After all, wasn’t it obvious that he loved her? It was in everything he’d done, everything he was. Chelsea was the inspiration of all his sketches. She was in his dreams at night, in his daydreams during idle times, and he lived for the sound of her laughter. He’d have done anything for her.

And she’d left him. With no explanation, and a simple refusal to talk.

That refusal wounded him more than anything else. That no matter what they had, there was no trust. No friendship. No love.

It had all been on his side, and it apparently didn’t matter to her. Agonized, he buried his head in his hands and remained at the top of the stairs for what felt like hours. Every bone in his body wanted to go after Chelsea. The only thing stopping him was that she’d made it quite clear that she was done, and she didn’t want any more. She didn’t want anything to do with him.

And he loved her so much it hurt.

Staggering to his feet, he realized that at some point, it had become night. He’d been sitting on the stairs for hours, gazing off at nothing. Thinking of Chelsea and how he’d lost her . . . without even knowing what he did wrong. Was there someone else? God, the thought was like a knife in the gut. Was it that she was better now? Had Sebastian “fixed” her so she could go back to someone else?

Fuck, he needed a drink.

He slammed down the stairs, heading for the bar in his formal dining room. Neither one saw much use, because Chelsea didn’t drink, so he abstained as well. Now? Fuck it. He was going to get rip-roaring drunk and wash the pain away with some Maker’s Mark. He opened the bottle and skipped the glass and drank straight from the neck. Two swigs of burning whisky later, he turned and glared at the room. Address labels were neatly stacked on one end of the table for Chelsea’s business. With another angry swig, he shoved the papers to the floor.

And then he felt like a petulant little boy. With a sigh, he set the bottle down and carefully picked up the papers. Fuck. Just . . . fuck.

He drank and moped for most of the evening. He left the dining room and went to the living room instead. The Notebook was still sitting on top of the Blu-ray player, and he turned it on. His jaw clenched and he drank more whisky and watched the shittiest, least manly movie ever, because it made him think of Chelsea.

And he wanted to be with her in spirit, if not in person.

Chapter Twenty-four

Something banged loudly, startling Sebastian awake.

He lifted his head, peering around. The Notebook’s DVD menu was looping on the TV. He was sprawled facedown on the couch, and he’d left a puddle of drool on the designer leather. The bottle of whisky was on the coffee table, only a sip left.

He grabbed it and drank the rest of it down anyhow. Fuck it.

The banging returned, and Sebastian sat up. Someone was banging at the front door.

Chelsea?

Staggering, Sebastian wobbled toward the door. Sunlight was flooding in from the windows, and his head throbbed. His mouth felt like he’d been licking garbage all night. He made it to the front door and pressed his hands against the heavy wood, then gazed out the peephole.

Rufus stood on the stoop, a disapproving look on his big, heavy features.

Fuck. Not Chelsea. He opened the door a crack and winced at the sunlight, his eyes mere slits. “She’s not here anymore. I’ll have my lawyer cut you a final check. Thanks for your services.”

The man’s heavy brows raised. “She left you?”

A bitter smile curved over Sebastian’s mouth. “Guess so, huh? Lucky fucking me.”

Rufus just tilted his head. “This have something to do with her meeting your mother yesterday?”

Sebastian stilled. The taste of vomit filled his mouth, and he had to fight down bile. “She . . . what?” The words were gritted out of his throat.

“She met your mother at a restaurant. Your mother was incognito. Hat and sunglasses. No camera. They talked for . . .” He paused and flipped through a tiny notebook. “Seven minutes. Then Chelsea left and came home. She didn’t seem happy.”

His damn mother. He was going to wring Mama Precious’s plastic-surgery-sculpted neck. God damn her for interfering. Of course it had something to do with her. He’d been so stupid to not see it early. “I take it back,” Sebastian said thickly. “You’re still on the payroll. Consider yourself on vacation until I call you again.”

Rufus nodded. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Muzzle my mother so she never says another word? “I’m good.”

He wasn’t really. Nothing in Sebastian’s life qualified as “good” at the moment.

But he was going to fucking fix it, so help him. And he was going to start with his interfering mother.

*   *   *

By the time Sebastian had showered and dressed, his hangover was mostly gone. He didn’t bother to wait for his driver to arrive, but instead took a taxi to his mother’s building. The anger he’d been sitting on was slowly building, until Sebastian felt as if he’d erupt the moment he saw her.

If she’d hurt Chelsea somehow, he didn’t know how he was going to act. He tolerated his mother’s strangeness because she was family and he loved his father and his siblings. But the more entrenched his mother became in her show, the less he liked her.

This could break their relationship entirely. He didn’t care that his ancient father still adored his much-younger and fame-obsessed wife. If his mother had caused him to lose Chelsea for good, he was going to lose his shit. He really, really was.

Sebastian slammed into his mother’s penthouse, not bothering to knock. He ignored the “FILMING—QUIET!” sign on the door and stormed in. “Mother? We need to talk. Now.”

His mother looked up from getting her nails done. Her friend Betty was seated next to her, and a manicurist sat between them, a case of nail polish bottles in front of her. Cameras filmed them as they sat on the sofas, no doubt dishing gossip about someone who had pissed them off lately.

And it had better not be Chelsea, or he was going to be guilty of suing his own mother.

Mrs. Cabral pulled her hand away from the manicurist and blew on them. “Nugget, we’re filming. This is going to have to wait—”

“It’s not going to wait. I need to know what the fuck you said to my wife.” His nostrils flared with anger, and it took everything Sebastian had not to launch himself at her and shake the truth out of her.

She paled. Looking away, she waved her hands at the cameras. “Stop filming. Stop. Let me up.” She detangled herself from the deep sofa and both Betty and the nail lady moved out of her way. Mrs. Cabral stood, straightened her white pantsuit, and then headed out of the living room area and waved for Sebastian to follow her. Still seething with rage, he did so.

Instead of heading for the kitchen, she headed into his father’s study and shut the doors behind them. “Listen, Nugget, I know you’re mad—”

“You cannot even begin to know how mad I am,” he said, voice hoarse. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What the hell did you say to my wife?”

She gave him a cool look. “Did she not tell you? She’s not good for you, darling. Between encouraging your doodling and then this newest, I really don’t think—”

“I don’t give a shit what you think, Mother. I love her. I love her and I want her in my life. Now tell me what you’ve done before I lose my mind.”

“So she’s gone?”

“Left yesterday. Refused to tell me why. Says we’re done. I know you’re responsible. Now spit it out.”

“She’s not right for you, Nugget—”