Page 44 of His Obsession
17
VALENTINA
Sebastian’s house is obscene. I follow him up the curved staircase with my overnight bag bumping against my leg and my nerves stretched so thin they’re translucent. It’s not just beautiful, or elegant, or even impressive, though it’s all of those things. It feels less like a house and more like a Bond villain’s lair.
The floors gleam without a speck of dust. The lighting is soft and expensive, warming the glass and dark wood instead of leaving them cold. Somewhere deeper in the house, water runs continuously from a fountain or an infinity pool. Every inch of this place looks curated by a very expensive interior designer.
Then there’s the security. Cameras everywhere I look. I can only hope there aren’t any in the bathrooms. Being here makes me the rumors of his other endeavors seem like much more than just rumors.
Then I remember that Adrian had a lot of security too. Not this much, maybe, but plenty. There were always men guarding his townhouse in Manhattan, and he had a private elevator with a code that changed every twelve hours. When I first met him,he told me it was just because his family was rich. He failed to mention where their money actually came from.
It’s ironic how trapped security can make you feel. I learned firsthand how easy it is to feel unsafe in a place like that. Security guards are trained to look the other way and never question what their boss does to his girlfriend behind closed doors.
“Valentina?”
Sebastian’s voice reaches me from a step ahead, low and controlled, and I realize I’ve stopped moving.
I look up at him quickly. “I’m fine,” I say quietly.
I know he hears the lie in it. He studies my face for one quiet second, then turns and keeps walking like he knows now isn’t the time to pry.
The guest suite is at the far end of the upstairs hall. Private, separate, impossible to stumble on by accident. Sebastian opens the door and steps aside to let me in first. The room is just as beautiful as the rest of the house, in that detached, extravagant way.
There’s a private bathroom through an open archway, all stone and glass and towels folded with military precision. Fresh flowers sit on the dresser, which are not white orchids, thank God, and just flaunting pale garden roses in a low bowl.
“You’ll have privacy up here,” he says. “The door locks from the inside.”
That’s a relief, at least. I’m too tired to speak. After the fear of the break-in, I don’t have much left in me. All I want is to crash on the king-sized bed and sleep for hours.
“If you need anything,” he says, “call downstairs or call me.”
He’s standing in the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to crowd the room, which for a man his size is probably a genuine effort. He looks as tired as I feel. The last few hours have been hard on us both.
“Thanks for all this,” I say, almost reluctantly. “I would’ve been fine at Nico’s, but this works too.”
He nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He sets my bag by the luggage rack, gives the room one last scan, then leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
Once I’m alone, I let myself freak out. This is crazy. All of it. This morning, my biggest concern was how to tell Sebastian I’m pregnant. Now I’m staying in his house because my ex is hunting me.
Right on cue, my breathing goes shallow and I break out in a cold sweat. In the privacy of the guest room, I finally have to process what’s happening, and none of it is good. Adrian could be anywhere. He was in my home. He touched my things.
I force myself to sit on the bed and breathe deep, calming breaths. My therapist told me to ride out the panic attacks. Let them happen, but don’t give them fuel. As if the reality of my life isn’t panic-inducing enough.
When the attack finally passes, I get up and go to the bathroom. I open a drawer and find it stocked with miniature toiletries. Not drugstore brands, either. Luxury stuff. I pull out a sample of face wash and scrub off the morning. I’m clearly not going anywhere today. No reason to pretend I am.
I snoop around the space, but it tells me nothing about Sebastian. He’s rich, which I already knew. So rich he probably keeps someone on payroll just to stock his amenities and has no idea what’s actually in his guest rooms.
I sigh and accept the inevitable. I’m going to be here a while. I open my suitcase and start unpacking. It takes only a few minutes, and I’m left feeling listless. I slip the empty suitcase under the bed and decide to take a self-guided tour of the house.
It’s massive. My bedroom is in just one wing. Three other bedrooms share the hall, though they look just as impersonal. Clearly guest rooms.
I head down the closest staircase and find myself in the kitchen. It’s bigger than my entire apartment in New York and probably cost more than the whole building. All chrome surfaces and a massive gas range.
“Can I help you with something?”
I jump and turn to face a kind-looking woman in black pants and a polo.
“I’m just looking around,” I answer sheepishly.
