Sebastian didn’t go straight home after Victoria left.
He couldn’t.
Not with the weight of her words still ringing in his ears. Not with the memory of those photos spread across his desk like landmines—each one threatening to blow up the life he was only just beginning to piece back together.
So he sat in his car for nearly an hour, parked three blocks from the apartment, hands gripping the steering wheel, forehead pressed against it. He didn’t blast the radio or scroll his phone or call anyone to ask what he should do.
He already knew what he had to do.
The Sebastian of five years ago would’ve tried to contain it. Would’ve built walls around the problem, locked the doors, and handled it “like a man.” Alone. Quietly. Without telling Isabelle a thing until it was too late.
But that ma
