His gaze raked across the room, cold and imperious. "Let me be clear. Once you walk out this door, if a single word of this reaches Savannah Simmons, don't expect me to honor our past ties."
I sagged against the corridor wall, the cold plaster seeping through my clothes. My extremities went numb, as if the blood had simply stopped flowing.
So that was it. The five years I had traded my life for were nothing more than a meticulously orchestrated punishment.
My future, my dignity—all it took was a slight frown from Stella for them to be discarded. In Sebastian's eyes, sacrificing me was simply how things should be.
A laugh bubbled in my chest, but it choked off, replaced by the metallic tang of copper rising in my throat.
A phone shrilled inside the private room. Footsteps approached the door.
Panic seized me. I spun around to flee, only to collide hard with a solid mass—the manager delivering more alcohol.
The tray tipped. The bottle—a rare vintage reserved exclusively for the Fort Valor Military District—crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering glass was deafening.
The manager's face drained of color, then twisted into rage. Before I could apologize, his hand cracked across my face.
The door to the private room swung open.
Sebastian strode out. He didn't even glance at the commotion. His attention was solely on the figure launching herself at him. He opened his arms, catching Stella as she threw herself into his embrace.
"Why did you come back alone? I told you I'd pick you up," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gentle timbre I hadn't heard in years.
"I missed you! I wanted to surprise you!" Stella's laughter was bright, brittle, piercing.
I knelt on the freezing marble, hidden behind a face mask, less than a meter away.
The diamonds encrusting Stella's wristwatch caught the light, stabbing into my reddened eyes. Just one of those tiny stones could cover Sebastian's imported medicine for three months.
"General James, I am terribly sorry," the manager stammered, bowing low. "This clumsy idiot smashed the liquor."
Polished black military boots halted in front of my face.
Sebastian frowned, impatience radiating from him. "Enough."
He pointed a gloved finger at me. "You broke it. You clean it. Pick the shards out of the carpet with your hands. If Stella steps on even a fragment, I'll make you swallow the rest piece by piece."
I lowered myself further, pressing my palm against the soaked carpet. I began to crawl, hunting for glass.
Shards bit into my skin, leaving fine, bloody trails in their wake.
Stella hissed softly, clinging to Sebastian's arm. "My feet hurt."
"Spoiled girl. I'll carry you. It's filthy here."
He scooped her up. His heavy boot came down on the back of my hand, crushing it against the floor as he stepped over me without breaking stride.
I remained on the floor, staring at my mangled hand. A low, broken laugh escaped me.
Tears mingled with the warm, metallic fluid gushing from my nose, dripping onto the ruined carpet together.
The manager recoiled. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're bleeding everywhere."
I staggered upright, wiping my face messily with my sleeve. The fabric turned instantly crimson.
"Maybe... I'm just dying."
Ignoring his stunned expression, I turned away. Blood dripped behind me, forming a broken red line as I dragged myself toward the exit.
When I pushed open the front door, the crash of shattering porcelain echoed from the kitchen.
Sebastian was on the floor, struggling to drag his body toward his overturned wheelchair.
He froze when he saw me. His head dipped, eyes instantly rimmed with red. "Savvy... I just wanted to warm some milk for you... I'm useless... nothing but a cripple..."
His speech was slurred, saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. Between the trembling hands and the look of utter despair, he was the picture of an ALS patient in terminal decline.
I stared at him, remembering the man he used to be. The one with severe OCD who polished his sidearm three times a day and wouldn't tolerate a single crease in his uniform.
Yet for Stella, he had performed this humiliating, sloppy charade for five long years.
I should take a knife. Cut open his chest just to see if his heart is actually made of stone.
When I didn't answer, his shoulders slumped. "Savvy... am I disgusting to you now? Go... don't worry about me."
Silence stretched between us. Finally, I walked over, righted the wheelchair, and hoisted him back into the seat.
