Sebestian’s pov

My phone buzzed.

Klaus.

No trace. Whoever sent the photo knew what they were doing. Covered every track.

I read it once. Then again. Then a third time like some kind of idiot who thought the words might rearrange themselves into something less shitty.

My jaw clenched so hard I tasted copper. Might’ve been grinding my teeth. Again. The dentist told me I’d crack a molar if I kept it up.

I didn’t care.

Of course they covered their tracks. Whoever this was,they weren’t stupid. They wanted me rattled.

And fuck, it was working.

I texted back: keep searching. there should be a loophole.

I set the phone down,no, I practically slammed it. The crack against the desk was too loud, too aggressive, and I winced at my own reaction.

Great. Now I’m the guy who takes his problems out on furniture.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until I saw spots. Just long enough to pretend I had my shit together.

I didn’t.

The hour wasn’t helping. That dead zone between night and morning where everything feels thin and exposed and your brain decides to remind you of every mistake you’ve ever made.

The penthouse felt wrong.

Not loud. Just… off. Like someone had moved all my furniture two inches to the left while I wasn’t looking.

And I knew exactly why.

Her.

By the time I dragged myself into the kitchen, I was already annoyed at nothing and everything.

There was a mug on the counter. One I didn’t put there.

The faint smell of vanilla,too sweet, too warm.

The fridge door hanging open just a crack.

Three small things that shouldn’t have mattered.

They mattered.

I shut the fridge harder than necessary, then felt stupid about it. It’s a fridge. Get a grip.

But I couldn’t. Everything felt like it was tilting slightly out of alignment, and I didn’t know how to fix it without looking like a complete control freak.

Which I was. But still.

“Sorry,didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her voice drifted in, soft and scratchy with sleep, and I hated how my chest tightened at the sound.

She stood near the window in bare feet, swimming in an oversized sweatshirt, hair wild like she’d just rolled out of bed. Which she had. In my space.

And somehow she looked like she belonged here.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” I said. Too fast. Too defensive.

She raised an eyebrow, and I could see the smirk forming. “Yeah, you look like someone who gets a solid eight hours.”

“I don’t.”

“Shocking.”

There was something annoyingly amused in her tone. Like she enjoyed needling me without quite crossing the line.

It should’ve pissed me off.

It did piss me off.

But also… didn’t?

God, I was losing it.

“I made coffee,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the machine. “Or,I tried. It made this horrible wheezing sound and I panicked. So, um… sorry if I broke your fancy spaceship coffee maker.”

“You can’t break it,” I muttered, moving past her to fix whatever she’d done.

Her shoulder brushed my arm,barely, just a whisper of contact,and my whole body went rigid.

Immediate. Involuntary. Pathetic.

She noticed. Of course she did.

She pulled back like she’d touched a live wire. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The words came out clipped. Harsh.

Not fine. Nothing about this was fine.

Her eyes found mine,soft, careful, reading me like I was some kind of puzzle. “You really don’t like people touching your stuff, huh?”

“It’s not about liking,” I said, and winced at how petulant I sounded. “It’s about… order.”

“And you’re very attached to your order.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she was right and I hated it.

I fixed the machine,three buttons she’d somehow managed to press simultaneously,and poured her a mug. Handed it over without looking at her.

She took a sip and grimaced. “Oh,wow. Okay. That’s… that’s aggressive.”

“You made it.”

“Because your machine has seventeen buttons. Why does coffee need seventeen buttons? That’s not a coffee maker, that’s a control panel for a nuclear submarine.”

The corner of my mouth twitched.

I caught it. Forced it down. Took a drink of my own coffee to hide behind.

She set her mug down, fingers drumming against the ceramic. Anxious. Or thinking. Maybe both.

“So,” she said after a beat, “are there house rules? Since we’re… you know. Living together now.”

The words hung there, awkward and too real.

“No rules,” I said. Then immediately: “Just don’t go in my office. Or the study.”

She blinked. “You have two off-limits rooms? Wow. I really married someone with secrets.”

“They’re not,” I stopped. Exhaled through my nose. “They’re private.”

“Okay.”

One word. Simple. But I could hear the question underneath it.

She pushed her hair behind her ear,a nervous habit I’d already started to recognize,and looked at me with something too close to understanding.

“You know… you don’t have to act like I’m going to destroy your entire life in one morning.”

“You already have.”

It slipped out.

Raw. Honest. Stupid.

Her lips parted, surprise flickering across her face.

I turned and walked away before she could say anything. Before I could say anything worse.

By noon, the penthouse didn’t look like mine anymore.

A book lay open on the couch. Pages down. Spine cracked. The kind of thing that made my eye twitch.

A pale blue sweater draped over the back of the chair,casually, like it had always been there.

Her bag tucked near the stairs like she’d lived here for years.

I should’ve said something. Asked her to move them. Explained that things had places.

I didn’t.

Instead I just… stood there. Watching her unpack like some creep.

She hummed while she worked,off-key, unconscious, completely unselfconscious. Some tune I didn’t recognize.

She placed things on surfaces I’d kept empty for years. Small, worn things that looked loved and used and alive.

My chest felt tight.

Then I saw it.

A plant.

A small, leafy green thing sitting on my shelf.

On. My. Shelf.

The shelf I’d specifically designed in shades of black and steel and deliberate emptiness.

I stared at it like it had personally insulted my mother.

I waited till Hannah left the room Then,and I’m not proud of this,I picked it up and moved it three inches to the right.

There. Better.

Symmetrical. Balanced. Correct.

A minute later, Hannah walked back in, glanced at the shelf, and froze.

“Huh,” she said slowly. “I could’ve sworn I put that in the center.”

“You did,” I said.

She turned to look at me. “So you… moved it?”

“It wasn’t centered.”

“It absolutely was.”

“It wasn’t, Hannah.”

She stared at me. I stared back.

Then,and this is where I should’ve let it go,she reached out and moved it back to the center.

Deliberately. Slowly. Eyes locked on mine the whole time.

Challenge accepted.

The second she left the room, I moved it again.

Footsteps behind me.

“Are you kidding me?”

I didn’t turn around. “I prefer symmetry.”

“This IS symmetrical!”

“It wasn’t.”

“Sebastian.” Her voice had that edge to it,half exasperated, half amused. “Move. It. Back.”

“No.”

“Sebastian,”

“No.”

She stepped forward, reached out, and dramatically shoved the plant back to dead center. Then crossed her arms like she’d just planted a flag on conquered territory.

I moved it again.

Immediately.

“Oh my God,” she said, and I heard the laugh trapped behind her teeth. “You’re actually insane.”

“It’s my shelf,” I said, which sounded petty even as it left my mouth.

“It’s a plant.”

“It’s a living organism that requires maintenance in a space designed for inanimate objects.”

“You mean it needs sunlight and water? The horror.”

“I’m not watering something.”

“God forbid you show a plant basic kindness.”

“I don’t have to be kind to plants,” I muttered, and realized too late how ridiculous I sounded.

She laughed. Really laughed. Head back, unguarded, genuine.

She shook her head, still grinning. “You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care about anything, you’re really territorial over shelf placement.”

“It’s not territorial,” I said. Defensive. Again. “It’s order. Structure. Things have places.”

“It looked dead in here.”

“It looked intentional.”

“Yeah. Intentionally depressing.”

We stared at each other.

And for one stupid, disorienting second, I almost smiled.

Almost.

I caught it, crushed it, turned away before she could see.

“This isn’t going to work,” I muttered.

“Great start to a marriage,” she shot back, but there was warmth in it. No anger. Just wry humor.

My phone buzzed.

Klaus.

Finally.

I practically fled to the other room, putting distance between me and whatever the hell that moment was.

“What did you find?” I asked, harsher than intended.

Silence. Too long.

“Klaus.”

He exhaled,low, strained, wrong. “Sebastian… you’re not going to like this.”

My stomach dropped. “When do I ever like anything you tell me? Just say it.”

“I traced the message. The reroute originated from a private server registered under the name Marcus Wolfe.”

Everything stopped.

My breath.

My thoughts.

The world.

“…What?”

“I triple-checked it,” Klaus said quickly. “Same birth year. Same hospital. Same last name. Sebastian, I think,”

“Don’t.”

“,this man is related to you.”

The phone nearly slipped from my hand. I had to brace against the wall.

“No.”

It came out strangled. Desperate.

“Seb,”

“No.” Louder. Sharper. “That’s not possible.”

“The data doesn’t lie.”

“My father would’ve,”

I stopped. Because even as I said it, I knew.

Richard Wolfe didn’t tell me anything.

Not about business.

Not about the past.

Not about family.

And suddenly it wasn’t impossible.

It was inevitable.

“Klaus,” I said, and my voice sounded hollow. “Are you telling me my father had another son?”

“Yeah. Looks that way.”

I laughed. Ugly. Bitter. Wrong.

“Of course he did.”

My fingers pressed against my temple where a headache was building. I never got headaches.

This wasn’t happening.

Except it was.

“So whoever sent that photo…” I said slowly, each word dragged out like broken glass. “…might be my brother.”

“Or someone using his identity. Either way,”

“It’s not random.”

“No.”

I wanted to break something. Scream. Punch a wall like some cliché.

Instead I just stood there, phone pressed to my ear, feeling like the ground had opened up beneath me.

“Sebastian.” Klaus’s voice gentled. “What do you want me to do?”

I didn’t know.

I want this to be wrong.

I want the file to be a mistake.

I want to not feel this burn under my ribs,anger and betrayal and something horribly close to grief for something I never even knew I’d lost.

But mostly?

I want control back.

“Find him,” I said finally. Low. Dangerous. “Find everything. I don’t care what it takes.”

I hung up before he could respond.

Stood there in the silence.

And realized my hands were shaking.