Sebastian's POV
The mansion had never been this quiet.
Not the expensive kind of silence that came with polished floors and obedient staff.
This was different.
This silence accused me.
I stood in my study long after midnight, staring at the city through glass walls that reflected nothing but my own shadow. The lights of my companies burned in distant towers like reminders of everything I owned and everything I had somehow managed to lose.
Aria.
Her name had become a bruise in my chest.
I had built empires from dust. I had turned collapsing companies into gold. I had outplayed men twice my age before I turned thirty.
Yet one quiet girl with trembling hands had walked out of my life and taken my sleep with her.
The boardroom was full the next morning.
Twelve executives, four legal advisors, three international investors and me.
Cold, sharp, controlled.
The version of myself the world feared.
"The Singapore branch is bleeding," one man said.
"We should pull out before"
"No," I interrupted.
Silence followed.
"We will rebuild," I said calmly.
"We don't retreat."
A woman cleared her throat.
"Sir, the losses are"
"I don't care."
They exchanged nervous looks.
I stood, pressing both palms against the table.
"My father built this company by stepping on people," I said flatly.
"I won't."
Some shifted uncomfortably.
"We restructure. We protect the workers. We cut executive bonuses. We invest in infrastructure."
One of the older men scoffed.
"That's sentimental business, not smart business."
I lifted my gaze slowly.
He swallowed.
The meeting adjourned early.
They left afraid.
I remained standing.
Grandmother's voice echoed in my head.
"Power does not make you superior. It makes you responsible."
I exhaled.
Aria would have liked that decision.
The thought hurt more than I expected.
Days became filled with strategy meetings, legal battles, midnight calls, hostile negotiations.
I slept in my office more than my bedroom.
I worked until my hands were cramped.
Until numbers blurred.
Until my head throbbed.
Work has always been my escape. Now it was my punishment. Every coffee shop I passed stabbed me with memory. Every maid in every hotel reminded me of her quiet footsteps.
Of how she avoided my eyes.
Of how she held broken pieces like broken pride.
Of how I never said sorry.
Vivienne noticed the change immediately.
"You're destroying yourself," she said one evening, watching me loosen my tie.
I didn't answer.
"You barely speak to me anymore."
Still nothing.
She stepped closer. "Is this about the maid?"
I froze.
Her tone was sharp.
Careful, poisoned.
"She left," Vivienne continued.
"You should be relieved."
I finally looked at her.
"You humiliated her."
Vivienne laughed lightly.
"I reminded her of her place."
I stepped forward.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"There is no such thing as her place."
Her smile faltered.
"Sebastian"
"You don't get to speak about her."
Silence stretched.
"You're changing," she whispered.
"Yes."
And for the first time, I meant it.
My grandmother watched me quietly from her wheelchair when I visited her estate.
"You haven't slept," she said.
"I'm fine."
She gestured for tea.
I poured it myself.
My hands shook slightly.
She noticed.
"You built walls too tall," she murmured.
"Now you're alone behind them."
I clenched my jaw.
"She's gone," I said.
"Yes."
"You knew she would leave."
"Yes."
"Then why does it feel like punishment?"
Grandmother studied me gently.
"Because you treated something precious like it was replaceable."
Her words sliced clean.
"I don't deserve forgiveness," I said.
"No," she agreed.
"But you can still deserve yourself."
The empire responded slowly.
Stocks stabilized, investors returned, factories reopened, employees stopped striking and my name appeared in business journals again.
Sebastian Sinclair saves failing markets.
A young billionaire redefines leadership.
They did not know that this was not ambition.
This was repentance wearing a suit.
Every success felt empty without someone to share silence with.
Without quiet laughter in the kitchen. Without trembling hands offering coffee like peace.
Late one night, I stood on my balcony.
Phone in hand.
Her number burned on the screen.
Unread.
Unanswered.
Deleted.
Rewritten.
Deleted again.
I typed:
Are you safe?
Then erased it.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
Coward.
I was brilliant in the boardrooms.
Useless in matters of the heart.
Weeks later, my assistant entered nervously.
"We located her."
My chest stopped.
"Where?"
"A café district. East side."
I closed my eyes.
Alive.
Working.
Surviving.
Without me.
Good.
Painful.
Right.
"Do not contact her," I said.
My assistant hesitated.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Because wanting someone is not the same as deserving them and I had not yet become the man she needed.
That night, I poured my own coffee.
It tasted wrong.
Always
wrong.
I stared into the black liquid.
One kiss in a cup.
One mistake.
One girl who changed everything.
"I will become better," I whispered to the empty room.
Not for forgiveness.
Not for love.
But because someone once believed I could be.