PRESENT DAY
The knock came at 7 a.m. sharp, just like every Sunday for the past six months.
Sebastian groaned, burying his face into the pillow. He knew who it was. He always knew who it was. The same woman who had shown up the night of Damien's burial — and kept showing up ever since.
He pushed himself upright with a growl, his bare feet hitting the polished hardwood of his now fully furnished home.
The once-cold, echoing space was now lined with rich, navy walls and minimal but expensive furniture — leather, steel, and glass.
The fireplace hadn't been lit in months. The air was cold, but not from the temperature. From the grief that still lived in the walls.
He moved to the door, his heart hammering between fury and fatigue. His hand paused on the knob for just a second.
Then he flung it open.
"I was hoping that after all this time, you'd finally understand that I don't want to talk to you, Mom." Sebastian snapped.
