Page 7 of Trained In Sin

Seb

I'm not a man who gets stood up.

"Another glass, Mr. Blackwood?" The sommelier approaches with the deference I'm accustomed to.

"No." My tone makes him retreat instantly.

Michel, the head chef, emerges from the kitchen, his concern evident as he approaches my table.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Blackwood?" His eyes dart to the empty chair.

"The wine is excellent," I reply. "I won't be staying for dinner after all."

"But the tasting menu…."

"Bill it to my account, as usual. And send the staff home with whatever has been prepared." I don't tolerate waste, even when making a point.

"Of course, Mr. Blackwood." He retreats, visibly relieved to have escaped my darkening mood .

The restaurant is at capacity, as it is every night. I own the place, but most patrons don't know that. They're here for the exclusivity, the three Michelin stars, the bragging rights. I'm here because I truly thought she’d come.

Yet here I sit. Alone.

The rational part of my brain recognises this as a minor setback. She's just one woman. Women throw themselves at me daily, I could have anyone I want. But I don’t want them.

Something about her refusal gnaws at me. The defiance in her text messages. I'm not accustomed to being denied something I want. It invigorates me and pisses me off at the same time.

I look around the restaurant with its soft lighting, fresh flowers, gleaming silverware.

Tables filled with couples leaning toward each other, sharing intimate conversations over extraordinary food.

I'd planned this meticulously. I wanted her to see the restaurant at its best, wanted to watch her face as she took it all in.

Foolish. Sentimental, even. This isn't like me. I don’t like it.

At 8:50, I stand abruptly, dropping my napkin on the table. A waiter materialises to pull out my chair. I leave a generous tip, the staff shouldn't suffer for my miscalculation, and stride toward the exit, nodding at the ma?tre d' as I pass.

"Have Matthew bring the car around," I tell him.

Outside, the night air is cool against my face. I breathe deeply, calming myself. This is not defeat. I don't lose. I recalculate.

When Matthew pulls up in the Range Rover, I slide into the back seat without waiting for him to open my door .

"Where to, Seb?" he asks, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

I consider for a moment. "Ms. Jenkins' building."

His eyebrow raises. “You sure?”

“Just fucking drive.”

As we drive through the city, I watch the lights blur past the window, my reflection staring at me. I look the same as always, controlled, composed. No outward sign of the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

She'd said no, and I'd ignored it, certain she would change her mind. Women always do. Men too, for that matter. People are predictable, driven by greed or lust or fear. I've built an empire understanding this fundamental truth. For the first time in my adult life, I’d fucked up. I’d underestimated someone. Seen compliance and curiosity where maybe there wasn’t any.

Why did she resist?

The car slows as we approach her building. The kind of place that was far beneath her. The kind of place I'd left behind long ago.

"Pull over there," I instruct Matthew, indicating a spot with a clear view of the entrance.

My plan is simple, have Matthew go up, tell her I'm waiting. A demand. I'm done with games.

But as I'm about to give the order, I see the door to her flat on the ground floor open.

Damon Phillips. The boyfriend. He's exactly as unremarkable in person as he appeared in photographs, average height, average build, generic features behind generic glasses.

The kind of man who disappears in a crowd. Boring. Dull .

They stand in the doorway, talking. She's dressed casually, leggings, an oversized sweater that slides off one shoulder. Her hair is down, not pulled back like it was at the office. She laughs at something he says, and the sound carries faintly through the car window.

Then he leans down and kisses her. Not a quick goodnight peck, but a proper kiss. His hands move to her waist, then lower. She doesn't pull away.

Something hot and vicious twists in my gut. My fists clench involuntarily.

"Seb?" Matthew asks, noticing my sudden tension.

"Drive," I command, my voice dangerously low. "Syren. Now."

As we pull away, I take one last look at them through the tinted window. How dare he touch her like that? How dare she let him? The intensity of my reaction surprises me. This isn't mere annoyance. This is something else entirely, something I haven’t felt before.

Matthew drives in silence, knowing better than to attempt conversation when I'm in this mood. By the time we reach Syren, I've regained outward composure, but the anger still simmers beneath the surface.

The building is mercifully empty. I bypass the main floor, taking the lift directly to my office suite. Inside, past the main office, is my private gym, fantastic for nights like this when I won’t be capable of sleep.

I strip off my jacket, tie, and shirt, hanging them precisely on the peg. My cufflinks go into the small silver dish on the shelf. They’re platinum with diamond inlay, a gift to myself when I acquired my second club. Reminders of how far I've come.

The punching bag sways slightly as I approach. I wrap my hands methodically, the ritual familiar and calming. Then I begin.

The first punch lands with satisfying solidity. Then another. Another. I find my rhythm, my breathing steadying as I work.

Left jab. Right hook. Combination.

The image of Damon's hands on Saphy's body flashes in my mind. I hit harder.

Sweat beads on my forehead, trickles down my back. The physical exertion begins to clear my head, focuses my thoughts.

Why am I so fixated on this woman? I’ve met her twice. I could have anyone I want. So why does her rejection annoy me so much?

I hit the bag, over and over.

My father's voice echoes in my memory: "You think you're special? You're nothing. Just like your mother. Weak. Pathetic."

I was seven the first time he said those words to me. We were living in a council flat in East London, my father between jobs again. He'd been drinking since noon, the empty bottles lined up on the kitchen counter. I'd asked for help with my homework.

The blow came without warning, knuckles against my cheekbone. I didn't cry, I'd learned early that tears only called for more pain.

"Your mother knew you were worthless," he'd slurred. "That's why she left. Couldn't stand the sight of you. Cunt. "

I never knew if that was true. She'd disappeared when I was three, leaving no note, no explanation. Just empty drawers and an empty wardrobe. I stopped asking about her after that night and haven’t looked for her even now.

Left jab. Right cross. Hook.

By fourteen, I'd grown taller than my father. The first time I blocked his punch, the surprise in his eyes gave me a taste of power I never forgot. I didn't hit him back, not that time. But we both knew something had changed.

Home became somewhere I slept occasionally. I spent most of my time on the streets, learning lessons no school could teach. How to read people. How to find their weaknesses. How to survive.

At sixteen, I started working as a bouncer at a local pub, unofficially, of course. Turned out I had a talent for intimidation, for making problems disappear before they started. The owner paid me in cash.

By eighteen, I was managing security at a proper nightclub in Soho. By twenty-one, I was running three clubs for an owner who understood loyalty but not business. By twenty-five, I owned his businesses, having used what others taught me about their weaknesses.

Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut.

The punching bag swings wildly now, my strikes growing more powerful as memories fuel my movements. My shoulders burn, muscles protesting the sustained effort. I welcome the pain. It clarifies things .

I think of Saphy again. Her defiance. Her fear. The way she looks at me. Like she wants me but can’t fucking stand me.

Left jab. Right hook. Left hook.

Most people see what I want them to. They don't question how I got here, what I had to do, who I had to become. They take what I show them and fill in the blanks with their own assumptions. Safer that way. Both for them and for me. I never correct them.

But Saphy... there's something different there.

She makes me want to reveal more than I should.

Makes me want to possess her completely, not just physically but mentally.

I want her to understand me. To see me. To choose me despite knowing exactly what I am.

How the fuck has this girl got under my skin.

The realization hits harder than any punch. This isn't about Hartwell anymore. It's not even about wanting what I can't have. It's about her. I fucking hate myself.

This is dangerous territory.

I deliver one final, punishing blow to the bag, then step back, breathing hard. My knuckles ache despite the wrapping. Good. Physical pain is manageable, quantifiable. These other feelings are not.

I check my phone. No messages. Not that I expected any. Saphy made her choice tonight, chose the safe, predictable boyfriend over the uncertainty I represent.

But this isn't over. She might think she's rejected me, but all she's done is delay the inevitable. I've never wanted anything I didn't eventually get. And I've never wanted anyone the way I want her .

I shower in the adjoining bathroom, letting the hot water sluice away sweat and memories alike, resting my forehead on the cold tiles.

By the time I dress in the spare clothes I keep here, I've regained complete control.

My reflection in the mirror shows nothing of the turmoil from earlier, just the usual composed exterior.

I return to my office and pour a measure of whisky, settling behind my desk. The riverside development plans that Wilson left are spread out before me, but I don't look at them. Instead, I unlock my top drawer and remove the file Matthew compiled on Saphy.

There's nothing particularly remarkable in her background. Stable middle class upbringing in the suburbs. Decent education. Ordinary life. Nothing about her should entice me, but I can’t help but stare at the photos.

Tomorrow, I'll refocus. I have some other business to see to, one that’ll help get my frustration out. That's the rational move, the business move. But tonight, looking at these files, I allow myself to admit a deeper truth: I am captivated by her.

I take a sip of whisky, letting it burn a path down my throat. Patience has never been my virtue, and it certainly won’t be now.