Chapter 4 The Ice Begins to Crack

Sebastian's point of view

I've always believed silence is safer than truth. Words carry weight. They reveal, unravel, expose. And in my world, exposure is a death sentence. That's why I stood in the shadows of my empire, pulling strings, never flinching. Until her.

Camille Hayes.

She was never meant to be anything more than a name on a contract. A pawn. A solution.

Innocent. Unattached. Unthreatening.

Those were the three qualities that made her the perfect candidate. I needed someone who wouldn't complicate things, who wouldn't ask too many questions, who could play the role of a wife without actually being one.

But nothing about this has gone according to plan.

The moment she walked into my penthouse, shivering from the chill of our courthouse wedding and wearing that ivory designer dress like a shroud of mourning, something in me shifted. I'd buried emotions deep enough to make myself untouchable. Still, she looked at me with those big, questioning eyes,as though she could see through every layer of armor I'd spent years constructing.

Victor is watching. Always watching. I know he suspects something. He doesn't buy the marriage act, and I don't blame him. But this isn't about love. It never will be. It's about protection, hers, mine, and what's left of my brother's legacy.

That morning, I watched Camille across the breakfast table. She sat upright, her spine stiff as steel, sipping coffee without tasting it. The bruised shadows under her eyes betrayed her sleepless night. And yet, she looked... elegant. Almost regal.

"She'll break," Victor had said. "Too soft for our world."

But there's steel in her. I can feel it. And maybe that's what's bothering me.

The charity gala at the Astoria Foundation was a battlefield masked with glitter and champagne. I hadn't wanted Camille there. It was too soon. But public appearances were part of the agreement, and Victor's eyes were on us.

She descended the staircase in a dark green satin gown, hair swept to one side, a diamond pendant catching the light at her collarbone. For a second, I forgot to breathe.

She looked like her. Not Lena. No one could ever be Lena. But Camille reminded me of a time before the screams and blood. Before guilt had built a tomb around my heart.

We arrived fashionably late. People turned. Flashes popped. Murmurs filled the ballroom. Camille clung to my side, her hand light on my arm, as if afraid to hold on too tightly.

"Smile," I whispered without looking at her. "Don't let them think you're afraid."

"I am afraid," she replied softly, her voice trembling. "But I'll smile anyway."

I hated how that made me feel.

Inside the ballroom, Vanessa made her entrance like the show pony she'd always been,draped in crimson, lips curled in a poisonous smirk. She zeroed in on Camille like a predator spotting prey.

"You clean up well," Vanessa said sweetly. "I suppose everyone looks like a princess once you slap on enough makeup and borrowed jewelry."

Camille blinked but said nothing. Her lips tightened, her hands clenched. She looked to me for help, but I didn't intervene. I couldn't. Not yet. She had to learn that this world doesn't offer kindness, especially not to interlopers.

"She's just threatened," I said later, as Camille stood silently by my side, staring into her untouched glass of champagne. "You stole the spotlight. That doesn't sit well with women like Vanessa."

"I didn't mean to steal anything," she said.

"I know. That's why you did."

But even the armor of innocence couldn't protect her for long. The press descended,sleek, sharp-toothed jackals with microphones and agendas.

"Sebastian! Is this a real marriage or just a cover-up?"

"Camille, how does it feel to go from nurse to billionaire's wife overnight?"

"Did you marry for love or money?"

She faltered, lips parting, panic rising in her gaze. I saw it. Everyone saw it. Vanessa was already texting. Probably leaking some story about Camille's humble beginnings, spinning her as the gold-digging savior of the Hayes family scandal.

I stepped forward. Wrapped an arm tightly around Camille's waist. Claimed her, not just with words but with posture.

"She's my wife," I said firmly, loud enough for the vultures to hear. "That's all anyone needs to know."

Gasps rippled. Cameras clicked. Camille looked up at me, stunned.

When we returned to the penthouse, I expected silence. Instead, I found her sitting on the couch, heel bleeding from the blister caused by her stilettos.

She winced as she tried to take it off.

"Let me," I said, surprising myself.

She hesitated, then nodded.

I kneeled in front of her. Took the shoe off gently, revealing the angry red scrape at the back of her foot. I left the room briefly and returned with antiseptic, gauze, and a bandage.

"Hold still."

"I can do it," she said quickly.

"I know," I replied, dabbing at the wound. "But I will."

Her breath hitched. My hands were practiced, efficient. Years of experience caring for wounds much deeper than this. But something about tending to hers made my throat tighten.

"You didn't have to defend me," she murmured.

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

Because you don't deserve to be torn apart by this world the way Lena was. Because I know what they'll do to you if they smell blood. Because I already see you becoming another ghost in my collection of guilt.

I didn't say any of that.

Instead, I shrugged. "Optics."

She nodded slowly. Her fingers trembled on the edge of her dress.

"Sebastian," she said after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper, "why did you really marry me?"

I looked up. Her eyes were wide, searching. Desperate to understand the man she was bound to.

And in that moment, I wanted to lie. I wanted to give her something soft to hold onto. A half-truth, a fabricated affection. But I couldn't afford to give her hope.

So I hardened my face and stood, brushing off my hands.

"Because love," I said coldly, "is the last thing I want."

Her face fell. Not dramatically. Not with tears. But something inside her dimmed.

And I hated myself for being the one to extinguish it.

Later that night, I returned to my office. The lights were dimmed, the city glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. I poured myself a drink, fingers trembling just slightly.

Lena would've been twenty-nine this year. And my brother,Miles,would've been thirty-two. Instead, they're both dust and memory, casualties of a war I didn't start but vowed to end.

Victor thinks he's won. That I'm his puppet. But he doesn't know what I'm building in the shadows. What I'm protecting.

The picture frame on my desk caught my eye.

Lena & Me – 2002

We were kids in that photo. She was eleven, I was thirteen. She had braces and sunflower clips in her hair. I'd built her a treehouse that summer. Miles had helped. We were inseparable back then.

Before the fire.

Before the betrayal.

Before the secrets that turned me into a man incapable of trust.

A sound behind me made me turn.

Camille.

She stood at the doorway, wrapped in a robe, her face pale.

"I heard you scream," she said quietly. "Are you okay?"

I looked away, jaw clenched. "Nightmare. Go back to sleep."

She didn't move. Her gaze flicked to the photo on the desk.

"Lena?" she asked, pointing.

"My sister."

"She looks like you."

"She looked like hope."

Silence.

"Do you miss her?"

Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat I take without her in this world feels like a betrayal.

"I don't talk about her," I said instead. "Good night, Camille."

She lingered for a moment longer, then nodded and left.

When the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled shakily and looked out at the skyline.

The ice was cracking.

And I didn't know if I could survive the flood that followed.