Sweet Cravings

Chapter Two – The Hollow Empire

New York

Sebastian

Midtown sprawled beneath Sebastian Conner in a blur of yellow cabs and steam curling from grates. The glass was cold against his forehead, but he barely noticed. Eight years at the helm, and now he was one of the richest men in the city. Rivals who once laughed at him lined up for meetings. On paper, he had it all.

In reality, he felt hollow—like a skyscraper with no foundation.

His marriage was over. His fault, really. He knew Bella never wanted to be a mother, but when she became pregnant, he refused to let her terminate—a decision he still stood by. His twin sons were his world, the only thing that kept him sane. But the marriage couldn’t survive. Bella loved the boys in her own way, but she never bonded with them. The arguments—God, the arguments—were endless, until the day she moved out.

Since the divorce, things had settled. For the first time in five years, they could talk without resentment or blame. He had primary custody; Bella had regular visitation. He let her go live her dreams, and to his surprise, in the six months since she left the States, she spent more time talking to the boys than ever before. Weekly video calls were slowly building a bridge he thought had burned. For that, he was grateful.

The change eased the weight on his shoulders—but not enough. He stared around his office, the empire he’d built, and felt nothing.

His gaze fell on a photo frame. Sam’s grin stared back at him—his older brother, gone too soon. Sam had always been the dreamer, head buried in books, fingers flying over keyboards. This company had been Sam’s vision: tech to change the world. When cancer stole him at nineteen, Sebastian buried his own dream—wood shavings, salt air, the rhythm of a hammer—and built Sam’s instead.

He picked up the photo, thumb brushing the glass. “Well, I did it, Sam,” he whispered. “Your ideas are everywhere. I hope you’re proud.”

A knock broke the silence. Margo, his PA, poked her head in. “Heading out, Bast. Need anything before I go?” He smiled faintly. “No, Margo. I’ll be leaving soon myself.” She grinned. “Kiss those boys for me. And don’t forget—poker night. Tim and Dan have both called me to remind you.”

He groaned. “Hell, I forgot. Now I need to hit the store.” Margo chuckled. “Already handled. Snacks and beer are on the way. Fae’s set up the poker table in the den. She said you’d forget.”

Sebastian laughed, shaking his head. “What would I do without you two? Thanks, Margo. Have a great weekend.” When she left, he shut down his computer and headed for the elevator, waving to security on his way out.

He pulled up in front of his townhouse just as the last streaks of sunset bled into the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten gold. Through the front window, he caught a glimpse of Fae on the rug with the boys, their laughter spilling out like music—bright, unrestrained, alive.

She was crouched low, arms outstretched, pretending to be a dragon, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder as the boys darted around her with cardboard swords. For a moment, Sebastian just watched, the tension of the day loosening like a knot undone.

Fae had been with him since the twins were born—part housekeeper, part nanny, part lifeline. Older, wise, and steady, she had a way of making chaos feel like home. When Bella left, Fae stayed, filling the cracks with warmth and quiet strength. She wasn’t family by blood, but she was family in every way that mattered.

When he stepped inside, the warmth hit him—not just from the house, but from the life inside it. Fae looked up first, her smile bright and easy, the kind that said you’re home. “You’re just in time,” she called, breathless from the game. “The dragon was about to win.”

“Dad!” Two voices shouted in unison, and then they were there—his boys, a blur of curls and energy, launching themselves into his arms. Their small bodies were warm against him, their giggles ringing like bells, and he breathed in the familiar scent of crayons and shampoo that clung to their hair.

“Whoa, easy, you’re gonna knock me over,” he laughed, kissing the tops of their heads. “What’s this? No shoes? You planning to turn the house into a jungle?”

The boys pranced around like monkeys, making him laugh. He crouched low, eyes wide in mock suspense. “So, for dinner, I was thinking… pizza party.”

The boys erupted in cheers, voices echoing down the hallway as they raced to the kitchen like it was Christmas morning. Fae followed, scooping up abandoned swords and tossing them into the toy bin with a practiced flick. “I’ll clear the battlefield,” she teased, then joined them at the counter, rolling up her sleeves as if she belonged there—because she did.

The kitchen was a riot of color and sound—flour dusting the counters like fresh snow, tomato sauce streaking cheeks and fingers, laughter bubbling up in bursts. Bast let the boys pick toppings—pepperoni for Zack, extra cheese for Alex—and even let them sprinkle it themselves, despite the mess. Fae laughed with them, steadying Alex when he tried to lift the heavy cheese tub, her voice soft and encouraging. She didn’t hover; she was part of the chaos, part of the joy. Bast caught her eye once, and she grinned back, a silent we’ve got this passing between them.

Dinner was loud and messy and perfect—stories about school, knock-knock jokes that made no sense, and laughter that filled every corner of the house like sunlight. Fae stayed through it all, wiping spills with quick, efficient movements, laughing at punchlines, and listening like every word mattered. When the plates were cleared, Bast carried the boys upstairs for bath time while Fae gathered the dishes, humming softly to herself—a tune he couldn’t place, but it sounded like comfort.

Upstairs, the bathroom was warm and steamy, the scent of bubble bath curling through the air. He made sure the towels were fluffy, the water just right, and when they were squeaky clean, he tucked them into bed with their favorite stuffed animals. “Two stories,” one demanded, holding up a book like a royal decree.

“Two?” He raised an eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He read both, voices for every character, until their eyelids drooped and their breathing slowed. He kissed their foreheads, lingering for a moment, memorizing the peace on their faces—the soft rise and fall of their chests, the way their curls fanned across the pillows. This is what matters, he thought.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, something caught his eye—a pink-and-yellow flyer on the hall table. He picked it up.

“Oh, that came through the door this afternoon,” Fae said, drying her hands. “Summer fayre on Comfort Isle. Thought you and the boys might enjoy a weekend away. Me and Burt had our honeymoon there—beautiful place.”

He scanned the words, ready to toss it—until one line snagged his breath:

Carpentry workshop with local artisan Eli Turner.

His pulse kicked. Sawdust. Timber. The scent of varnish. It was like someone had cracked open a door he’d nailed shut years ago.

Poker night was loud, full of laughter and beer, but Sebastian barely heard it. His friends joked, tossed peanuts, argued over bets. He stared at the flyer folded in his pocket like a secret.

“What’s going on with you tonight, Bast? That’s the fifth hand you’ve lost,” Tim said, grinning.

Sebastian shrugged. “Sorry, guys. Thinking about taking the boys on a trip.”

Dan smirked. “Not complaining. I usually have to hide from the wife after poker night, but tonight she’s getting something special from her man.”

Tim groaned, throwing a peanut at him. “Dude, no one needs to hear about you and Ren. We heard enough in college.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. He’d met both of them in college—three kids chasing big dreams, now three men juggling careers and families. They were his closest friends, but tonight, their banter felt like background noise.

“So where’s this trip?” Dan asked.

Sebastian explained about the flyer, the summer fayre, the carpentry workshop. The more he spoke, the stronger the urge grew.

Maybe a vacation wasn’t running away. Maybe it was finding the part of himself he’d lost.

For the first time in years, the idea of leaving everything behind didn’t feel reckless—it felt like breathing.