MATURE CONTENT AHEAD – RATED 18
Two years ago…
Elizabeth
It had been one month since Natasha's wedding and two weeks since Sharon's. Neither Sebastian nor I made it to Sharon's big day—and no, before anyone jumps to conclusions, it wasn't because of grudges.
Honestly? I hold no resentment toward Sharon. I forgave her long ago, even if she never knew it. The truth is, I couldn't attend because life simply didn't give me the time. Between designing clothes, crafting bags and shoes, running deliveries, and renewing my expired travel credentials, my hands were overflowing. If not for Sebastian's connections—half the immigration office practically worships him—the process would have been a nightmare.
As for Seb, he had been out of the country on business. Our only thread of connection during those weeks was FaceTime calls stolen between his packed schedules. I don't blame him for missing his younger sister's wedding in Paris either. Still, the whispers were merciless. People said I controlled him, that I bewitched him into abandoning his family. Apparently, I was the "spell" steering his every move. God, if gossip could kill, I'd have been buried long ago.
But officially, Sebastian was back. After three weeks away, he came home and, like the thoughtful man he can be, volunteered that we visit my building construction site together.
And guys… when we arrived, my eyes practically saw my ears.
It was surreal. Like stepping into a dream painted in glass and gold. The exterior was nothing short of heaven on earth—sleek glass walls, soaring lines, and a landscape so polished it made my lungs ache. If someone had told me this was mine, that I was the boss of such a high-class project, I'd have laughed and pinched myself awake.
And just when I thought the outside was enough to knock me out cold, Sebastian led me inside. My breath caught. The interiors weren't just beautiful—they were devastatingly, breathtakingly luxurious. Every inch screamed class, sophistication, power.
Sebastian glanced at me and chuckled when he saw the disbelief plastered all over my face.
"You like it?" he teased.
Was he insane for asking? "Dude, I love it!" I squealed, leaping into his arms and hugging him tight, like I could squeeze out the reality of it all.
"I'm glad you do." He pulled back with the world's widest grin curving his lips. "At least now, I don't have to demolish anything and rebrand it later."
I blinked at him. He had to be joking. Sure, Sebastian could do anything for me—but seriously? "Are you kidding me right now, Seb? Only an ungrateful idiot would ask you to tear this down and rebuild it. I love everything here—inside and out. Even the glue holding the tiniest edges together is beautiful."
God!
The reception alone was a statement piece. Sleek, modern, brand-conscious—the kind of space that whispered power and style the second you stepped in. First impressions? Nailed.
A minimalist desk sat like a sculpture in the center. Fashion lookbooks fanned across the surface. And on the back wall, bold and unapologetic, my logo—the very one Sebastian and I chose together—illuminated like a crown jewel under curated lighting. A digital screen flickered with the latest runway reels and campaign footage, painting the walls with movement. White glossy walls framed it all, a perfect canvas.
Designer chairs—edgy but comfortable—surrounded a low coffee table stacked with fashion magazines. Every decorative accent hummed with my brand's aesthetic, from the metallic fixtures to the textured vases.
We moved toward the elevator, and my heart thudded with each floor we ascended.
The design studio opened like a dream—bright, open, and humming with possibility. This was the heart of creation.
Floor-to-ceiling windows poured natural light into the space, kissing the walls where mood boards, fabric swatches, and pinned sketches formed a mosaic of ideas. Prototypes stood on mannequins, silent muses draped in evolving designs.
Long worktables stretched across the room, littered with bolts of fabric, measuring tapes, open sketchbooks, and iPads alive with digital illustrations. Scissors, markers, and rulers gleamed, waiting for the next touch.
Still on the same floor, we slipped into the Sample & Pattern Room. The air shifted—focused, purposeful, efficient.
Pattern drafting tables with crisp measuring grids stood like soldiers. Racks of half-finished garments lined the walls, stories frozen mid-sentence. Cutting tables gleamed under precise lighting, while industrial sewing machines and overlockers hummed faintly in the background, ready for battle. This was where ideas drew their first breath in fabric and thread.
Next, the Fabric & Trim Library stole my soul.
Shelves towered with rolls of fabric in every texture and color imaginable. Boxes neatly labeled—silks, cottons, synthetics, and more—waited like treasures in a vault. Zippers, buttons, threads, beads—all meticulously cataloged. Swatches hung on color-coded racks, an artist's palette stretched across the room. It was a cathedral of texture, a kingdom of possibility.
And then—Seb pushed open another door—the Photography Studio. Clean. Minimal. Clinical in its perfection. A controlled universe where models would step under the light and transform cloth into living art.
White backdrop. Lighting rigs and softboxes. Camera equipment gleamed on tripods, props stacked neatly in corners, styling racks brimming with accessories. The photography studio was a temple of light.
From there, Seb led me into the Showroom / Client Meeting Room—and it was pure luxury. Polished to perfection, it was clearly designed to impress buyers and press alike. Clothing racks displayed the latest collection like curated art. A plush seating area invited conversations, while full-length mirrors and spotlights demanded attention. Fashion books, thick and glossy, lounged across the low table like they belonged there.
We moved again, and every floor felt like peeling back a new layer of a world I had only dreamed of.
The Office Space was sleek and modern, open-plan with bright pops of color breaking the monotony. Inspiration was everywhere—mood boards on the walls, typography and branding woven seamlessly into the décor. Rows of desks with laptops, dual screens, and tablets created a quiet hum of productivity.
The Common Area—oh, that was a vibe. A creative lounge, casual and cozy, with a coffee bar tucked into the corner, modern sofas glowing under mood lighting. Bookshelves spilled with fashion history and art pieces. It was the kind of place where you could argue about fabric textures at midnight or fall asleep dreaming of new silhouettes.
Then came the Fitting and Styling Room—chic and functional, sharp but inviting. Racks of sample garments, raised platforms for fittings, mirrors that reflected every angle. Stools for stylists, side tables cluttered with chalk, pins, and notebooks.
"Models and designers use this space to test silhouettes and fit," Seb explained, his tone cool but laced with pride.
And I just stared at him, wondering how this man—this man of power, danger, and steel—could also be so fluent in my world. How much intelligence he carried, how much he knew about inspirations, details, artistry. It was baffling… and humbling.
Finally, he guided me up—higher, higher—to the very top.
The elevator doors slid open, and I walked into what was supposed to be my office. But the second I stepped in, my mouth dropped.
"Whoa!" I gasped. My voice echoed against the glass walls. "This isn't an office… this is an abode."
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the skyline, bathing the room in golden light. A massive desk sat like a throne, polished wood paired with sleek chrome. Behind it, shelves ran floor-to-ceiling, lined with books, awards, and curated décor. A seating area sprawled in one corner—sofas draped with throw blankets, low tables adorned with flowers, art pieces that whispered luxury.
The walls weren't just walls—they were statements. My logo carved subtly into panels, inspirational quotes framed in gold, artwork that pulsed with creativity.
Every corner screamed refinement, elegance, identity.
The overall vibe?
Power. Vision. Home.
It was more than an office. It was the heart of my empire.
Sleek, modern, luxurious—yet not sterile. This space had personality.
The color palette wrapped around me like a living canvas: black, white, grey, and beige, punctuated with bold accents of brass, navy, emerald, blush, and deep red. It was like stepping into my brand's identity, brought to life in walls, textures, and light.
The atmosphere was hushed but commanding—quiet, high-status, and deeply inspiring. This wasn't just an office. This was where decisions of weight would be made, where creative visions would pivot into global expansions. The very air felt purposeful.
Seb kept explaining as we piloted further into the room. I couldn't help but notice how his tone shifted—less playful now, more grounded, professional. It was like watching him slip into a mode I rarely saw, the businessman who could talk strategy as easily as he whispered confessions into my neck.
Furniture & Layout
The executive desk sat at the heart of it all—polished wood with a matte black finish, sleek and imposing but elegant. Minimal clutter graced its surface: a laptop, a leather-bound notebook, a designer pen glinting beneath the sunlight. It was perfectly positioned, facing the city skyline, as though inviting me to dream bigger every time I looked up.
Behind it stood a high-end leather chair, ergonomic yet refined, promising comfort and command in equal measure.
To one side stretched a small meeting area: a round table circled by sculptural chairs for intimate internal discussions. Across the room, a velvet couch lounged beside a marble coffee table, draped in fashion books, lookbooks, and branded décor that whispered legacy and ambition.
And then, my favorite part—the shelving and display units. Carefully curated, they weren't just storage; they were a gallery. Vintage fashion books leaned beside framed magazine covers. Fabric sculptures caught the light like art installations. Even a mannequin stood proudly on display, dressed in one of my in-house designs—a piece so iconic it felt like a guardian watching over the space.
Every corner was thought through. Every detail intentional.
I turned slowly, my throat tight. "This isn't just an office, Seb… it's like my spirit took shape and built itself four walls."
He smiled, watching me take it all in, and I swore there was pride in his eyes—not just in the building, but in me.
Velvet cushions, marble accents, metal frames, glass décor — a perfect marriage of hard and soft, bold and delicate, like fashion itself.
On the desk sat a sleek iMac for design and planning, a MacBook for business. A flat screen on the wall waited to project campaign videos or lookbooks. Even technology bowed into elegance here. Seb clapped his hands once, and the curtains whispered open wider, flooding the room with more light. My jaw fell. The place wasn't just beautiful — it was alive.
Behind glass, swatches, polaroids, sketches, campaign tears were arranged with surgical precision, like an art gallery curated for my soul. And then there was the Inspiration Corner: towering bookshelves stacked with rare photography volumes, vintage Vogue issues, and coffee-table titles from Dior, McQueen, Galliano — the very voices of fashion history, lined up within arm's reach.
I turned to him. He was still talking, his voice steady and professional, but I couldn't hold it anymore. My chest burned with gratitude, awe, love. Before I knew it, I had clasped myself into his arms and pressed my lips to his.
For a moment, he froze — caught between his executive persona and the man I knew. Then, slowly, he softened, melting back into me. His hands slid to cradle my neck, pulling me deeper into a slow, tender kiss that unraveled the air around us.
I pulled away only when my lungs protested, whispering against his lips, "I'm forever indebted to you. Thank you."
A proud smile tugged at his mouth as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "I've done nothing, my love."
"This… all of this is something, Seb," I breathed, voice trembling. "Something beyond my expectations. Something money can't even buy. Thank you again."
Silence hung between us — charged, heavy, full of unspoken things.
Then, he broke it. His voice low, deliberate. "This is just a small thing, my queen. Wait until you start carrying my kids. Then I'll give you the universe, if it's possible."
I froze. My lips parted, but words deserted me. For five whole seconds, I simply stared at him. "You… want to have kids with me?"
I thought he was joking, but the depth in his eyes told me otherwise. He wasn't teasing. He meant every word.
His gaze locked into mine with unshakable sincerity, and his thumb stroked the side of my face as if sealing the promise into my skin. "Elizabeth," he said softly, reverently, "I want children who look exactly like you. Because you're beautiful, yes — but also humble, responsible, intelligent, always grateful… You are rare. You're everything. You hold every key of what a wife, what a mother, should be. And I want my generations to come from you. From all that you are."
I nearly felt like peeing on myself just hearing him say those words. My voice slipped out before I could stop it. "I love kids too, Seb… and sharing them with you would be one wonderful thing."
"I want plenty of them." His smile broadened, so wide I could see every perfect white tooth. "Heirs and heiresses. Hope you can give me that."
I faked a frown, resisting the urge to roll my eyes—he hated that. "Geez, Seb… am I a baby factory?"
He threw his head back and laughed, then leaned down to press a kiss against my forehead. "Of course not. You're not a factory. You're my woman."
Before I could respond, my eyes caught something I had somehow missed all this time: a delicate pink and white cake resting on the CEO's desk. My steps faltered. Why hadn't I noticed it earlier?
"Is that… a cake?" I pointed toward it, suspicion tugging at my voice. "Don't tell me there's some special occasion I don't know about."
Sebastian's arms wrapped around me from behind, warm and protective. His chin found my shoulder, and he pressed a kiss against the curve of my nape. "Happy 24th birthday, Sugar."
My breath caught. Birthday?
I gasped, turning to him, searching his eyes for some hint of a joke. "It's… my birthday today?" Of course it was. I'd been so caught up with life that the date had slipped past me. And the painful truth stung—I hadn't received a single call or text from my family. No reminders. Nothing.
"How did you know?" I whispered, stunned.
His smile was soft, but there was triumph in it too. "Isn't it a shame if I don't know everything about my woman?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks, spreading fast. My face must have been crimson by now. I covered it with my hands, embarrassed, overwhelmed, flattered all at once. "Sebastian… did you plan this?"
"The cake?" He slipped his hands into his pockets, suddenly casual. "That was my mom. She fascinates you, doesn't she? She baked it herself. Just for you."
My gaze fluttered back to the cake. It was breathtaking — intricate swirls of pink and white icing, delicate sugar roses, the kind of cake too pretty to cut. My chest tightened with something more than gratitude. Adira had done this? For me?
"That's… so kind of her," I murmured, moving closer. "It's beautiful."
I stopped at the desk, staring at it as if I could read every hour of effort it took to make. My mouth watered; I was already craving a bite.
But the thought hit me like a pinch—the same woman who once despised me, who exposed my identity when I was just her daughter's chauffeur, had gone through the trouble of baking me this. A pang wrenched in my chest, half guilt, half awe.
"I'll feed you first," Seb volunteered.
"Okay, boyfriend." I giggled, opening my mouth as he slipped a piece of cake between my lips.
The tingling brush of his thumb against my lower lip as the icing melted over my tongue sent a shiver racing down my spine. His touch always did this to me—set me ablaze, like I was kindling and he was the flame.
"Creamy." I licked my mouth, savoring. "Vanilla, strawberry… and a touch of you." I teased on the last part.
He grinned darkly. "I like the last part more."
"My turn." I fed him a piece, and he bent closer to take it. My giggles burst out when his lips clamped stubbornly around my thumb. "Hey! You've got my thumb stuck in there!"
He faked a frown, mumbling with mock innocence, "I can't get it out either."
I knew his game. "You're a chicken."
That word landed like a spark in gasoline. His expression sharpened, and suddenly his arms scooped me up. "A chicken, huh? Come here."
I shrieked, laughter spilling out of me as his fingers tickled mercilessly at my sides. "Pervert!"
Twisting and squealing, I finally wiggled free and bolted into the small lounge tucked in the corner. Seb chased me with the energy of a predator after its prey. My pulse quickened—not just from the running, but from knowing exactly where this would lead.
He caught me, pinning me down against the velvet couch. Both of us were breathless, like we'd just run a marathon. My gaze locked with his—his eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide with something deeper than play.
My breath hitched as he clapped once, the curtains sliding shut. Another clap, and the main lights dimmed, leaving only the warm glow of a few lamps.
"You're such a bad tech guru," I chuckled, biting my lip.
Sweat gathered on his brow as he tugged at the buttons of his shirt, the fabric clinging to his chest. "Maybe I am."
His lips claimed mine in a heated kiss, the taste of cake still sweet on his mouth. A moan slipped out of me when his kisses trailed down to my neck, hot and deliberate. My fingers slid into his half-open shirt, palms flattening against his bare chest, exploring the sculpted heat of his torso.
My touch lingered over the inked dragon etched across his skin. I caressed it slowly, as if I could peel it away—like the tattoo itself might burn me if I wasn't careful with the fire he was igniting inside me.
Another moan escaped my mouth when he plastered drugged kisses on my cleavages and down to my stomach and belly button. That was when I realised he has sneakily taken off my crop sleeve top without me knowing.
A louder moan flew out of my mouth when his fingers finds it's way into my mini pencil skirt and slipped into my underwear.
My senses disappeared from my skull when he played with my bead down there. I can't believe the adrenaline and oxytocin is causing me to my edge quickly. I'm driven by this maniac to a direction I don't know.
God. It's been months already and we haven't touched each other. His touch is always electrifying on me. Just a slice of it and I'm gone.
The sound of fabric tearing sent a jolt straight through me.
"Sebastian!" I gasped, legs spread across the couch, his body pressing mine down like gravity. "That was my favorite pair."
He didn't stop. Didn't even flinch.
"I'll buy you a drawer full," he growled, voice low and thick as sin. "All I care about is getting them the hell out of my way."
When he leaned down to eat up my spot, my fingers grasped his long hair which had fallen down and a loud gasp escaped me. "Oh, Sebastian…" I rolled my eyes off. Nudging my waist towards his face while his hands kept kneading my breasts.
When I finally came undone in his mouth, he licked me off and moved to my lips to kiss me. I tasted myself in his mouth but was disappointed when he pulled away to take off his shirt. I gulped at the sight of his marvellous hardness pointing at me. I watched him unbuckle his belts and gently unzipped his pants.
My breath hitched. He was already between my thighs, already there, dragging his mouth down my neck like he was marking every inch of skin he touched. His hand slid under my thigh, and in the next second, he drove into me like he couldn't wait a second longer.
With one hand hang on his shoulder and the other holding the top of the couch for support, a sharp and sudden gasp escaped my mouth as my tightness tries to accommodate his massive hardness.
My nails digging into his back. The world narrowed to his weight, his heat, the rough rhythm of his hips slamming into mine.
"Oh my god," I moaned, arching against him, gripping his hair, pulling him closer. "You're insane."
He grinned against my mouth, breath ragged. "You're the one moaning like that."
His pace was ruthless. Possessive. The couch rocked beneath us, creaking beneath the chaos we were making of each other. My body moved with his, instinctively, desperately, like we were locked in something bigger than both of us.
He grabbed my jaw, kissed me hard and messy, like he couldn't stand not being inside every part of me at once. I moaned into his mouth, raw and shameless, and he ate it up.
"Sebastian….." I gasped it, loud and needy, and he lost it.
"Say it again," he demanded, voice wrecked.
"Sebastian."
He buried himself deeper, hitting my g-spot. "Louder."
I screamed it this time, head falling back, hair sticking to my skin. "Sebastian!"
His hand slammed against the couch arm for leverage, his other gripping my thigh like a lifeline. I could feel him pulsing inside me, every thrust rougher, faster, greedier—until my entire body clenched and shook beneath him, unraveling like it was the first time all over again.
He came right after me, "Eli... Elizabeth…." my name half-growled into my neck, his whole body trembling with it. We collapsed in a heap, limbs tangled, skin slick and flushed, breath crashing between us in broken pieces.
For a long second, the only sound was the hum of blood in my ears and his ragged breathing against my mouth.
Then, I smirked, barely able to speak. "You seriously owe me new underwear."
He chuckled—low, lazy, totally wrecked. "I'll buy you a hundred. But I'm tearing off every damn one."
I giggled, "That was crazy."
"You drive me crazy." He kissed my lips passionately, "Are you okay?"
I nodded, still hoping to catch my complete breath, "Mhmm, yeah. You?"
He nodded too, "I'm good."
Just then, his phone shattered the happy moment with its sharp ring.
"You should answer it," I murmured when he ignored it the fourth time.
"Goddamn," he cursed under his breath, finally picking up. "Yes?" His frown deepened as he listened. "Why?" His eyes never left me even as his voice grew harsher. "No—Jesus, can't you all go ahead without me? You know what? You're really stupid. Fine, I'm coming—yes—I said I'm coming, idiots." He hung up with a sharp motion.
I sat up, brows knitting. "Is everything okay?"
He shifted upright, already pulling on his clothes. "Yeah, yeah. Some of my mom's business advocates want my damn helping hand."
"Then it sounds like something that does require your support." I leaned on my elbows, watching him dress.
He tugged on his boxers, then stepped into his pants with a scowl. "Just imagine I was out of town—wouldn't they have called me anyway? These people are crazy." He zipped up and buckled his belt with a snap.
I chuckled softly. "You're hardworking, Sebastian. That's why everyone depends on you. So… give them what they want."
"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing." He leaned down, stealing a kiss, while I buttoned the rest of his shirt for him. Then he pressed his car keys into my palm.
I frowned. "What are you going to use? Don't tell me you're walking."
"Bruce just brought my SUV. He'll drive me."
My lips twisted. "When are you coming back? It's still my birthday, you know."
He was already halfway across the room, his voice fading like an echo. "Don't worry about me. Have dinner. I'll be late. Love you."
A deep sigh slipped from me as the door clicked shut. "I love you more," I whispered to the empty space he'd left behind.