Chapter 2 - Vintage Wine and Broken Glass
Inside the dimly lit sanctuary of *Alinea*, the world moved at a languid, decadent pace. Soft jazz floated through the discreetly spaced dining nooks, and the temperature was curated to perfection. Sebastian Sterling leaned back into his velvet banquette, admiring the amber reflections of the chandelier dancing in his wineglass. He felt invincible.
Across the table, Vanessa Albright rested her chin on her manicured hand, her lips curved into an intoxicating, predatory smile. She was twenty-four, radiant, and possessed an ambition that mirrored his own.
"You’re distracted tonight, Sebastian," Vanessa purred, her foot trailing up his calf beneath the table. "That’s three times you’ve flipped your phone over. If your little domestic bird is having a crisis because the nursery wallpaper doesn't match the trim, just tell her to call the decorator."
Sebastian chuckled, taking a slow sip of the $2,000-a-bottle Bordeaux. "Elena worries. It’s what she does. She lacks the stomach for the pressure of our lifestyle. She thinks a slight cramp requires an entire medical squadron. If I answered every time she panicked, I’d never close a round of funding."
"Well, you’re here with me now," Vanessa murmured, leaning forward so the neckline of her emerald slip dress dipped alluringly. "And tonight, we’re celebrating *our* future. Sterling Holdings is going public next month. You promised me the South Beach penthouse as a closing gift."
"Consider it done," Sebastian said smoothly, basking in the intoxicating cocktail of power, ego, and alcohol.
He didn't mention that Sterling Holdings was built upon the backbone of the Vance Family Trust—Elena’s dynastic inheritance. He didn't mention that the very seat he occupied as CEO was secured by his father-in-law’s legacy. In Sebastian’s mind, he was the sole architect of his glory. Elena was merely the quiet, pleasant woman who kept his house in order and carried his heir.
His phone buzzed against the dark wood of the table. A low, persistent vibration.
Sebastian glanced down, his irritation flaring. The screen illuminated with Elena’s contact photo—a picture taken two years ago on their sailboat in Nantucket, her hair windblown, smiling with unconditional adoration.
*18th Missed Call.*
"Good God," he muttered under his breath, swiping to ignore it once more. "She has zero sense of timing."
"Let it ring, darling," Vanessa whispered, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. "Order the soufflé. We have the rest of the night."
For the next forty-five minutes, Sebastian indulged. He laughed, he tasted artisanal delicacies, he signed the astronomical bill without looking at the total, and he enjoyed the admiring glances cast his way by the restaurant's affluent patrons. He was Sebastian Sterling: young, brilliant, untouchable.
It was nearly midnight when they stepped out into the crisp, rain-slicked Chicago air. The valet brought around his silver Porsche 911. After kissing Vanessa deeply and ushering her into a waiting town car—propriety still demanded some discretion in public—Sebastian slipped into the driver’s seat.
He unbuttoned his collar, feeling the heavy buzz of the wine coursing through his veins. Glancing at the dashboard console, he saw the blinking red indicator: twenty missed calls from Elena, four from Nora, and two from unknown landlines.
A faint prickle of unease finally penetrated his arrogance. Nora never called him. Nora detested him, a feeling that was entirely mutual.
Sebastian scoffed, shaking his head. "They're staging an intervention because I missed dinner," he muttered aloud, dialing Elena’s number. He prepared his voice, dialing up the perfect blend of patronizing concern and sharp authority. He would tell her that a multi-million-dollar deal had run late. He would sigh heavily, make her feel guilty for suffocating him, and by tomorrow morning, she would be apologizing to him with breakfast in bed.
The call connected.
One ring. Two rings.
Click.
"Elena, look, before you start crying," Sebastian began, rolling his eyes as he pulled the sports car out into the street, "I was in an executive meeting with the Japanese syndicate. You know how crucial this merger is. You cannot keep blowing up my phone like an insecure child every time you feel a—"
"Mr. Sterling."
The voice was not Elena’s. It was deep, baritone, razor-sharp, and icy enough to freeze the blood in Sebastian’s veins.
Sebastian pressed the brakes hard, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt. "Who the hell is this? Where is my wife? Put Elena on the phone."
"Mrs. Sterling is currently sedated under medical supervision," the voice replied calmly. "And she will not be speaking to you tonight. Nor tomorrow. Nor, I suspect, ever again."
Sebastian’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. "Who do you think you are? If this is a doctor, you have no right to withhold my wife's condition. I am her husband!"
"My name is Julian Cross," the voice said, each syllable falling like a granite slab. "I am Senior Partner at Cross, Kensington & Vance. And as of forty-five minutes ago, I am your wife's sole legal representative."
Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat. Julian Cross? The legal shark who hadn't taken a private domestic case in two decades?
"What... what are you talking about?" Sebastian stammered, the alcohol in his blood suddenly evaporating, replaced by a surge of pure adrenaline. "What happened to Elena? Is the baby okay?"
There was a profound, suffocating silence on the other end of the line. When Julian Cross spoke again, his voice was stripped of all professional detachment, vibrating with a disgust so absolute it felt physical.
"Your child died at eight-fifteen this evening, Mr. Sterling. While you were dining on truffles and vintage merlot with Miss Albright at Alinea."
Sebastian froze. The interior of the Porsche seemed to contract, crushing the air from his lungs. "No... that’s... that’s impossible. She was fine this morning. She was just tired—"
"Your wife went into acute placental abruption at six o'clock," Cross continued, unrelenting. "She bled profusely on your living room floor. She crawled to her phone. She called you nineteen times begging for help while she was losing your son. When the paramedics finally breached the door, her systolic pressure was sixty. She nearly died on the operating table, Sebastian."
"My son..." Sebastian choked out, his vision blurring as a cold, sickening wave of nausea hit him. "She... we lost the boy?"
"You didn't lose him," Cross corrected mercilessly. "You abandoned him. Just as you abandoned your wife. And now, the bill has come due."
"Put her on the phone!" Sebastian roared, panic completely shattering his composure. "Elena! Elena, answer me! Julian, let me speak to my wife right now!"
"You no longer have a wife," Julian Cross said smoothly. "You have an adversary. By court order filed electronically thirty minutes ago under emergency spousal protection statutes, a temporary restraining order has been granted. You are barred from coming within one thousand feet of Mrs. Sterling. You are barred from entering the Gold Coast residence. And, Mr. Sterling?"
Cross paused, allowing the silence to stretch until Sebastian could hear his own frantic heartbeat hammering in his ears.
"Check your corporate email. You’re going to find tomorrow morning's board meeting significantly more challenging than you anticipated. Do not call this number again."
The line went dead.
May you like
Sebastian sat in the idling car, the silence rushing back in to suffocate him. In his trembling hand, the phone slipped from his fingers, crashing into the center console, its screen spider-webbing into a hundred fractured pieces.
***
