Three years ago…
Elizabeth
I woke up the next morning to find Sebastian standing at the foot of the bed.
A clean white towel was wrapped low around his waist, his upper body bare and slick from a recent shower. Dark hair damp, tattoos gleaming against his skin, he smelled faintly of crisp cologne and aftershave — a scent that somehow felt like him.
It took a few blinks for my foggy brain to process that I was lying in his bed.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes, half expecting him to vanish like a dream.
No. He was very much there.
When had I fallen asleep in here? I was supposed to go home last night, not spend the night at his place.
This is new.
"Good morning, Mr. Jakub," I yawned.
He didn't answer. His silence felt weighted, like a verdict, and I instantly assumed it meant he was displeased — maybe because I'd invaded his space.
I scratched the back of my head, scrambling for an excuse.
"Oh, please don't give me that look, sir. I'm sorry I mistakenly fell asleep in your room. It wasn't intentional and I swear I kept my boundaries. I didn't do anything… didn't take advantage of the moment." The words spilled out in a rush, as if I were standing before a firing squad.
Still silent.
Why was he staring at me like that? Was there something on my face?
I touched my cheeks, adjusted my headscarf.
Nothing was out of place.
But his eyes… they burned like coals.
Had I done something wrong? All I did was help him last night, and then — accidentally — fall asleep here.
Finally, in a low, warm voice, he said, "Good morning, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth?
That was the first time he had ever called me by my name. Hearing it in his Polish accent did strange things to me.
What happened to the Ms. Holy he'd been calling me for three years? That nickname, a jab at my religious devotion, had been his way of teasing — or maybe mocking — me.
I shifted on the bed, quietly pushing the covers aside, ready to escape. "Um… Mr. Jakub—"
"Sebastian," he cut in firmly, correcting me.
I tried again. "Well, Mr. Jakub, I—"
"Sebastian," he repeated, slower this time, as if daring me to defy him.
I stared at him, half-expecting this to be a joke. It wasn't.
He really wanted me to address him by his first name? That was… odd. Especially since he was my boss. What would the other staff think?
But if that was what he wanted… fine.
He disappeared into the room at the corner — his walk-in closet.
I swung my legs over the bed and grabbed my tote bag from the floor, fishing for my phone.
Holy Mother of Jesus!
Ten missed calls from Natasha. Five from Bianca.
I hadn't told either of them about last night. Heck, I hadn't planned last night.
Then my gaze caught the time: 9:15 a.m.
"Jesus Christ…" Today was cursed.
I was supposed to pick up my other boss — Sharon — from the airport at 7:00 a.m. Two hours late.
Frantically, I searched for missed calls or texts from her. Nothing.
My pulse hammered. Slinging my tote bag over my shoulder, I made for the door — only for Sebastian to step out of the closet, now fully dressed in brown chinos and a navy polo. His dark hair was neatly braided and tied back.
Sometimes I wondered if he secretly had a hair stylist's training. Was there anything he wasn't good at?
He looked unfairly handsome, but now was not the time to notice.
"Where are you going?" His voice was low, calm — deceptively calm.
That was a ridiculous question. This wasn't my house.
"To my residence, of course—" I stopped short. "I mean… to work."
"Which one?"
Was he serious? He moved in front of me, blocking my way.
I glared at him. Psychopath. He was wasting my time.
"My morning routine," I said as evenly as possible.
He tucked his hands into his pockets, his brown eyes boring into mine.
"The one where you dress as a man to deceive my sister?"
The words hit me like a punch.
"How…?"
"Or the one where you lied about your first name being your father's?"
Speechless. Completely exposed.
I opened my mouth, closed it again. Nothing came out.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you scheming, Elizabeth?"
"Scheming? Nothing!" I forced a laugh. It fell flat.
"You can fool everyone else — my mom, my sister, my family — but not me. For someone so… holy to stoop to lies and pretenses? It's hypocrisy. Or don't they teach you that in your church?"
That stung. "Sebastian, yes, I've faked my identity at times — for my own reasons. You're not in the position to judge me. I've never used it to harm you or your family."
"Do you hear yourself?" His voice edged sharper. "You pretended to be the man who picked me up at the airport three years ago. You played chauffeur to my sister — to my mother. Don't tell me that wasn't with some hidden intent."
Anger flared in me. "You're crossing a line. You don't get to accuse me without proof."
"What are your reasons then?" He planted his hands on his hips. "Because I doubt they're noble."
He wasn't wrong — my reasons weren't easily defensible. I disguised myself partly to protect my faith, partly to hide my beauty from prying eyes. But I couldn't tell him that.
"You wouldn't understand."
His eyebrow rose. "I understand perfectly. You killed someone and now you're hiding from the FBI."
"What?!"
"Then what's the truth?" He stepped closer. "You're a man by day, a woman by night. Strange. I can't trust you."
"Stop accusing me! I hate accusations—"
"Who doesn't? But your lifestyle invites them!"
"Oh, please." My temper snapped. "Between the two of us, who's living the bigger lie? You — the notorious, wayward man pretending to be respectable — or me, living quietly? Difference is clear."
His jaw tightened. "Watch your words. I'm ten years older than you. And I'm dangerous."
I laughed bitterly. "Oh, I know. But you need someone to tell you the truth. You think you're the only one who can dig into people's pasts? I know what you are — violent, brutal, hiding from the spotlight. People like you are worse than fugitives. You're—"
"Elizabeth!" His hand shot up mid-air.
I froze, bracing for a slap. It never came.
I opened one eye to find him fuming, his chest rising and falling hard. Maybe I'd gone too far. Maybe I'd said too much.
And then, in a voice like ice, he said, "You're fired."
"What?"
No warning. No discussion. Just like that.
Fine. I quit.
Without a word, I grabbed my bag and walked out, leaving him — and the storm between us — behind.