Page 90 of Second Sin

Whatever he’s feeling, it’s buried. Locked behind those storm grey eyes.

“Kane’s on his way,” he says finally, voice clipped. “He’ll get me to the airport. Barely.” He exhales through his nose. “I’ll order you an Uber.”

“I can do it myself,” I say. “But…your car. You need to?—”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, gaze fixed straight ahead.

But it’s not.

His jaw keeps ticking. Hands curling into fists. The lightness that was there just a few minutes ago is gone.

We step into the lobby—glass and marble and money polished to a shine. The concierge glances up from his desk, expression flickering when he sees him.

He walks over, calm on the surface. Voice low. I don’t catch the words, just the tone—measured, detached, guarded.

When Sebastian returns, whatever warmth lingered between us in the elevator—it’s gone.

His walls are back up. The quiet kind. Impenetrable.

I move beside him, voice quiet. “Who would do something like that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I don’t know.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

I hesitate. “Do you think this was personal?”

That’s when he snaps. Not loud—but sharp, raw.

“I don’t fucking know, okay?”

The words land hard. Not shouting—but enough to sting.

I flinch. The hurt isn’t sharp. It’s quiet. Low in my chest. Heavy.

There’s nothing to say to that, so I don’t. Just nod once, more to myself than to him, and take a step back.

My phone’s already in my hand. Fingers moving fast across the screen—more for something to do than any real urgency. The Uber’s on its way.

Several minutes later, a black Cadillac Escalade pulls up to the curb. Kane acknowledges me with a small wave, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Sebastian opens the back door and tosses his bag inside. Doesn’t get in right away—just shuts the door and turns toward me.

“I’ll text you later.” Clipped. Distant. Like he’s already halfway gone.

“Are you…okay?” I ask, cautious. Like the wrong tone might make him shut down completely.

His eyes meet mine for the briefest second. “Yeah.”

But it’s the kind ofyeahthat says:don’t ask again.

He steps in close and presses a kiss to my forehead—quick, distant. More reflex than affection.

Then he circles to the passenger side, gets in, and the door shuts with a final, hollow thud.

And just like that, he’s gone.

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