Vivian didn't sleep.
She lay awake in the familiar guest room—no, her room—staring at the ceiling she had memorized as a child. The faint cracks above her bed still formed the same shapes she used to trace when she was younger, back when sleep came easily and the world made sense.
Moonlight filtered through the curtains, pale and restless, painting shadows that stretched and shifted with every breath she took.
Belong.
Sebastian's voice echoed in her mind—low, unyielding—like a vow she hadn't agreed to hear.
Her chest tightened.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer, but it did nothing to quiet the strange heat coiling beneath her ribs. The house was silent—too silent. Not empty.
Expectant.
She felt it then.
Not eyes.
Intention.
The door creaked.
Vivian sucked in a sharp breath and sat up. "Mom?"
No answer.
The door opened wider. Slowly. Deliberately.
Sebastian stepped inside.
He wasn't wearing his usual tailored suit—the armor he wore when he ruled boardrooms and silenced rooms with a glance. Tonight, it was just a black shirt, the top button undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Relaxed.
Unshielded.
Dangerously intimate.
"You're awake," he said softly, as if sleep had never been an option for her.
Her fingers clenched the bedsheet. "I couldn't sleep."
"I thought so." He closed the door behind him.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
Final.
Sebastian leaned against the wall, studying her the way he always had—not casually, not kindly, but with intent. Like he was committing her to memory again. Like the two years apart had erased something he needed to reclaim.
"I told them to give you space tonight," he said. "You've had enough shock for one day."
Vivian swallowed. "You didn't have to."
"I did."
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she caught the familiar scent of his cologne. Warm. Grounding.
Unsettling.
Her pulse skipped.
Silence settled between them, thick and weighted.
"London changed you," Sebastian said at last.
She nodded. "I had to grow up."
A faint curve touched his lips. "You always were."
The words should have been harmless.
They weren't.
His hand lifted, hovering near her face. He hesitated—not from uncertainty, but restraint. As if allowing her one last chance to pull away.
Then his knuckle brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
Barely a touch.
Yet her body reacted as if he had traced her skin with fire.
Vivian froze.
Her breath caught. Her skin burned where he touched her, the sensation sinking deeper than nerves—settling somewhere unguarded.
Sebastian noticed.
His gaze darkened.
"Still afraid of me?" he asked quietly.
"No," she said too quickly.
A pause.
"Yes," she corrected, the word fragile.
Something sharp crossed his face—possessive, unmasked—then vanished, replaced by a patience so deliberate it frightened her more than anger ever could.
"I won't hurt you," he said.
"I know."
"That's not what I meant."
Her pulse leapt violently, her body responding before thought could intervene.
"You don't understand," Vivian whispered. "Everything feels wrong. I don't know who I am anymore."
Sebastian leaned closer—not touching her. Yet. "You're Vivian Ravenscroft."
"I'm not."
"You are," he said firmly. "Blood doesn't erase twenty years."
"They'll expect me to leave," she said. "Eventually."
His jaw tightened.
"They won't."
"And if they do?"
His gaze locked onto hers. Steady. Absolute. "I won't allow it."
The certainty slid down her spine like ice.
"You can't control this," she whispered.
"I already am."
Her breath stuttered.
Sebastian reached into his pocket and placed a file on the bed between them.
Vivian stared at it. "What's that?"
"Truth," he said. "The rest of it."
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Hospital records. Dates. Signatures.
And one name circled in red.
The nurse.
"She confessed," Sebastian said calmly. "Debt. Desperation. She swapped the babies deliberately."
Vivian's vision blurred. "You knew."
"I suspected," he admitted. "Years ago."
Her eyes flew to his. "And you said nothing?"
"I protected you."
"By lying to me?"
"By keeping you mine."
The word mine settled heavy in her chest—warm and terrifying.
She pushed the file away and stood abruptly, needing space. "That's not protection."
"It is," he said, rising slowly, "when the world wants to take something precious from you."
"This isn't healthy," she whispered, backing away.
Sebastian stopped a step from her, giving her distance—yet his presence closed in around her anyway.
"Do you know what frightened me most?" he asked. "Not that you weren't theirs."
Silence.
"That you might finally believe you didn't belong here." His eyes burned. "With me."
Her throat tightened.
"I raised you," he continued. "I loved you when you were clumsy and loud and stubborn. When you hated me. When you ran."
Her mind flashed to London.
To Stanley.
Kind, patient Stanley. The safety of his arms. The gentle way he had confessed his love like it was an offering.
It had been warm.
But it had never felt like this.
Never awakened something wild beneath her skin.
Sebastian stepped closer.
"And I will love you," he said quietly, "when the truth finally catches up to you."
Her back hit the wall.
Her breathing quickened.
"This isn't love," she whispered, even as her body leaned toward his warmth.
Sebastian braced his hand beside her head—not touching her, but close enough that she felt the heat of him.
"It is," he murmured. "Just not the kind you were taught to accept."
Her heart thundered.
His fingers brushed her wrist.
Light.
Brief.
Electric.
Vivian gasped.
Sebastian stilled.
"You feel it too," he said softly.
She hated that he was right.
Every touch awakened something she had never felt for any man. Not Stanley. Not anyone.
Fear and longing twisted together, inseparable.
"Go to sleep," Sebastian said gently. "You're safe tonight."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead—tender, restrained, devastating.
When he stepped away, she slid down the wall, breath shaking, her hand pressed to her chest.
The door closed quietly behind him.
Vivian stayed there long after, staring into the dark.
Because beneath the fear—
Something inside her had answered him.
And that terrified her more than the truth ever could.