Chapter 7 Sebastian's POV

I was drained-physically, mentally, emotionally. Being the only son of the Kingsley family came with expectations that could break a man. After days of inspection rounds at our company's branches in London, Hong Kong, Dubai, and Singapore, I finally returned to New York.

But I didn't go home.

Home was just a structure-glass, marble, polished silence. Nothing warm. Nothing comforting. My father's presence lingered in the walls, in the furniture, in the weight that pressed on my chest every time I stepped inside.

So I didn't.

I booked a penthouse suite downtown. The kind where the view tricks you into thinking you're free. I collapsed onto the bed, letting the silence wrap around me like a shroud. Every part of me ached-not from jet lag, but from the weight of responsibility. The pressure to be perfect. Unshakable. Flawless.

My father had already called three times.

"Any word from Bloomberg?"

"Have they accepted the deal?"

"Don't disappoint me, Sebastian."

Each voicemail was laced with control-sharp, cold, threaded with disappointment and veiled threats. If Bloomberg rejected the proposal, I already knew what I'd face: not just anger, but that hollow stare that always made me feel like a failure, no matter how much I achieved.

A knock broke the silence.

My secretary stepped in, quiet and composed, tablet in hand. "Sir, Bloomberg has accepted your request."

I sat up instantly, my vision spinning from the rush. "Say that again?"

"They accepted the proposal, sir."

Relief flooded me. A rare victory. One that didn't feel as satisfying as it should have.

"I'll inform the chairman now," he added. "You should rest."

"Hm," I mumbled, already leaning back.

But he didn't leave.

"There's one more thing," he said carefully.

I closed my eyes, already feeling the irritation creeping in. "Didn't you just tell me to rest?" My voice came out sharper than intended. I sighed, letting the edge go. "Please. I just need some sleep."

His voice lowered. "Your friends are back in town. They've arranged a dinner for tomorrow night. Should I cancel?"

I paused.

It had been months since I'd seen them. Years, for some. Maybe a little distraction wouldn't be so bad.

"No," I said. "Tell them I'll be there."

---

The following evening, I arrived at the restaurant-a private lounge in midtown Manhattan. Dim lighting, smooth jazz, rich mahogany walls. The scent of aged whiskey and grilled meat lingered in the air. My friends greeted me with loud laughter and careless grins. All of them-well-dressed, sharp-tongued, powerful in their own rights.

"You're looking even better these days, Sebastian," one of them said, raising his glass.

Another smirked. "So, when's the wedding?"

I laughed dryly, swirling my drink. "Wedding? Marriage is for people who are actually in relationships."

They laughed, slapping the table.

"Come on," someone said. "You're practically engaged to Victoria."

The group hummed in amusement-shared glances, smirks, the kind of reaction that said everyone already knew the truth.

"Yeah, right," another added. "She's way more into you than you are into her. You've never looked at her the way a man should look at the woman he's going to marry."

I shrugged. "I don't know. I don't care."

There was a brief pause before Rico, my closest friend, leaned in, his tone more sincere. "Sebastian, when will you stop living for your father? For the Kingsley name? You've earned the right to live for yourself."

I met his gaze. "I know," I said quietly. "But what exactly can I do?"

He smiled-one of those knowing, bittersweet smiles. "When the time comes, you'll know."

Then, in a more playful tone, he asked, "But be honest-have you ever been in love?"

I hesitated. Slowly took a sip of my drink. "Love? No. I don't think so. But... I had a crush once."

That got their attention.

"A crush?" someone repeated. "Sebastian Kingsley had a crush? Now this I have to hear."

They leaned in, grinning like kids around a campfire.

I leaned back, a rare smile tugging at my lips. "It was about three years ago. I was at a club-maybe Marquee, I'm not sure. There was a girl... she'd been drugged. Her so-called friend spiked her drink and set her up to be raped."

A few jaws tightened. Even in our circle, that kind of betrayal hit differently.

"I stepped in. Pulled her out before anything could happen. But she... she thought I was part of it too. Said some wild things. Tried to fight me off."

I gave a dry chuckle, then sipped again.

"She thought you were the bad guy?" someone asked.

"Yeah. I didn't blame her. She was scared. Confused. But even in that chaos, she had this... fire. She wasn't going down without a fight."

"So, what happened?" Rico asked. "Did you follow up? See her again?"

"No. I left. Didn't give her my name. Didn't ask for hers."

Their expressions shifted-surprise, confusion, even a little disappointment.

"What made you like her then?" another asked.

I thought for a moment. "Maybe it was her stubbornness. Or the way she fought back. Brave, bold. Strange. A little funny. Definitely different. She wasn't polished or pretentious. She was real. Maybe even... decent."

"So what's her name? Come on, man. You're Sebastian Kingsley. Finding someone's not hard."

I laughed. "That's the thing-I don't know her name. She doesn't know mine either. I can barely remember her face."

"What?" they all said, almost in unison.

"Yeah. I have this thing. I forget faces. Places. But her scent? That I remember."

They looked at each other, speechless.

"That's weird," one finally said. "That's all you remember?"

"She had a scar. Deep. On her back. I remember that too."

"Damn. You didn't get her name, didn't give your number-nothing?"

"Didn't have time. Didn't think I needed to."

Rico chuckled. "A one-time crush, huh?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just a moment."

"But you still remember her. After all these years." Another one leaned forward. "That's not just a crush, man. That's... something else."

I gave a tired smile. "Nothing is strange. It's just what it is."

Rico clapped me on the back. "If you're meant to meet again, you will. That's just how it works."

I scoffed. "I don't believe in fate."

"I know," he said. "But if that time ever comes, don't let her go."

I raised my glass. "Sure."

"Alright," someone said, grinning, "enough of the love talk. Let's party!"

---

The music thumped. The alcohol flowed. But my mind was elsewhere. Back in that club. That girl. That scar. That scent.

Then my phone buzzed.

"Your order is ready, sir," came a low, unfamiliar voice.

I ended the call and stood, straightening my suit.

"Excuse me, guys."

Outside, I took the car straight to the hotel. The delivery was already waiting-discreet packaging, no questions asked.

My escape.

Drugs.

I locked the door, threw off my jacket, and opened the parcel like it was a gift. As soon as the substance entered my system, I let out a long, low breath.

Relief. Quiet. Control.

"Yeah... that's it," I whispered, hoarse. "I missed you."

I chased it with benzodiazepine. I needed sleep.

But even after an hour... nothing.

Just the ceiling. Still. Silent.

And my mind, drifting back to her.

Not for closure.

But for a beginning.