.
She looks… normal. Happy.
My chest twists.
“I have a nice house for you to eat and sleep in. I can buy you a bed. And some toys.”
The cat keeps eating, still watching her. But I see its tail twitch like it’s considering it.
How long has she been feeding this stray cat? And why did she name him Mr. Pickles?
She takes a step toward him.
The cat stops eating, body tense.
“I’m delightful,” she says in a soothing voice. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
I press myself deeper into the shadows, listening like a lunatic who has definitely crossed a line and is aware of it.
The cat begins eating again, and she smiles.
She watches him for a few beats. Her sigh floats in the cool, crisp night air. “Ok, Mr. Pickles. Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me pet you.”
She stares at the cat with longing before heading inside, the door shutting behind her.
I listen for the click of a lock. None comes.
I wait for a few beats, then move. Quiet. Controlled.
I circle the house and stop by the kitchen window. The light spills out, and Ivy is inside, pouring herself a glass of water.
My foot catches a rock when I shift, knocking it against the side of the house.
She pauses, her head jerking toward the window.
My stomach drops.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
She sees—
No.
Her gaze slides past the window, blankly staring at the kitchen wall like she’s lost in thought.
Relief floods me. She doesn’t see me.
Thank goodness. I nearly had a heart attack. My mind was full of the inevitable lights flipping on, alarms blaring, Ivy screaming, police arriving, and my face on the neighborhood app under “WARNING: MASKED MAN.”
She takes a drink, then moves, heading into the dining room.
I dodged a bullet.
I follow, easing through the shadows, my body close to the siding as I move to the window to get a better view of her.
She sits at the table, her eyes on the phone.
I take another step, my attention completely riveted on her.
What is she—
My foot slams into the trash can, and it topples with a sickening crash onto the patio, taking me with it.
Mr. Pickles hisses, then scurries away. I barely manage to catch myself on my hands, my knees hitting the patio.
Shit.
I leap to my feet—and flee. I don’t think. I just bolt.
“Who’s there?” Her panicked voice calls behind me.
Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
I look over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of her standing on the patio, her eyes wide with fear as they lock with mine.
A warning fires through my brain. You’re going to jail.
I force myself to break the connection.
Legs don’t fail me now.
As I race away, I’m aware of two things.
First, I will never psychologically recover from this.
Second, I’m a clumsy stalker.