Chapter 8 - DINNER WITH THE ENEMY
Sebastian chose a restaurant with no harbor view.
I noticed.
Cambridge.
Small.
Italian.
No private room.
No Northbridge clients at the bar.
When I arrived, he was already there.
Of course.
He stood.
“Emily.”
“Sebastian.”
He looked different without the wedding disaster around him.
Less sharp.
Still controlled.
Dark suit, no tie.
No car waiting visibly outside.
I sat.
He did not pull out my chair.
Good.
“I almost canceled,” I said.
“I assumed.”
“Why?”
“You are sensible.”
“That is how Adrian justified everything.”
Sebastian’s face tightened.
“Then I retract.”
Good.
I almost smiled.
We ordered.
I paid attention to something ridiculous.
He did not order for me.
Adrian never had either, not really.
But after months of people deciding, ordinary choices felt loud.
“Why did you ask now?” I said.
“Because the trust matter is finished.”
“You still own Northbridge shares.”
“Yes.”
“Northbridge still holds Newport debt.”
“Yes.”
“So not completely finished.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“My direct role is finished. Hart does not need my vote, financing, documents, or cooperation.”
Good.
“You waited for me not to need you.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds noble.”
“It was partly self-protection.”
Better.
“How?”
“If you rejected me now, I can’t pretend it was because of business.”
I laughed.
“Honest.”
“I am trying.”
“What do you want?”
He took time.
“Dinner.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Later.”
His expression changed.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
“No fantasy?”
“I have several.”
I raised eyebrows.
He almost smiled.
“Most involve you choosing to see me again.”
“That is acceptable.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Too late.”
We ate.
For twenty minutes, no Adrian.
No trust.
I learned Sebastian grew up outside Providence.
His mother taught chemistry.
His father managed a regional bank and treated dinner like quarterly earnings.
Sebastian had one younger sister in Seattle who refused to speak to him about investments because he once suggested she refinance her mortgage during Christmas dinner.
“Reasonable boundary,” I said.
“She used stronger language.”
I liked his sister already.
“Why finance?”
“Because numbers seemed more honest than people.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
Good.
Then he asked about my work.
Not the Hart trust.
My actual work.
I told him about museum projects.
Historic-house funding.
The theater renovation in Boston I had spent two years rescuing from a board that wanted a glass lobby attached to an 1890 facade.
Sebastian listened.
Actually listened.
“What?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You know a lot about buildings.”
“Yes.”
“I realized I know almost nothing about what you did before Adrian.”
There.
Not “before the wedding.”
Before Adrian.
My life had existed before him too.
“Neither did most of his friends.”
Sebastian looked down.
“I was one once.”
“Best friend.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something the deposition didn’t.”
He took a breath.
“Adrian and I built a boat at seventeen.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“It sank.”
“Better.”
“His father made us recover every piece.”
“That sounds like Whitmore.”
“It was February.”
“Cruel.”
“Very.”
He smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“I loved him like a brother.”
That mattered.
“Do you still?”
Sebastian looked surprised.
“No.”
Too fast.
I waited.
He corrected.
“Some part probably does.”
Good.
“Hate is expensive when it lasts.”
“You spent years hating him.”
“Yes.”
“Because he blamed you for his father.”
“Partly.”
“And because?”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened.
“He knew I reported Jonathan for worker safety. He understood why eventually. But after Jonathan died, Adrian bought one of my father’s old bank debts and called it in.”
I stared.
“What?”
“My father had guaranteed a commercial loan. Adrian’s holding company acquired it.”
“Retaliation.”
“Yes.”
“Legal?”
“Yes.”
“Cruel?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“My father lost a property.”
“Home?”
“No. Office building.”
Still.
“Did Adrian admit why?”
“Not in writing.”
“But?”
“He told me, ‘Now you understand what evidence costs.’”
I closed eyes.
That sounded like a younger Adrian.
Angry.
Powerful.
Wrong.
“Did you retaliate?”
“Yes.”
“Northbridge bought Whitmore debt.”
“Partly because of market value.”
“And partly?”
“Because I wanted him to feel watched.”
There.
No saint.
“Then your rivalry fed itself.”
“For years.”
“Until my wedding.”
Sebastian looked at me.
“Until before.”
“When?”
“The Hart records.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized we were doing the same thing our fathers did.”
“What?”
“Using legitimate facts for private war.”
My chest tightened.
“You still didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
“So realization incomplete.”
“Yes.”
Good.
He took a drink.
“I’m not asking you to choose me because I am better than Adrian.”
“Good.”
“I have used leverage. I have bought debt knowing pressure would follow. I have waited for moments when someone else was weak.”
“Did you enjoy my wedding disaster helping your case?”
Sebastian looked down.
“For about thirty seconds.”
I appreciated the honesty even though it hurt.
“Then?”
“Then I watched you take off the ring.”
His eyes came back.
“And I felt ashamed that any part of me had been keeping score.”
Silence.
That was dangerous.
I looked at my plate.
“Do not say pretty things if they are not true.”
“I won’t.”
“Did you want Adrian to lose me?”
Sebastian took time.
“Before I knew you? Abstractly, yes.”
I laughed once.
“Terrible.”
“Yes.”
“After?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you were not a possession he could lose to me.”
There.
Good.
The check came.
He reached.
I put my card down.
Sebastian sighed.
“You were serious.”
“Yes.”
“Can I at least tip?”
“Half.”
“This is oppressive.”
“Survive.”
We split.
Outside, cold Boston wind cut through my coat.
Sebastian walked beside me.
No hand at my back.
No car door.
We reached my corner.
“My apartment is three blocks.”
“I know.”
I stopped.
His face changed.
“How?”
“Trust records had addresses.”
Wrong answer.
He saw.
“I have not used them.”
“Still.”
“You’re right.”
Good.
“I’ll stop here.”
“Thank you.”
He did.
Then:
“May I ask again?”
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Not yet.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I walked three steps.
Then turned.
“Saturday.”
His expression changed.
“Dinner?”
“Coffee.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Daytime.”
“Yes.”
“No finance.”
“That may kill me.”
“Character building.”
He laughed.
I walked away.
At home, Hannah called before I removed my coat.
“Well?”
“How do you know it ended?”
“You share location.”
Right.
“Fine.”
“Did you kiss him?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
I sat.
That question deserved honesty.
“A little.”
She screamed.
“Stop.”
“Enemy!”
“He is not my enemy.”
“Adrian’s.”
I closed my eyes.
There.
The title others would put on it.
The rival.
The revenge date.
The man my ex-fiancé hated most.
I hated that frame.
Because it still made Adrian the center of my choice.
“No,” I said.
Hannah stopped.
“What?”
“If I see Sebastian, it is not because Adrian hates him.”
“Okay.”
“I will not become a line in their rivalry.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She softened.
“Then if you keep seeing him, make sure Sebastian knows too.”
Good.
Saturday coffee became lunch.
Lunch became a walk.
No kiss.
Three weeks later, another dinner.
No trust.
No Adrian for most of it.
At the end, Sebastian asked:
“May I kiss you?”
I stared.
He looked nervous.
Good.
“No.”
His face did not fall much.
“Okay.”
I smiled.
“Ask me next time.”
He laughed.
“That feels unnecessarily cruel.”
“Yes.”
Next time was two weeks later.
He asked.
I said yes.
The kiss was warm.
Brief.
Mine.
When I stepped back, Sebastian did not look triumphant.
Thank God.
He said:
“Do you want me to call tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Specific time?”
“After ten.”
“Why?”
“I sleep on Sundays.”
“Noted.”
He left.
I went upstairs and did not compare the kiss to Adrian.
Not immediately.
That was progress too.
The next morning, though, my phone held one message from Adrian.
Not angry.
Not accusatory.
Just:
I HEARD YOU’RE SEEING VALE.
I WILL NOT INTERFERE.
IF YOU EVER NEED FACTUAL INFORMATION ABOUT HIM THAT AFFECTS YOUR SAFETY, ASK ME.
OTHERWISE IT IS NONE OF MY BUSINESS.
I stared.
Then replied:
THANK YOU.
It was the first message between us in three months.
And somehow, Adrian’s restraint made my choice feel even more clearly mine.
Over the next month, Sebastian and I made one rule that mattered more than the others: neither of us would bring the harbor trust into an argument about us.
The rule was tested quickly.
He canceled dinner once because Northbridge had an emergency board meeting.
I snapped that men like him always thought business deserved the first claim on everyone’s time.
He looked at me and said:
“That sounds like Adrian.”
I nearly ended the evening.
Then I realized he was not wrong about the comparison; he was wrong about using it as defense.
We talked the next day.
Sebastian apologized for canceling without asking whether another night worked.
I apologized for making him answer for Adrian’s history.
Neither of us promised never to fail again.
We promised to name the actual failure.
It was less romantic than flowers.
It helped more.
By the time that rule survived its third disagreement, I trusted it more than any grand promise. We were not becoming a perfect couple. We were becoming two people who could tell the difference between an old wound and a present mistake.
May you like
That distinction made room for something I had not expected after Newport.
Ease.
