Chapter 192
Cecilia’s pov
I watched Sebastian’s back as he disappeared into the kitchen with Muffin, leaving me stranded in a thick fog of awkward tension.
Seriously? After all the effort I’d put into keeping things civil, he had to waltz in and blow it all up with that little crack about us “playing pretend p>
The king of terrible timing.
Amara and I both pretended we hadn’t heard him.
She was suddenly very invested in whatever was on her phone, and I became utterly transfixed by the sunset glowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows–as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth.
The silence was suffocating.
“Cecilia, Amara, shall we have dinner?” Liam’s voice broke through like a rescue helicopter, paired with a smile that was trying way too hard to look casual.
I bit back what I really wanted to say:
This dinner was going to be more awkward than a eulogy at a wedding. Amara stood with infuriating grace. “I’d love to. I barely ate anything on the flight p>
She glided into the dining room with the proprietary ease of someone who still thought she owned the place.
“Cecilia, what are you waiting for?” Liam grabbed my arm, practically dragging me behind him.
As we moved, he leaned in and hissed, “I’m rooting for you, okay? York nearly lost his damn mind over her. The Alpha can’t stand her now p>
Wait–what?
My brain was still trying to untangle my own mess of emotions when he dropped that little bomb in my lap.
As we stepped into the dining room, I grabbed his sleeve and whispered, “Who’s York p>
Liam glanced around, then mouthed, “The Alpha’s younger brother p>
Holy. Shit.
I settled into my chair feeling dazed.
Both Sawyer and Wiley had mentioned Sebastian and Amara’s past relationship.
If everyone was talking about it, there must be some truth there.
What confused me was how the Sebastian I’d come to know–practical, decisive, and straightforward–could ever be involved in such a melodramatic situation.
But now the puzzle pieces were falling into place.
It all made sense. Amara must have been playing both brothers.
When Sebastian discovered her betrayal, he ended things.
She refused to accept it, dumped York to prove her “true feelings” for Sebastian.
But Sebastian isn’t someone who tolerates being played–his core is too proud, too decisive for that.
He cut her off. And York–the more sensitive brother, from what I gathered–apparently took her rejection so hard he tried to… end things.
No wonder Sebastian hated her.
His brother nearly died because of this woman’s games.
I was so deep in my own head–trying to untangle the web of York, Amara, and whatever the hell Regina was plotting–that I nearly jumped when Sebastian spoke.
“Muffin,” he said, voice low and amused, “go fetch your mom’s soul. I think she left it somewhere in the Twilight Zone p>
Before I could ask what that meant, he placed the kitten gently in my arms.
I blinked. “Wait, what p>
Muffin let out a tiny mewl and immediately curled into my chest like a purring, judgmental cloud. My arms moved on instinct, cradling Muffin like something precious.
When I looked up, Sebastian was watching me–head tilted, expression unreadable.
His gaze lingered for a moment too long, before he turned away.
Dinner was… quiet. At least on my end.
Across from me, Amara picked daintily at her food, every movement practiced and precise.
She steered the conversation toward work–projects, board meetings, investor relations.
Her tone was gracious. Her questions well-placed, intelligent.
Sebastian answered each one with short, polite replies. Not warm, but not dismissive either.
I watched as Amara’s smile deepened at his responses, her posture relaxing into the conversation. My own knife slipped on the plate, the sharp screech making us both flinch.
“Excuse me,” I murmured, setting the silverware down with deliberate quiet.
The rest of the meal passed in a haze of murmured business talk and the clink of crystal.
I watched the subtle shift in his posture, the minimal but present engagement.
Let her have this point. Let her think her polished conversation was a chink in his armor. My countermove wouldn’t be a reaction; it would be a choice.
My move would come when I chose the time and place, not in reaction to her theatrics.
After dinner, I took Muffin to her bed, while Amara disappeared into the guest room with her thousand-dollar luggage and hundred-dollar smile.
When I came back out, Sebastian was in the living room, waiting.
I watched him standing there, calm and unreadable, like none of this was personal.
Like the woman in his guest room didn’t matter.
Like I didn’t matter.
That’s what snapped something inside me.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said simply.
I scratched my eyebrow. “You can’t crash at my place tonight. My parents are coming, and I’m not in the mood to explain why my CEO-slash-whatever-you-are is hanging around in sweatpants p>
Sebastian’s face cooled several degrees.
“Then suggest somewhere p>
“Fine. The glass house. Your family’s estate. Hell, rent a yacht and float off into the night,” I said, ticked off now. “But don’t make me responsible for where you sleep p>
He watched me with an eerie calm. “I could also stay right here. Would that truly not bother you at all p>
The question hung in the air, thick with the unspoken presence in the guest room down the hall.
I hesitated, but only for a second.
“Of course it would,” I said, voice low but steady. “But not for the reasons you’re hoping. It bothers me because it feels like we’re trapped in a triptych–three panels, three people, one broken story. You, me, her. It doesn’t hold. It’s built to collapse p>
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But the air between us thickened like a storm cloud.
“It’s just a house, Cecilia p>
I stepped away from the window, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Is it? Because every corner feels like it remembers something I wasn’t part of. Like it’s still waiting for her to come back and finish the story p>
I grabbed my keys from the console, fingers tight.
“I checked on Muffin. Do whatever you want, Sebastian p>
I headed for the door, my steps sharp, deliberate. “Just don’t expect me to stand here and hold space for history that doesn’t include me p>
I didn’t wait for a reply.
“I’m going down,” I said without looking back.
Night fell.
I paced my apartment like it owed me answers.
Back in my place, I couldn’t settle. The silence was too loud, and the clock on the wall ticked like it was mocking me.
My eyes kept flicking to the door–every creak in the hallway made my breath hitch.
Would he come down?Would he knock like nothing happened, acting cool and detached, like always?
I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over his contact.
Chewed my thumbnail like a coward. Unlocked. Locked. Unlocked again.
Text him. Don’t text him. Offer to let him stay. Don’t offer anything.
The mental ping-pong went on and on until I finally checked the time.
10:03 PM.
Three hours.
Three hours of silence.
Three hours of him not coming down.
There were only two real possibilities.
One: he left. Drove off into the night like he said he might.
Two: he stayed. Upstairs. In the same house. With her.
And somehow… that was the one that twisted the knife.