Sebastian's POV
I had not slept.
Even the ceiling above my bed had become an enemy, just white, silent, accusing. No matter how many times I close my eyes, the same images seem to return.
Coffee spilling.
Her hands shaking.
Her face when I spoke to her.
And my grandmother's voice, calm and sharp as a blade.
"Power does not make you superior. It makes you responsible." I exhaled slowly and sat up.
The room was dark, the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtains.
My chest felt tight, unfamiliar, as though something heavy had lodged itself there and refused to move.
I had built my life on control.
Control over people.
Control over emotions.
Control over weakness.
And yet, somehow a maid had disrupted it all with a cup of coffee.
Aria.
The name surfaced without permission.
I clenched my jaw.
She was nothing to me. An employee. Temporary. Replaceable at any time.
So why did the memory of her eyes wide, embarrassed, wet with unshed tears refuse to leave me?
I stood abruptly and walked to the window.
Below, the gardens lay silent, silver under moonlight. This mansion had been my fortress for years. A place where no one saw the cracks.Until she walked in.
I heard my grandmother's cane against the floor in my mind. The way she had looked at me earlier, disappointed but not surprised.
"You push people away before they can disappoint you."
She had always known me too well.
I scoffed under my breath.
Disappointment was inevitable. People were temporary. Loyalty was rented. Affection was transactional.
Vivienne was proof of that.My fiancée.
Beautiful. Intelligent. Strategic.
And cold.
Our engagement was a business decision dressed as romance. A union of power, not hearts.
She understood that.
Why couldn't I?
I turned away from the window and rubbed my face.
When I had stepped out of the bathroom that morning and found Aria standing there, frozen like a frightened deer, something had shifted.
She had looked at me as if I were unreal.
Not powerful.
Not rich.
Just a man.
And I hated that.
Hated how it stripped me of armor.
The sound of shattering porcelain echoed again in my head.
I should not have shouted. But anger was easier than confusion. Cruelty was safer than softness.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the darkness.
My grandmother had taken me apart with a few sentences.
"She reminds you of who you were." I closed my eyes.
I remembered the rain.
The driver's daughter.
The way her tiny body shook as fever burned through her.
The rage I had felt at my father.
The helplessness.
The shame.
That boy had died long ago.
Or so I thought.
A knock came softly at my door. I frowned.
"Enter."
It was Martha.
She stood cautiously in the doorway, hands folded in front of her.
"Sir… Madam Sinclair asked if you were awake." I hesitated.
"Yes."
"She says you should come to her room. She can't sleep."
Of course she couldn't.
Neither could I.
"I'll be there shortly."Martha nodded and left.
I changed into a simple shirt and trousers and made my way down the hall.
My grandmother's door was open. She sat by the window, wrapped in a shawl, moonlight painting silver into her hair.
"You look tired," she said without turning.
"So do you."
She smiled faintly. "Sit." I obeyed.
Silence stretched between us.
Then she spoke.
"You were cruel to that girl today." I stiffened.
"I corrected her."
"You humiliated her."
"She made a mistake."
"She is human."
"So am I." She turned to face me fully now.
"No, Sebastian. You taught yourself not to be."
The words struck deeper than I expected.
"You think kindness is weakness," she continued.
"But it is the strongest thing in this world." I said nothing.
"She is afraid of you." I frowned.
"And yet," she added, "she still tries."
That unsettled me.
"She defended you," my grandmother said quietly.
I looked up sharply. "When?"
"When I asked if you were kind." My throat tightened.
"She didn't lie," she continued.
"She protected you." I leaned back.
"She shouldn't."
"But she did."
Silence again.
Then she spoke more softly.
"You don't love Vivienne."
"That is irrelevant."
"No," she said firmly. "It is dangerous."
I stood.
"You're tired. You should rest."
"And you should stop lying to yourself." I left before she could say more.
Back in my room, I paced.
Everything felt out of alignment.
Aria's voice echoed faintly in my memory.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sorry."
"I spilled it."
Why did it bother me?
She was not beautiful in the way magazines defined it. No polished arrogance. No calculated charm. Just quiet resilience. Pain wrapped in politeness.
I exhaled.
Ridiculous.
She was my employee. Nothing more.
The next morning, I dressed earlier than usual.
When I entered the kitchen, she was there. Standing by the counter.
Nervous.
Focused.
Alive.
She stiffened when she saw me. Her eyes darted away immediately.
"Good morning, sir," she said.
Her voice was soft and careful. As if the wrong tone might break her.
Martha greeted me.
Bianca pretended not to stare.
The smell of coffee filled the room. I saw her hands. Steady this time. No trembling. She placed the cup in front of me.
I hesitated.
Then I took it.
Her breath hitched slightly.I pretended not to notice.
"Thank you," I said.
The word felt strange on my tongue.
Her head snapped up.
Shock flickered across her face before she masked it.
"You're welcome, sir."
I took a sip. It was really perfect. My eyes met her briefly.
Just for a second.
Something fragile passed between us. I don't know what it was.
Something dangerous.
Then I turned away.
But as I left the kitchen, one thought followed me relentlessly:
For the first time in years
I did not feel powerful.
I felt human.
It was strange.
And that terrified me.