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I pull out my phone and write a text to him before I can change my mind.
This weekend… do you want to go back to that club?
I hit ‘send’, biting my lip. It’s a cheap shot, sure, using the reminder of our sexy adventures to get a response from him, but what can I say?
I’m prepared to play dirty.
I see the three little dots on the screen that indicate he’s working on a response, and I feel my anticipation grow.
Then, the dots disappear.
Nothing.
I exhale in a rush, suddenly feeling like the biggest fool.
What the hell are you doing?I scold myself, tucking my phone away. Hanging out, waiting for a text like he’s my high school sweetheart, or new boyfriend?
One weekend shouldn’t make a difference. And it doesn’t, I tell myself firmly.It can’t.Just because Sebastian throws a couple of hundred million pounds at good causes and has managed to make a few genuine friends along the way, it doesn’t wipe his slate clean.
He’s still the man that wreaks havoc, leaving damaged lives, and ruined people in his wake.
He’s still my enemy, the man I’ve sworn to destroy.
But still, even my familiar refrain doesn’t ring quite so true anymore. I sigh, turning to walk back the way I came. I’m supposed to hate the man. But it turns out, hate was so much easier than this blur of desire and resentment, affection and bitterness.
I just don’t know which way the scales are going to tip next.
I return home,determined not to let Sebastian’s distant behavior affect me anymore. I shower and eat a light dinner, watching some TV to pass the time, until finally, I turn in for bed.
But I can’t sleep. I lay there in the dark, willing myself to stop thinking about Sebastian, but a part of me stays alert, listening for the door, until finally, I hear movement downstairs.
I check my phone. It’s gone one in the morning.
Is he trying to avoid seeing me?
What if I’d been waiting up for him?
I spring out of bed, and grab my robe, all my frustration and self-loathing boiling over in my veins. I march downstairs and find him in his office. He has his back turned to me, and he’s pouring a drink.
“Nice of you to come home,” I say icily.
“Go away, Avery,” he says without even turning to face me. That just makes me angrier.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand, hating myself for feeling so rejected. “Did you use up your annual allocation of being a nice person in Italy, and now we’re back to you acting like you don’t give a fuck?”
Sebastian finally turns. His tie is undone, and his shirtsleeves are pushed up. “I’m not in the mood for this,” he says, his voice low and dangerous—and just a little slurred.
He’s drunk.
I blink in shock as he takes a swig of whisky, straight from the bottle. I’ve never seen him like this before. Sebastian Wolfe is the master of control. He’s never sloppy. Never has one too many.
Except tonight.
I take a half-step closer, confused.
“No.” Sebastian holds up a hand. “Don’t. I mean it, Avery. Go back to bed and leave me be… If you know what’s good for you.”
There’s a dangerous edge in his expression, but it doesn’t scare me. Nor does his veiled warning.
