He left before they could see the disgust settling into his face.
Down the hall, in the estate’s oversized kitchen, Elena Morales was rinsing crystal flutes. Sleeves rolled. Hair tied back. Focused.
She didn’t flinch when Sebastian entered.
“Sir,” she said evenly.
Not warm. Not submissive. Just professional.
Sebastian hesitated. His world ran on contracts and leverage, not apologies.
“I owe you one,” he said finally.
Elena turned off the faucet. “For what?”
“For letting them speak about you like you were invisible.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Apologies are easy, Mr. Cole. Patterns are harder.”
The words hit.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m trying to break one.”
She waited.
“My annual gala is in two weeks,” he continued. “I’d like you to come.”
“As staff?” she asked.
“No.” He forced himself to hold her gaze. “As my guest.”
Silence.
“Why?” she asked.
Sebastian exhaled. “There was a bet.”
Her face went still.
“So I’m entertainment,” she said softly.
“No.”
“But that’s what they want.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “And I want to flip the arena.”
Elena studied him. “Do you want to win the bet?”
“I want to destroy it.”
A beat.
“Two conditions,” she said.
“Name them.”