One-Shots | Sebastian Sallow

Even When You Left Me, You're Still Mine

Lily's attempt at a "normal" life-marked by safe, quiet dates and dull office talk-is a fragile illusion she's built to escape the shadow of her past. But the peace she craves is shattered when Sebastian Sallow, the man who built an empire on blood and sacrifices, decides her time away from him is over. As he forcibly reclaims her from the mundane world, Lily is pulled back into the suffocating luxury of his penthouse-a gilded cage where the line between his obsessive love and her desire for freedom begins to blur. Under the weight of his "velvet grip," she must confront the terrifying truth that some tethers are too deep to ever truly break.

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The evening air in the park appeared deceptively tranquil, accompanied by the distant, rhythmic thud of joggers and the subdued hum of a city transitioning into twilight. Seated across the small bistro table, she observed her date, a man whose name had already faded from memory, as he recounted details of his uneventful, unblemished life. This was precisely what she had sought: an experience marked by quietude, a deliberate contrast chosen to escape the metallic tang and chill of past encounters that had left her unsettled. The candlelight flickered in the evening breeze on their small bistro table, casting dancing shadows that she couldn't help but track with a practised, wary eye.

"And then my manager—bless his heart, he's a bit of a stickler—actually suggested we move the quarterly filing to Tuesday," Arthur said, offering a bright, hopeful smile that didn't reach the heavy coldness settled in her chest. "Can you imagine? Tuesday of all days."

Lily blinked, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. She wasn't actually listening to the logistics of quarterly filings. She was thinking of the way the air used to charge with electricity right before Sebastian walked into a room. She was thinking of the penthouse's silence, which always felt like it was holding its breath.

"Tuesday," she repeated tonelessly. It was a word that felt like a pebble dropped into a deep, dark well. No splash. No echo.

"Exactly!" Arthur leaned in, encouraged by her single word of participation. "I told him, 'Phil, I've got a life outside these cubicles.' I think it's important to have boundaries, you know? A sense of peace when you go home."

Peace. The word tasted like ash to her. She looked at Arthur's hands—clean, soft, probably never having held anything heavier than a laptop bag. They were so different from the hands that had pinned her against marble walls and promised her a throne built on blood.

"Lily? You're doing it again," Arthur said gently, his brow furrowing. "You've been staring at that hedge for three minutes. Is everything okay?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because she had just heard it—the distant, predatory growl of a high-performance engine that she would recognise in her sleep. It wasn't a scream of tyres; it was a low, seismic thrum that vibrated through the iron legs of the table and up into Lily's marrow. A heavy, obsidian silhouette glided into view, the car's engine sounding less like machinery and more like a predator holding its breath. It didn't park so much as it claimed the curb, sliding into the red zone with a silent, arrogant grace that suggested laws were merely suggestions for other people.

The engine died, and the ensuing silence was deafening. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm—the heavy, pressurised air that made it hard to draw a full breath.

Arthur's smile faltered, his gaze drifting over Lily's shoulder. "Is that... is someone even allowed to park there?"

Lily didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could feel the exact moment the car door opened. She could smell it—the scent of cold rain, expensive cedar, and the faint, metallic tang of a life she had tried to bleed out of her system.