She looked up at him, her eyes curiously dead. The sparkle of fun and vivacity was completely gone. “I think it’s time we called things off, Sebastian.”
His chest felt tight. “Called what off?” Just this morning, she’d slipped into her uniform and woken him up with a blow job and giggled the entire time. He’d thought about that all day. What had gone so wrong between now and then? “Us?”
She nodded. “Our marriage. It’s not working. It was supposed to end up being beneficial for both of us, and when it stopped, we said we’d stop it, right? So I’m bailing out.”
“Why?” He moved forward, touched her cheek. It was wet and flushed, as if she’d been crying. His heart felt as if it was being ripped out of his chest. “Fuck, Chelsea, talk to me. Whatever it is, we can work through it.”
Her lip quivered, but her expression remained strangely dead. She shook her head and pulled away from him. “No, we really can’t.”
“This doesn’t make any sense—”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and hauled it against her, then touched his cheek. Her eyes were wounded and full of pain for a brief moment, and then flickered back to that carefully dead state again. “I wish I could be the wife you need.”
Fuck it. He grabbed her arm and pulled her against him. “Chelsea, I love you. Fuck what I said about this relationship being a fake. I love you. I fell in love with you the first time we kissed. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. Don’t do this. Don’t leave. Let’s talk. Please.”
She bit her lip, and her entire body trembled. For a moment, hope rekindled. If she was hesitating . . .
But no, she shook her head. “I can’t, Sebastian.”
“At least tell me why.” His voice was anguished. His entire world felt like it was ending. It was clear she was miserable and suffering. Something had happened to her, and she wasn’t letting him in. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”
She held her bag closer and pulled out of his arms. “I don’t want to.”
“You can’t?”
“I won’t,” she corrected, and gave him a faint smile that seemed ironic compared to the tears that shimmered in her eyes. “Good-bye, Sebastian.”
Stung, he let go of her. She was choosing not to share with him? Whatever it was that bothered her, she didn’t want to share it with him? She was clear about that. It wasn’t that she couldn’t share it. It was that she didn’t want to.
She didn’t want him in her life.
And god, that fucking hurt. “I love you, Chelsea,” he said again, voice hoarse. “Please. Don’t do this to me. To us. To what we have.”
She shook her head again and moved past him. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Was she going to deny him that, too?
She continued down the stairs. “To Austin. To stay with Pisa for a while, until I figure things out.”
“Can I come see you? So we can talk? So—”
“No,” she said quickly. “Sebastian, no. Please. Let’s just end it right here, okay?” Chelsea glanced up at him from the bottom of the stairs, and she looked so fragile and sad that he wanted to hug her against him and make it better for her.
But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want him.
And that was like a knife in the heart.
He raised a hand to tell her good-bye, but she was already gone. He thumped down on the top of the stairs, stunned, and wondered how a perfect life had gone so wrong so fast.
* * *
She didn’t love him.
Sebastian was shocked at how much the realization hurt. He’d thought that Chelsea was happy in their relationship. That what had started out as friendship and a fake wedding had turned into a helluva lot more. She was proud of him, he’d thought. She loved his art. Loved hearing him talk about sketches. Loved playing with his hair when they watched a movie, or tugging him along after her when they skated in the park.
He thought she’d enjoyed his company, his body. His life. His love.
After all, wasn’t it obvious that he loved her? It was in everything he’d done, everything he was. Chelsea was the inspiration of all his sketches. She was in his dreams at night, in his daydreams during idle times, and he lived for the sound of her laughter. He’d have done anything for her.
And she’d left him. With no explanation, and a simple refusal to talk.
That refusal wounded him more than anything else. That no matter what they had, there was no trust. No friendship. No love.
It had all been on his side, and it apparently didn’t matter to her. Agonized, he buried his head in his hands and remained at the top of the stairs for what felt like hours. Every bone in his body wanted to go after Chelsea. The only thing stopping him was that she’d made it quite clear that she was done, and she didn’t want any more. She didn’t want anything to do with him.
And he loved her so much it hurt.
Staggering to his feet, he realized that at some point, it had become night. He’d been sitting on the stairs for hours, gazing off at nothing. Thinking of Chelsea and how he’d lost her . . . without even knowing what he did wrong. Was there someone else? God, the thought was like a knife in the gut. Was it that she was better now? Had Sebastian “fixed” her so she could go back to someone else?
Fuck, he needed a drink.
He slammed down the stairs, heading for the bar in his formal dining room. Neither one saw much use, because Chelsea didn’t drink, so he abstained as well. Now? Fuck it. He was going to get rip-roaring drunk and wash the pain away with some Maker’s Mark. He opened the bottle and skipped the glass and drank straight from the neck. Two swigs of burning whisky later, he turned and glared at the room. Address labels were neatly stacked on one end of the table for Chelsea’s business. With another angry swig, he shoved the papers to the floor.
And then he felt like a petulant little boy. With a sigh, he set the bottle down and carefully picked up the papers. Fuck. Just . . . fuck.
He drank and moped for most of the evening. He left the dining room and went to the living room instead. The Notebook was still sitting on top of the Blu-ray player, and he turned it on. His jaw clenched and he drank more whisky and watched the shittiest, least manly movie ever, because it made him think of Chelsea.
And he wanted to be with her in spirit, if not in person.
Chapter Twenty-four
Something banged loudly, startling Sebastian awake.
He lifted his head, peering around. The Notebook’s DVD menu was looping on the TV. He was sprawled facedown on the couch, and he’d left a puddle of drool on the designer leather. The bottle of whisky was on the coffee table, only a sip left.
He grabbed it and drank the rest of it down anyhow. Fuck it.
The banging returned, and Sebastian sat up. Someone was banging at the front door.
Chelsea?
Staggering, Sebastian wobbled toward the door. Sunlight was flooding in from the windows, and his head throbbed. His mouth felt like he’d been licking garbage all night. He made it to the front door and pressed his hands against the heavy wood, then gazed out the peephole.
Rufus stood on the stoop, a disapproving look on his big, heavy features.
Fuck. Not Chelsea. He opened the door a crack and winced at the sunlight, his eyes mere slits. “She’s not here anymore. I’ll have my lawyer cut you a final check. Thanks for your services.”
The man’s heavy brows raised. “She left you?”
A bitter smile curved over Sebastian’s mouth. “Guess so, huh? Lucky fucking me.”
Rufus just tilted his head. “This have something to do with her meeting your mother yesterday?”
Sebastian stilled. The taste of vomit filled his mouth, and he had to fight down bile. “She . . . what?” The words were gritted out of his throat.