Chapter 3 SEBASTIAN

I wake up, jerking slightly at the sharp sting on my neck. My breath catches, irritated, as I drag my nails over the spot until it almost hurts more than the itch.

My eyes open properly. The room is dark and cold. It hits me all at once that I'm still in the cell. I let out a sharp curse under my breath, sitting up so fast that my neck cracks. My shirt is wrinkled, my skin uncomfortable. The air itself feels filthy clinging to me.

I slept here. In this. And no one came for me.

My jaw locks. "Hey!" My voice bounces off the walls. "Hey!"

I step forward and slam my palm against the bars hard enough that the sting travels up my arm. "Open the damn door!"

It is a while before I hear unhurried footsteps approaching. I straighten immediately, expectation falling into place. Finally, my parents or someone who actually matters in this situation.

The figure appears, but it isn't them. It's the driver, not even surprised to see me here. His expression is neutral like this is just another errand on a list my parents wrote.

My throat tightens, but I don't speak. The moment the cell door opens, I walk out fast. I just want out into the air and a shower hot enough to burn this night off my skin.

Outside, the brightness hits me first before the noise. Too many flashes and voices at once.

"Sebastian! Over here!"

"Is it true your parents got you arrested?"

What the hell?

"Do you have any comments on--"

Cameras explode in my face. I push through them, my eyes forward, pretending if I don't acknowledge any of it, it won't exist. The car is there waiting. The door shuts behind me before the driver slides into the seat and glances at me briefly.

"Are you okay, Bash?"

I let out a breath that's more irritation than answer. "Do I look okay?" I snap. "Just drive."

He doesn't argue. The engine starts and we move. I stare out the window the entire ride, my jaw clenched so tight that it almost crushes.

The house comes into view soon. I get out before he parks properly, walk inside and shut the door too hard. Inside, silence greets me for half a second before I break it with my steps heading straight for the stairs. I don't make it.

"Sebastian."

I stop and turn. My parents are in the living room perfectly placed. Of course they have been waiting there on purpose. Behind them, the television is on, and my face is on it. The headline crawls across the screen.

"Whitlock heir spends the night in a cell. Are his parents finally taking the steps necessary to give him a moral direction?"

Ridiculous.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" My mother's voice is controlled, but her expression isn't.

"If you hadn't left me to sleep in a jail cell, this wouldn't have happened," I shoot back. My father turns to me slowly, giving me that warning look that comes before a reprimand. "It's not that serious. It will blow over soon."

"Not that serious?" he repeats. "Maybe we should have left you in there for more than a night."

"I just got into a stupid fight, okay? I've been in worse situations."

My mother's composure cracks. "This isn't just about last night," she says. "This is about everything else you have become. The reports from your school, the incidents, the warnings... the fact that you were one step away from expulsion right before graduation if we hadn't intervened!"

I don't respond to that.

"You have been spiraling for months now," my father adds. "And I think it's time we took serious action on you. If you can't listen to us, we will make you because we can't just sit back and watch you self destruct." He adds with finality, "You will be spending your summer in a facility to reflect on your behavior."

"What?" I let out a quiet breath, every hair in my body rising. "You can't be serious. Mom?" I call out, turning to her.

My mother doesn't even flinch. "We are past the point of negotiation, Sebastian," she says. "You have made it very clear that you are not willing to change on your own. This is what we have decided."

I straighten, letting out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Seriously?" I turn to my father, the humor dropping immediately. "Dad, please."

"You leave us no choice but to try and contain the mess you have created before it gets worse," he says stiffly.

"Contain," I repeat. "Right. Because that's all this is to you, isn't it? I am something to clean up."

"If you didn't drag it this far, we wouldn't have to."

I look between them, my chest tightening. "Please," I plead, knowing there is no other way out of this. "I'll do anything. Just don't send me to rehab. Please!"

They exchange a look, a silent conversation I'm not part of. I'm not sure how much time passes before my mother asks, "Anything?"

"Yes," I say too quickly without thinking.

"Sit down," my father says.

I don't argue. I sit on the edge of a couch, desperately enough to convince.

"Everything you have done has made you look bad, which reflects on us," Mom says. "Now you will correct that. You will give the public something else to focus on. Something better."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

"It means you will become someone they want to believe in. You will present yourself as composed, respectful, admirable... a model young man."

I stare at her. "You want me to pretend."

"I want you to perform."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Romance. You are going to fall in love."

I blink, "Excuse me?"

"People are drawn to stories, especially ones they can invest in. You will give them one."

"Mom, I don't have a relationship," I say, shaking my head. "And I'm not interested in one."

"It's this or the facility," she says. "With all privileges revoked."

The choice isn't a choice. They have already written the whole script. Again.

"Fine," I say, my jaw tight. "I don't suppose you already have someone lined up to play partner with me."

It's meant to be sarcasm, a way to push back but it dies the second I see their expressions.

My mother turns to the driver. "Bring him in now."

My attention shifts to the door expecting someone polished from the high society, perhaps even a girl because I'm not entirely convinced they are okay with me being gay. It wouldn't surprise me they want that perfect romance image to entice the society.

The door opens, a guy walks in after the driver. The moment he looks up, I freeze.

It's him, the trespasser from yesterday. He looks exactly the same; cheaply dressed, relaxed, unbothered... completely out of place. He can't be the one they want me to date, right?

I'm on my feet before I even realize I have moved. "Oh, hell no!"