Darling

XVII

Sebastian

Sebastian didn't go upstairs right away. Instead, he sat in his dimly lit study, the whiskey glass untouched now, the ice melting into amber.

His father.

His father was coming.

A dull ache settled at the base of his skull, a pressure he recognized too well—the precursor to something dark clawing its way to the surface.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, pressing his fingers against his temple. Not now.

But memories weren't obedient. They never were.

They crept in like a slow poison, slipping through the cracks he had spent years sealing shut.

A door opening—too soft, too careful.
The faint scent of cologne that wasn't his.
The rustling of sheets.

A sickening stillness.

Sebastian's fingers tightened around his glass.

It wasn't real. Not here. Not now.

The memory remained in fragments, never fully forming. He never let it.

Because the moment he did, there would be no turning back.

He forced a long breath through his nose, the tension in his shoulders rigid, suffocating.

Not now.

Not yet.

Instead, he let his mind latch onto something else—his daughters. Their laughter. The way Amelia had excitedly rattled off their plans for the weekend, Isabella chiming in, their voices overlapping in that way only twins could manage.

They were innocent in all of this.

They didn't know the weight of the name they carried.

Didn't know what their grandfather was capable of.

And as long as Sebastian still had control, they never would.

He downed the rest of his drink in one sharp movement, setting the glass down with a quiet thud.

Then, without another glance at the past threatening to unravel him, he stood and left the study.

There were still pieces of himself that were his to protect.

For now.

He left his office to go and see if his daughters were asleep yet or not and just as he reached the top of the stairs, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Mother.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before answering. "Mother."

"Sebastian." Her voice was as composed as ever, polished and restrained, yet there was something beneath it—an edge of hesitance.

"I assume this isn't a courtesy call."

A soft sigh crackled through the speaker. "Must you always be so curt with me?"

Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you need?"

A pause. Then, "Your father wants to see you."

The weight of those words settled like a vice around his ribs. He stayed silent, fingers curling against the banister.

"We are coming this weekend, you know that right?" she continued, her tone lighter, as if she hadn't just dropped a landmine between them.

"The girls are excited," he said instead. "They've been talking about it for days."

"Yes, I spoke to them earlier." A fondness softened her voice, but only for a moment. Then, she pressed on. "Sebastian, your father—"