Page 31 of Sebastian.

“Is there anything you want me to do about it?" Peter asks, his voice steady, but I can sense the concern underneath.

My heart pounds in my chest as I click on the video posted on RTL’s Twitter account, hesitant yet unable to resist the urge to see what the world is saying about me. The video plays, and the shame I feel is so hot that I’m sure my face is bright red. There I am, on the screen, surrounded by women in lingerie inside that dimly lit club. It's like watching a nightmare unfold before my eyes, a nightmare that I can't wake up from.

The comments under the post are relentless, people speculating about my marriage, calling me a disgrace, an hypocrite for being in a club filled with women with similar career paths than Roxanne, and questioning my loyalty to my family. I can't blame them; the evidence is right there for everyone to see. I let out a shuddering breath. Fuck. There is no coming back from something so public. I should have turned on my heels and left the club when I saw the waiting staff being exclusively composed of women in lingerie, but Karl had insisted it was the only place with a strict no smartphone policy and I let him get his way. We settled on a table, started to drink, and a few bottles later, that fucker paid one of the girls to take me for a lap dance. I was too drunk to realize what was happening until it all went down, but now it’s done and there’s no turning back.

Julia’s face flashes in my mind, and I feel a pang of guilt. How could I have been so reckless, so careless with her feelings? She deserves better than this, better than a husband who would betray her trust in such a way. Even if she threw the first proverbial punch with her threats, it was nothing compared to actually going out and getting lap dances from a stranger.

I feel like a fool, a fool who has destroyed the most important thing in his life—his family. I never wanted this, never wanted to hurt the woman I love and the children I adore.

I close Twitter, unable to bear the weight of the public's judgment any longer. I know that this is just the beginning. The news will spread like wildfire, and soon, everyone will know about my mistakes. God, I’m so humiliated. How can I look my family in the eye knowing what I've done? How can I expect them to forgive me for my actions?

“Sebastian?” Peter repeats, louder this time, snapping me out of my miserable spiral.

“I don't know.... It's not company-related, so...um, I think we can just let this stupid tabloid nonsense die out,” I respond, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation.

“I understand, but have you thought about your children, though? They might get teased or receive snarky remarks at school because of all of this. It might be better to put out a statement as quickly as possible to get ahead of the punch,” Peter points out, urging me to consider the impact.

“Well, Aleida and Joris start school in a few days, but their peers are way too young to even know who I am,” I try to reassure myself more than Peter.

But Peter presses on, not letting me off the hook. “What about Andries and Elise?”

“Ah, those two will be fine. They are most likely having a blast at my expense,” I say, attempting to appear nonchalant. I don’t think it’s working. I can hear the way my voice shakes.

“And Hannah?” Peter continues, mentioning the one person in the family who tends to internalize her emotions.

“What about her?” I ask, trying to avoid facing the truth.

“Does she know already?” Peter inquires, making me think about Hannah, the quiet and reserved member of the family. I had just had breakfast with her, and her phone call before leaving the table lingers in my mind.

“I don’t know…I will talk to her,” I tell him, realizing that I can't avoid the conversation any longer. I know that Hannah is sensitive and perceptive; she won't easily brush off something like this.

Deep down, I'm terrified of how she'll react. Hannah has always been the one to keep her feelings to herself, and I fear that my actions might push her further away. She's already distant, and this could be the breaking point. As I hang up the phone, I feel a sense of unease settling over me. There’s a sense of urgency in me, pushing me to talk to Hannah right away. I make my way back inside the house and head upstairs to her room. Approaching her door, I knock softly at first, hoping she'll hear me. When there's no response, I knock again, a bit more insistently.

“I need to talk to you,” I call out. I know she’s inside, and my chest feels tight at the thought that she’s already seen the video and is ignoring me because of it. When she still doesn't answer, I take a deep breath and pull out my smartphone. I hesitate for a moment before calling her, not knowing how she'll react.I can’t believe I have to do this.

She picks up after a few rings, and I try to lighten the mood with a touch of sarcasm. “Your Highness, would you kindly open the door for your poor dad so he can have a word with you?”

Hannah laughs on the other end of the line and apologizes, saying she had her headphones on. A small part of me feels relieved that she seems to be in good spirits, but I know that the conversation ahead won't be easy.

When the door opens, she sheepishly says, “Sorry Pops,” and steps aside so I can follow behind her.

Hannah returns to her computer chair, shutting her MacBook and spinning the chair around to face me. “So what's up? Do you need something?”

“I just…well, wanted to know how you are doing,” I reply, my nerves getting the best of me.

“I'm good. Why?” she asks, a slight frown forming on her forehead as she senses something amiss. “You know we just had breakfast together, right?”

I try to find the right words to say, but they seem to elude me, and I start pacing the room instead. My eyes inadvertently wander over the pictures adorning her walls, capturing moments from her childhood and adolescence. Memories flood my mind, reminding me of the times we used to share, the laughter and joy that once filled our home.

“Dad? Would you stop snooping around?” Hannah's voice pulls me out of my reverie.

“Alright, sorry,” I mutter, finally approaching her desk. I take a moment to study her face, which is a perfect blend of her mother’s and mine.

She sighs, sensing the seriousness in the air. “What's going on? Just tell me.”

“Hannah, you know Mom and I are—” I begin, only to be cut off.

“Separated?” she interjects, her gaze steady.

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