Page 42

OLIVIA

C all goes straight to voicemail. Again.

I don’t bother leaving a message this time. Just lower the phone and stare at the screen like it might change its mind. Like he might.

He won’t.

It's been three days.

Coach hasn’t heard from him. Kane either. PR’s in full cleanup mode, but even the best spin doctors can’t fix what silence breaks. The team’s worried. I’m worried. And I’m done pretending that waiting is the smart thing to do.

So I go.

The city feels muted as I pull up to the curb near his building.

Gray sky, damp concrete. The kind of morning that leaves a chill in your bones before you even realize it.

I kill the engine, sit for a beat with my hands clenched around the wheel, then get out and head toward the doors.

The concierge recognizes me instantly, but his posture shifts when I ask to be let up.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Hart, but without permission?—"

"You’ve seen me here before," I say, voice tight. "You know I’m not some random stranger off the street."

"I understand, but Mr. Wilde hasn’t cleared any guests."

"Then call him."

He hesitates, then makes the call. Nothing.

My hands shake, not from cold. Not even from fear.

Just that sick, rolling feeling in my gut—the one that knows, without proof, that something’s wrong. Deeply, heartbreakingly wrong.

"I’m not leaving," I say. "You can keep me in the lobby all day, but I’m not going anywhere until someone lets me up."

A security guard appears. Brief conversation, hushed but tense. Then, finally, the guard nods once.

"You can go up, but I’ll need to escort you."

"That’s fine."

The elevator ride is silent.

When the doors slide open onto the penthouse floor, I don’t have to step in far to know it’s bad.

Empty liquor bottles litter the counter. One lies on its side, drained, next to a broken glass and a deep red stain on the rug. The kind of mess that doesn’t come from rage—but from giving up.

Then I see him.

Barefoot, moving like his body forgot how to hold him up.

The shirt’s the same one from the gala. Wrinkled, sweat-stained, unbuttoned. Suit pants sag low on his hips, creased and dirty. His hair’s a mess. Face hollow. Stubble patchy. Eyes bloodshot. Knuckles split. Dried blood. Fresh bruises. Like he hit something hard and didn’t stop.

His eyes meet mine.

For a moment, something flickers there—hope? But then it vanishes, like a door slammed shut from the inside.

Back to the Sebastian I first met. Cold. Guarded. Masked.

The security guard clears his throat. "She was worried. Said she needed to check on you."

Sebastian doesn’t blink. Just nods once. "It’s fine. You can go."

He does.

And now it’s just us.

I don’t speak at first. Just walk forward, slow, careful, until I’m standing a few feet away. He doesn’t move.

"This isn’t who you are," I say softly. "I know you’re hurting, but this? This isn’t you."

He snorts. Bitter. "You have no fucking clue who I am. This is me. I ruin everything I touch. You were just next in line."

"Sebastian—"

"You should go."He turns away. Runs a hand over his face.

"I’m not leaving."

His jaw ticks. Shoulders tight.Like he’s barely holding himself together and one wrong word might shatter whatever’s left.

I stay quiet. For a breath. Then another.

Because I know that look.

Not anger— bracing.

Like he’s waiting for me to hurt him back. Or leave.

I take a step closer, slow and deliberate, like I’m approaching something wounded.

Because I am.

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at the wall like it’s safer than facing me.

I want to touch him. God, I want to.

To press my hand to his chest and remind him he’s still here. Still breathing.Still him —beneath all the guilt and blood and silence.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Because love isn’t enough when someone’s trying to disappear.

"You don’t have to let me in, Sebastian," I say softly. "But I’m here."

"You shouldn’t be," he mutters, voice frayed. His fingers fist in his hair, yanking hard like he’s trying to ground himself—or rip the thoughts out by the root. "Just leave."

"No."

The word barely leaves my mouth before his shoulders tense. Like it physically hits him.

"Why?" he grinds out, still not looking at me.

I swallow hard. "Because I want to help you."

That’s what tips him over.

He laughs—a short, ugly sound that scrapes up from somewhere hollow.

"There’s no fucking help for me."His voice cracks around it. He’s shaking now. Not just his hands. His whole body."You heard the kid. It was all fucking true, Olivia. Wasn't even the worst of it."

He finally looks at me—and it’s not just broken.

It’s bare.

"You want to know how fucking twisted I am?" he bites out, voice low and ragged.

"Yes," I say softly.

His mouth flattens into something between disgust and defeat. Eyes dark, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

"I fucked someone’s wife."

The words land like a punch. Sharp. Final.

"Over and over. After I knew. After she told me she was married."

He lets out a sound—low and cracked.A laugh, maybe. If you ripped the soul out of it.

"And when her husband begged me to stop? I didn’t. Because I wanted what I wanted, and I didn’t care who it hurt."

His hands twitch, fists curling like he’s trying to break his own fingers.

"And I'm the one who fucking found her."His voice cracks open—no filter, no armor. Just grief, raw and bloody.“Shitty motel. Stale smoke, piss-soaked carpet. Needle still in her arm. Eyes still open—like she’d been waiting for me to stop her.”

Silence stretches, sharp and suffocating.

"I killed her. Maybe not with my hands, but with everything I was."

He stares at me like he wants me to flinch.

"I destroyed her. Destroyed her family. Her kids. Her fucking life."

I don’t move.I don’t speak. Don’t look away.

His jaw tightens like that hurts more than anything I could say.

He turns from me, voice lower now. Rough."I destroy things, Olivia. That’s who I am. I wreck good things. I don’t deserve?—"

"Me?" I step closer. "Say it."

He can’t.

I move around him, slow and careful, until I’m in front of him.

His eyes stay fixed on some point over my shoulder like looking at me might burn.

I reach up, gentle, steady, my fingers brushing the edge of his cheek.

He flinches. Not from me.

Just from the contact.

The tenderness.

Like kindness is the thing that might finally finish him.

"You were young," I whisper. "And yeah, you made mistakes. But so did she. That pain you’ve been carrying—it’s heavy, and it’s real. But it’s not who you are now."

He shakes his head, voice barely audible. "You don’t know that."

"I do."

I don’t back down. Don’t let the silence fill in the space he’s trying to retreat into.

"You’re a good man, Sebastian."

He laughs—sharp, bitter. Like the words physically hurt.

"How can you say that?" His voice cracks wide open. "After everything I told you—how can you even look at me?"

"Because I know you."

A beat. I move closer, pressing my palm gently to his chest.

"You think your past makes you unworthy of love?" I say, soft but steady. "It doesn’t. It makes you human."

His breath shudders. And the break comes slow. Quiet.

He folds forward. And I hold him.

Arms around his back. His face buried in my neck. My hands in his hair.

"You need to forgive yourself," I murmur, voice thick. "It’s time to let go of the guilt."

I pause, my fingers still threaded in his hair. He’s shaking, but he’s holding on.

"You don’t have to forget it. You don’t have to make it okay."

A breath.

"But you have to stop letting it define you."

He doesn’t speak.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.