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“Really? Then it must be that beautiful Carolina Herrera gown you’re wearing. I tried it on at Bergdorf Goodman. You need wide hips to wear it well. Didn’t fit me at all.” Conversations around the table suddenly hushed, everyone’s attention turning towards the head of the table. “I ran into Robert at Daniel. His new fiancé looks fifteen.”
Not allowing Paisley to bait her, Caroline smiled sweetly and replied, “We’re divorced. He’s free to marry a goat if he wants.”
Sebastian wasn’t nearly as gracious. He impaled Paisley with a vicious scowl that was nasty enough to shut her up. I found that distastefully hypocritical seeing that he had essentially done the same thing to me and my esteem of him sank even lower.
When I went to clear his dessert dish away, he looked up at me with a repentant expression, a silent plea in his eyes. I turned away abruptly. Hell would freeze over before I would let him see how affected I was by his words.
I was returning from the kitchen, having dropped off a tray of crystal glasses that needed to be rinsed, when I saw him striding purposefully towards me. In no mood to deal with him, I turned on my heels and fled in the opposite direction. I thought I had safely gotten away when I felt his strong grip on my upper arm.
“I need to speak to you.”
I turned around and tilted my chin up, resentment written all over my face. “Let go of me, right now.”
“There’s something I gotta say first.” His pained expression had zero effect on me. I wouldn’t have thrown him a lifejacket if he were drowning.
“Sebastian––” A woman’s sweet voice chimed in. I peeked around his arm and realized it was her again, Caroline. The woman was relentless. She stood down the hall craning her slender neck to see whom he was talking to, but I was well hidden by his powerful frame. “You promised to show me the painting…the Goya?”
His lips flattened into a grim line. “Give me a minute, Caroline. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” He looked harassed, frustrated. Good. I hoped she didn’t leave his side all night.
“Yes, Sebastian, go show your girlfriend your Goya,” I mocked, ripping my arm out of his grasp.
His jaw pulsed, his voice tight when he spoke. “She’s not my girlfriend. We need to talk later.”
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” I reiterated, my head shaking. He narrowed his eyes and raked his fingers through his hair.
“I’ll find you.” And before I could argue again, he turned and walked away.
By midnight, most of the courses had been served. Mrs. Arnaud dismissed the first shift, which included Charlotte and me. The tension, wrapped around my head like a medieval torture device, had produced a blinding migraine. To clear my head, I walked out to the garden in desperate need of some fresh air.
The chill of night chased a shiver up my back and a sharp pain pierced my lungs. Whether it was the cold air or despair, I couldn’t say, but I felt alone, disconnected from the world––even myself. My force of will had deserted me. For the first time in six years, I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.
In an attempt to walk the feeling away, I marched towards the gazebo covered in climbing roses. Inside, I sat with my head in my hands. The constant attacks on my character, coupled with the unwelcome desire he ignited in me, was too much for me to process at once. I was on a rollercoaster ride in hell, my emotions rising and falling with every meaningful moment shared between us. It was tearing me apart and worse yet, making me doubt myself. Tears began to pour out of me––the first tears in six long years. I couldn’t stop them any more than I could understand why they were starting to fall now, of all times.
The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly intruded.
“Go the hell away.” My voice cracked. I never cried in front of other people, but my composure had been annihilated. I looked up, my face ruddy and leaky, and found his concealed in shadow. He moved swiftly, lifted and wrapped me in the heat of his body, his powerful arms fastening us together. It was impossible to budge him. That made me cry even harder.
“I hate you! Let me go!”
“I’m sorry, shhh…please don’t cry. I’m an asshole. A real shit heel. Forgive me, Vera. Please, forgive me.”
Trapped in his hold, I was forced to accept his comfort. He kissed my neck, licked the trail of salty tears. Shifting to my face, he lightly brushed his lips on my closed eyelids, on the pulsing vein at my temple.
In my weakened state, fighting the magnetic current between us was impossible. He sat down and arranged me on his lap. His hands cradled my face possessively. The light from the garden sconces revealed his regret. His eyes, wide and solemn, gazed back at me so reverently that I almost forgot he was the reason I was so wretched. I couldn’t look at him. I was mixed up, hurt, and on some shameful level relieved that he had found me.
