Page 38

SEBASTIAN

T he applause fades as I step down from the stage. I should go back to my table. Sit. Smile. Nod like I give a shit about the rest of the speeches. But I don’t.

Instead, I find her.

Need her.

The way she grounds me. The way she unravels me.

My legs move before I can talk myself out of it.

She looks up when I reach her. Calm on the outside. But her eyes—wide, glassy—tell the truth. There’s pride in them. Something softer, too. Something I don’t deserve.

I didn’t expect it to hit me like this.

Like being seen and not judged.

Like maybe I did something right for once.

"You should be at your table," she says, voice quiet, already flicking a glance past me. Probably watching to see who’s paying attention.

I should care. But I don’t.

Not right now.

I shrug, stepping in just close enough to feel the pull. “Needed a breath.”

There’s a pause. Her gaze stays on mine longer than it should.

“It was good,” she says. “Your speech. Vulnerable. Honest.”

I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah, well. Didn’t plan on bleeding out in front of everyone.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “Maybe that’s why it worked.”

She looks away first, gaze drifting toward the crowd—servers weaving between tables, glassware clinking, the low thrum of background music barely covering the buzz of polite conversation between speeches. Her fingers twitch at her side, then graze her hip like she doesn’t know where to put them.

Like she wants to reach for me, but won’t.

I take a half step closer, just enough to shield my words.

Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.

“Hate that I can’t kiss you right now,” I murmur, voice low and rough.

Her breath catches. Just barely. A soft sound that hits like a punch to the chest.

Then she sighs. Quiet. Controlled.

But her eyes flick back to mine, and that look?

It’s not calm. It’s chaos under control.

She looks like she wants to kiss me. Like she wants to throw every rule out the window and let it all burn. And I know I’m not making it easier for her. Standing this close. Looking at her like she’s the only thing keeping me steady.

She presses her lips together, fighting whatever storm’s working its way through her.

And I hate myself for being part of the reason it’s there.

“I’ve been…off,” I say finally, my voice quieter now. Rougher. “Pulled back. I know that.”

Her brows lift slightly, but she doesn’t speak. Just waits.

Which somehow makes it harder.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was—” I shake my head, cut myself off. “I'm not good at talking...I don't want to keep shit from you....”

“Whatever you tell me, Sebastian. I'll never judge you for being honest."

My gaze drops to the floor, then back up—anywhere but her face. “The car. The damage. The messages. It fucked with my head more than I want to admit.”

She’s quiet.

“Why?” she asks, soft.

"Because I deserve it." I squeeze the back of my neck, trying to ease the pressure building.

A pause.

She stares at me for a second, and I see the way her throat moves when she swallows. The way she doesn’t look away.

“That’s not true,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in her voice.

“Yeah,” I say, voice low. Bitter. “It is.”

“No, it’s not.”

She steps in, just a little. Still not touching. Still holding the line, even though I know she wants to cross it.

“No matter what you’ve done,” she says, “it doesn’t change who you are now. And that man…”

Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“That man shows up when it’s hard. He owns his shit, even when it hurts. He fights for people he cares about.”

She pauses, and a soft smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“And yeah, he’s a little stubborn. Grumpy as hell. Has no idea how to take a compliment without acting like it physically hurts.”

I huff a breath. Almost a laugh.

“And sometimes,” she adds, a spark in her eye, “he buys five pounds of shallots because he thinks it’ll make him look fancy.”

That actually pulls a sound from me. A quiet, cracked laugh.

But her face is still soft. Steady.

And I don’t know how to stand here and hear her say those things and not fall.

So I do the only thing I can.

I say what I meant to say before I talked myself out of it.

“God, I love you.”

She blinks. Stares like she misheard me.

"I know I’m a fucking mess. But I need you to hear it. Because it’s true. I love you."

She opens her mouth?—

But doesn’t get a chance to speak.

Because the microphone crackles. And a voice—shaky, young—rips through the air.

"This event is a joke," the boy says. "If Sebastian Wilde’s allowed to speak about mental health."

The room stills.

Every head turns.

Mine included.

Kid's maybe fifteen. Pale, angry, standing at the front of the stage like he owns it. One fist clenched around the mic stand. The other shaking by his side.

Olivia stiffens next to me.

I go cold.

Because I recognize him.

The footage was grainy, sure—but it’s him. No question.

The kid from the surveillance video.

What the actual fuck.

“He doesn’t deserve to be up here acting like some fucking role model. He’s a liar. A piece of shit. He slept with my mom— ruined everything. And now he gets a mic and applause like he’s some hero?”

The room erupts.

Gasps. Movement. A buzz of voices. Flashbulbs ignite from the press table. Phones come out. People start recording.

Coach pushes through the crowd, storming toward the stage.

“He knew . He knew she had kids and he kept seeing her anyway. Didn’t stop. Not even when my dad begged him to. Just kept going like none of it mattered. Then she overdosed—and he fucking disappeared.”

"Enough," Coach barks, trying to pull him back.

But the kid fights it. “He ruined my family. And now he’s up here acting like some saint? Fuck that shit.”

Security moves in—fast, rough. It takes two of them to drag him off, arms flailing, voice cracking around the edges of his rage.

And I just stand there.

Frozen.

Burning from the inside out.

Like every word he said scraped something raw open in me. Like I’m standing in the wreckage of a past I’ve never outrun—just tried to bury deep enough to breathe.

Olivia turns to me.

I can’t read her face. Her eyes are wide—shocked, searching.Then her brows pull together, slow and tight, like she’s trying to piece something together.

"Sebastian..."

Press swarms in—cameras flashing, voices shouting, mics shoved in my face.

“Is it true?”

“How long was the affair?”

“Did you know she had kids?”

Fucking hell.

Then Coach is there, cutting through the chaos, hand locking around my elbow like a vice. His grip is firm—no room for argument.

“We’re done,” he growls, dragging me toward the back hall.

And I let him.

Because I can’t breathe.

Because what choice do I have?

And Olivia is left standing there in the wreckage.

Watching me go.

Again.