Page 68 of Sebastian

“I will arrange for the driver to take Miss Veronica home. And things will look better in the morning.”

I used to hate that phrase he used throughout my childhood, but now I’m clinging to it as a life raft—hoping this will be better in the morning.

“Thank you, Jiles. Tell her I had to attend the party or that I?—”

“I’ll make the necessary explanations.” He nods, stepping back, and his dress shoe clicks quietly on the old Parkay floors. “And Mr. Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps we get her tuned and moved downstairs after the holidays.”

I lick my lips, tears springing into my eyes as I realize what he’s saying. If I were to have a child, I could teach them to play. Pass down the tradition the same as the handkerchief.

My throat tightens, and my nose burns when I answer with a rasp, “I’d like that.”

He taps the dust covered piano with a gentle smile as he bows and exits the room, handling my affairs for me like he always does. Except he shouldn’t be handling Veronica, he gave me an out, and I took it—too chickenshit to manage my own business.

Disappointed in myself yet again, I resume playing every song I can remember, having to start over many times until I get each piece as perfect as possible before moving on. The hours pass uninterrupted. I close the lid and cover the piano when the sun rises over the treetops, casting golden hues across the room.

My body aches, and my back cracks when I stand. My mind is clearer as reality set in over the hours I hid here. I cross the room, giving it a long look before closing the door and sealing off the memories of one of the worst nights of my life. By the time I get to my bedroom, the furniture is askew, and some things are broken from what I assume is the aftermath of Veronica.

The sticks are still where I threw them, laying askew on the marble floor. As I collect them, I notice the plus sign, the double lines, and the word pregnant in the little window of the last stick. I should have been here with her. I should have swallowed my fear and been here, and I wasn’t. What an asshole.

When I seeChloe dashing out the door of her building to head to work, I’m drawn out of my memories and back to the reality of Veronica calling again. To be fair, I deserve all the shitty things she’s going to say the second I get on the phone. It’s only fitting.

“Hey,” I answer the phone with the same heaviness that I’m feeling.

“You’re a real piece of shit for what you did to me last night.”

She tears into me as expected, and I adjust in my seat, waiting for the rest.

“And you pawned me off on your butler? Well, that shit’s not going to work,Sebastian.Whether you like it or not, you’ll be a father to this baby. And so help me, if I need to sue your ass to make it happen, then I will. Don’t underestimate me. And what the hell with texting me a barrage of questions at the crack of dawn?”

I grit my teeth on her use of the word butler—he’s more than that. I don’t doubt she probably has a lawyer and is drawing something up right now that I should probably notify my attorneys about. But I don’t have the energy for that. The barrage of questions was straight from Google because I didn’t know what to do, and I was losing my mind after seeing the sticks scattered all over my bathroom floor.

“I’m fucked up. You know that.”

It’s a lousy excuse, even if it’s true.

“That’s exactly why you’re going to be there for me every step of the way. You won’t throw me out like you did last night, you hear me?” she screams so loudly that the entire parking lot could hear her if I had my windows down.

“Now, I want you to take me to look at furniture today. I won’t have my baby in some death trap your parents raised you in that you have stored somewhere in that museum you call home.”

The thought of driving her around, looking at baby furniture, is far too real for me. Then I remembered what that brilliant and stunning woman upstairs told me.

“Okay, but I want to see a doctor first.”

I spring the idea on her, feeling a glimmer of hope that all this might not be true.

“Fine, go see your doctor. Then pick me up, and we can go to lunch before we shop. I’ve already scheduled a private appointment at this place in the Village. They have a waitlist, but when I dropped your name and the fact that they’d be designing two nurseries, they fit us in.”

And so it begins—using me for better connections. I don’t know how I will survive eighteen years of this.

“Not my doctor. A doctor for you. To confirm the pregnancy.”

The phone goes dead silent for a few long seconds.

“I already texted you that my doctor can’t see me sooner. I need to get ready, so pick me up at 11 am.”

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