Page 1 of Sebastian

1

SEBASTIAN

I’m jolted awake by a searing headache, a brutal reminder of last night when I closed down a bar in Midtown. I almost got laid but struck out in the ninth inning. I’d been chatting with this tiny hot chick, hitting it off in the kind of way you do in dimly lit bars with music blaring, but then her friend decided to hurl.

My chivalrous side kicked into overdrive, and I offered up my driver to ensure they made it home safely. In my not-so-sober state, it seemed like a brilliant plan to invite her to my place for an after-hours party once her friend was handled. Now, in the unforgiving morning light and with a clearer head, I can’t help but cringe at how sketchy it all sounds. It gives off a major creeper vibe.

The room spins when I force my eyes open. Little sledgehammers are pounding inside my skull as I lay sprawled across my bed, gazing at the masterpiece on the ceiling. Bathed in the soft, golden glow of the chandelier, this mural is a vibrant display of Italian mythology and history, set against a backdrop of cerulean blue.

In one corner, Apollo, the sun god, rides his chariot across the sky, and it feels like he’s casting beams of light that dance with every flicker of the chandelier. Nearby, Venus rises from the foamy waves, her beauty and grace captivating. The entire ceiling is a tribute to Italy’s rich cultural heritage, blending figures from Dante’s Divine Comedy, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, and Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam into a harmonious tapestry.

It’s not my style, but then again, this was my parents’ bedroom when the artists were commissioned and flown in from Florence. This entire home is a shrine to them, frozen in time since they passed away. It’s as if I’m living in one of the famed museums in Italy with the watchful gaze of my dead ancestors on the walls, silently judging my every move. If I were smart, I would have moved out of this haunted house and let the new owners deal with the ghosts that linger from my past. Instead, I chose to stay stuck in a life I have no idea how to traverse, chained to a past I no longer wanted.

A light tapping on the door draws my attention to Jiles, my parent’s loyal house manager, standing in the doorway with clasped hands and a warm smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Sebastian,” he greets me in his impeccable British accent.

Something Mamma had insisted on when they sold their interests in Milan to launch their empire in Houston—a British butler. Mamma had studied in London and had been fascinated with the British monarchy. She wanted to replicate the life and lifestyle here when she hired Jiles before I was born. In actuality, he’s far more than a house manager. He’s my friend, caregiver, and a father figure.

“Ugh, what time is it?” I grumble as he enters the room to press the button for the floor-to-ceiling drapes covering the wall of windows that overlook the back terrace.

Jiles checks his pocket watch, a vintage piece that has been in his family for generations.

“After 1 pm.”

Damn, it’s late.

With great effort, I battle my body to sit up in bed, and the room spins faster. My disheveled hair clings stubbornly to one side, tangled and unruly. The air in the room stinks from the acrid scent of my breath—the alcohol reminiscent of gasoline fumes. I’m still clad in my shirt from last night, my pants are tossed across the bed, and my shoes are strewn about my floor. The room is suddenly flooded with blinding light, and I can’t help but curse at the invasion.

“Damn, Jiles, could you close those curtains? It’s like staring at the gates of Heaven,” I complain and throw my hand over my eyes to block the assault.He chuckles at my misery.

“Perhaps a strong coffee and a hot shower to start the day?”

Always the voice of reason, he disappears into the bathroom without awaiting my reply. Once I hear the water flowing, I drop my hand and allow my eyes to adjust to the scene that stretches before me outside my windows.

The terrace has undergone a magical metamorphosis, resembling a pristine white winter wonderland. My best buddy, Paolo, and I had discussed themes like my parents always did for their charity parties. Since this is the first that I am hosting since their passing years ago, he suggested I pick a favorite theme from one of their old parties.Thus, a winter wonderland was born.

Tons of pristine white blow-in snow blankets the ground, shimmering under the sun’s golden rays. The weather gods in Texas decided to bless us with an early cold front, which will ensure the snow doesn’t melt in the usually humid Houston sun. Fake icicles glisten from the eaves and tree branches, and white lights adorn everything the eye can see.

Dozens of white-flocked Christmas trees with commemorative ornaments that guests will take later are scattered throughout the property. In the center of it all stands a magnificent Christmas tree with hundreds of wrapped gifts around it, ready for the children to arrive.

Instead of boat rides in the large pool, I contracted a small ice rink to be set up over it, where children can skate with their parents. Lit white garland, wreaths, and snowflakes adorn every railing, doorway, and available surface. Lanterns light the stairs to the pavilion as different vendors and staff members bustle around the grounds.

When contemplating themes with Paolo, I was embarrassed that I couldn’t remember the more recent ones, having been too drunk at the time. Hearing my antics played back to me as we looked through the photo albums was something I wasn’t proud of. That’s why I decided to break away from the upscale, high-society parties my parents used to host—where women wore beaded gowns, men donned tuxedos, and fur coats collected by the dozens in coat check.

I knew I couldn’t live up to the glitz and glamour of my parents’s legacy charity events. The thought of inviting a bunch of rich old people to reminisce about memories of my parents all night sounded too depressing and wasn’t something I could stomach.

Instead, I went in a different direction and made it all about the kids. Instead of having the firefighters pick up the gifts to deliver to the children days later, I contacted the organization, requested copies of the children’s wish lists, and invited the children and their families to my party.

It was a decision that resonated with me on a deep level. My parents had always been known for their generosity and instilled in me the importance of giving back to those in need. What better way to honor their memory than by creating an eventthat would bring smiles to the faces of children who deserved a magical Christmas?

As I watched the staff and vendors working tirelessly to transform my estate into a winter wonderland, I felt a sense of purpose and fulfillment I hadn’t experienced in a long time. The thought of making a difference in these children’s lives, even for just a day, filled me with a warmth far more comforting than any fur coat chucked in a coat check.

“Mr. Sebastian? Did you hear me?” Jiles repeats while moving into my line of vision. I shake my head, clearing away the justifications I always have with myself when breaking from the shadows of my parents’ former glory.

“Sorry, what?”

I rub my temples, knowing a bloody Mary would help more than a shower and coffee, but Jiles would never let me continue drinking to alleviate one of my hangovers. And I won’t be drunk at my party. At least not until the children leave.

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