Seb
The car rolled up the long, winding driveway of the King estate in Greenwich, the trees draped in twinkling fairy lights and the front of the mansion glowing like a palace abasing the cold winter night. I tugged at my cuff, feeling a little uneasy being back in a tux.
“I still don’t see why you insisted I come tonight,” I muttered, my fingers nervously pulling on the edges of my bowtie to make sure it was straight. The black tux felt tighter than I remembered, constricting my chest as much as my mood.
I exhaled sharply, leaning back against the seat. To be honest, I’d only agreed to attend because I was sure that Roxie wouldn’t be here, regardless of whether we managed to bring on any donors.
Not long after I’d managed to secure the building for the food bank and had written up a business plan for it, I presented it to my father.
For once, he didn’t laugh at me. Didn’t call it a hobby.
Didn’t roll his eyes and tell me that I was wasting my life.
He’d studied the numbers, tapped his finger against the page when he was finished, and nodded.
Then he’d said the words I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting my whole damn life to hear.
This could work.
Of course, his version of “work” meant turning something good into something profitable, but I didn’t push. If Whittaker Holdings’ backing could give this thing legs, I wasn’t stupid enough to bite the hand that was finally feeding me.
“I could have set up a dinner,” I said now, watching the mansion grow larger with every turn of the tires on the frost-covered driveway. The King estate looked the same as it always had—like old money carved out of stone and arrogance. “We didn’t need the spectacle of the King Christmas Eve party.”
My father’s mouth twitched, the closest thing he ever came to a smile. “This is the dinner, Sebastian. On a huge scale. Better than any you could have set up in the city. So, if we must suffer a string quartet and a few waltzes, then so be it.”
I grunted, adjusting my bowtie again. This house still made me restless.
Every corner whispered with memories I’d rather not revisit tonight—nights sneaking through hedges, ducking beneath windows, and tossing rocks at Roxie King’s balcony until she climbed out and down the trellis, hair spilling down like I’d conjured her from a dream.
I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be here.
She hated this kind of thing even more than me.
Plus, if she was dating again, there was a high chance she was with her new boyfriend tonight.
If she had one. I clenched my fists unconsciously and tried to push the idea from my mind.
The car slowed to a stop, and the driver came round to open the door. My father was out first, perfectly composed as always, every inch the man people wanted to do business with. I climbed out behind him, tugging my jacket straight, trying to shake off the sudden itch under my skin.
The King mansion glittered in the night, every window lit, wreaths and garlands strung across the massive stone archway.
Laughter and the faint notes of that very string quartet my father mentioned drifted through the air.
People spilled in through the double doors, tuxedos and gowns glimmering in the warm glow of far too many candles.
I was certain the local fire department would deem this gathering a fire hazard, but to be honest, the fire chief was most likely here.
I pasted on the Whittaker smile, the one that said I belonged here even when every cell in me wanted to bolt.
Oh, how things have changed. I once used to live for events like this.
Where the alcohol was endless and every eligible woman with a last name worth mentioning was batting her eyelashes in my direction, waiting for the chance to become a story whispered about over champagne the next day.
Now? The glinting crystal and murmured laughter scraped across my nerves.
The polished marble floors felt more like a stage than a home, the chandeliers casting a spotlight I didn’t want.
I wasn’t that man anymore. Or at least, I was trying not to be.
I understood why Roxie had run as fast as she could from this place.
Inside, the King mansion was all opulence.
Towering ceilings dressed in garlands and ribbons; the scent of pine and cinnamon baked into every corner.
A tree soared in the center of the room, glittering with ornaments collected from around the world.
Guests floated around it, glasses in hand, perfectly tailored laughter filling the space like background music to the quartet in the corner.
My father immediately set to work, his hand clapping on the backs of old colleagues, every conversation perfectly executed with one purpose in mind—business.
He moved through the crowd like he owned it.
I followed a step behind, shaking hands when introduced, answering the inevitable questions about my latest project.
Yes, the building being renovated is on Eighth Avenue.
Yes, it will be the East Side Food Bank.
Yes, it will make a huge impact for these people.
Yes, anyone attached to it will receive a huge reputation boost in the eyes of the public.
All the while, I kept my breathing even, ignoring the memories that clung to these walls. The Kings had hosted this Christmas Eve party every year since I could remember. I knew this house almost as well as my own.
I should have known better than to tempt fate by coming back.
For a moment, I thought I saw Roxie in a deep-green velvet dress across the ballroom, smiling stiffly at the people who had drawn her into a conversation. But that would be ridiculous, because Roxie wouldn’t be caught dead attending another King Christmas Eve party.
But then the Roxie I thought I’d conjured up slipped back into view and her eyes found mine.
The way surprise slowly unfolded across her face made me realize maybe she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.
It was like my body recognized her before my eyes did—every muscle stiffening, my pulse kicking into a sprint.
Roxie King was standing across the room in front of that monstrous Christmas tree, dressed in emerald green that clung to her like sin.
Her hair shone like strands of gold in the glow of a thousand lights.
Crimson lips sent a jolt of heat through my entire being.
She was the most beautiful woman in the world.
But then I saw who was standing next to her, his arm around her back. Nate DeMarco.
What in the absolute fuck?
The sight of him touching her made my jaw clench.
She looked away from me quickly as he leaned in, said something into her ear, and she laughed.
It was small, polite, but it was enough to set my blood boiling.
When James had told me that Roxie was dating again, the last person I had expected it to be was Nate DeMarco.
Nate. Of all people. And I had been the one to introduce her to him.
I could barely imagine a crueler twist of fate.
The room seemed to narrow, the noise dulling to a low hum as my past and present collided in front of me.
Nate was the golden boy who had always been perfect.
And Roxie, my Roxie, was smiling at his words, wearing that dress, the one that clung to her in all the right places, which she’d picked out to wear to be his date.
I forced myself to inhale, the polished smile still glued to my face as my father steered me toward another group of potential donors. My hands itched for a drink, but I clenched them at my sides. Nate DeMarco would not be the reason that I tasted my first drop of alcohol in months.
I’d come here to secure investment, to prove that the food bank could stand on its own. But as my gaze slid back across the room, locking onto Roxie again, I realized that was going to be nearly impossible with a distraction like her circling the room.
I couldn’t take it anymore. My father was mid-sentence with a hedge fund manager, but my chest was tightening by the second. Roxie’s laugh drifted through the air, slicing straight through me, and I needed space. Air. Distance. Anything.
I murmured something about stepping out for a moment and started weaving my way through the crowd, heading for the nearest exit without drawing too much attention.
That’s when I nearly collided with someone.
“Kirsten,” I breathed, catching myself before spilling the champagne flute she was clutching. Roxie’s grandmother was assessing me with the same blue eyes that Roxie had. It was almost disarming how strikingly similar they were.
“Sebastian Whittaker,” she said, her voice cool but not unkind, clipped in a way that carried more weight than outright affection. She looked the same from when I was a kid—immaculately coiffed hair, a string of pearls at her throat, a winter-white gown that was expertly curated.
“I thought I’d recognized you from across the room,” she added, lips curving just slightly. “I must admit, I didn’t expect you here tonight.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted, forcing an easy smile into place.
Her gaze slid past me, scanning the crowd until it landed where mine had been moments earlier. She watched Roxie and Nate for a beat, sipping her champagne with practiced disinterest. Then, she finally spoke.
“She looks happy, doesn’t she?” Kirsten asked softly. The words weren’t sharp, but they still cut.
I swallowed hard, shifting my weight. “She does.”
“But not alight.”
My head snapped toward her. Kirsten was still watching Roxie, but I could see the downturn of her lips and the way her eyes softened with something like nostalgia.
“Whenever she was with you,” Kirsten went on, voice still quiet enough for passersby not to overhear, “she was … brighter. More herself. Confident enough to be the brightest spot in the room. I haven’t seen that look in a long time. Not since the time she left this house.”
For a moment, the rest of the party faded into silence around me. My throat closed, and my chest burned.
“She’s chased after and achieved everything she dreamed of when we were still in school together,” I told Kirsten, glancing in Roxie’s direction long enough to see her toss her head back and laugh heartily at something that Nate had said.
“She’s everything she wanted to be. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t …
” I trailed off, jaw clenching as I turned away from the couple across the room.
“Doesn’t what?” Kirsten asked, tilting her head just slightly, studying me like she could see straight through the Whittaker smile plastered on my face.
I swallowed, shifting my gaze back to Roxie. She was still with Nate, her hand grazing his arm as she leaned in to hear him over the swell of conversation. The sight of it was like a punch to the ribs.
“Doesn’t need me,” I muttered. The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
Kirsten hummed softly, a sound that held both disapproval and amusement. “Need has very little to do with love, Sebastian. You of all people should know that.”
Her words hung heavy between us, and when I turned my head, she was still watching me with that steady, assessing gaze of hers. Then she gave the faintest smile before touching my arm lightly.
“Careful,” she said. “Old ghosts have a way of becoming very present in this house around the holidays.”
With that, Kirsten drifted off into the crowd, leaving me standing there with my chest tight and my mind a mess.
I couldn’t breathe. Not here. Not surrounded by all of this. So, I ducked my head and pushed toward the tall French doors that led to the terrace.
The chilly night air hit me the second I stepped outside, sharp and bracing, but at least it was honest. I drew in a breath that burned in my lungs, reaching into my pocket for the silver cigar case I still carried. One vice. One crutch. I would allow myself this today.
I rolled the cigar between my fingers before striking a flame, cupping it against the December wind.
Smoke curled up into the night, a soft gray ribbon against the backdrop of glittering lights that clung to every tree and window of the estate. I exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of my hand against my chest like I could settle the storm there.
And then there was the faintest click of heels on stone behind me.
I froze, the cigar hovering near my lips. The déjà vu was strong, with memories of that very sound echoing in my mind from when I was sixteen and waiting for Roxie to join me out here after various parties her family had thrown.
“Sebastian.”
I turned to see Roxie standing in the doorway, framed by warm golden light spilling from the ballroom. Her emerald dress shimmered under the glow, her blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders.
She stepped out, letting the door close behind her. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The smoke curled between us, the silence thicker than anything I’d felt in years.
I finally found my voice. “Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”
Her red lips curved into a small smile. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”