# Chapter 8: Scandal

The phone started buzzing at 6:14 a.m.

I was half-asleep, my back pressed against Sebastian’s chest, one arm draped over his waist, his hand resting possessively low on my hip. The vibration traveled through the mattress, through my ribs, straight into my chest. I didn’t open my eyes at first. I knew his rhythm. I knew the way he breathed when he was deep in sleep, the way his fingers would twitch against my skin like he was checking I was still there. But then it buzzed again. And again. And again. A relentless, mechanical pulse that didn’t belong in this room.

I shifted. Sebastian’s arm tightened around me, his breath warm against the nape of my neck. “Don’t,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep but edged with something colder. Instinct. “It’s noise.”

“It’s not noise, Sebastian,” I said, sitting up slowly. The sheets slipped to my waist. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. The screen was a flood of notifications. Texts. Emails. Missed calls. A dozen news alerts blinking in red. I didn’t need to tap any of them to know what I was looking at. I’d seen the same headlines three hours ago on my laptop, but I’d told myself it was a rumor. A fantasy. A mistake.

Now it was real.

I turned the screen toward him. He didn’t even sit up. He just propped himself on one elbow, his dark eyes heavy-lidded but already sharp, already calculating. The man who could dismantle a witness in under ten minutes didn’t flinch. He scanned the headlines like they were a grocery list.

*SEBASTIAN CROSS AND THE WILD CARD: INSIDE THE SECRET AFFAIR THAT COULD DISTRUCT ONE OF NYC’S MOST POWERFUL LAW FIRMS* *DEFENSE ATTORNEY’S ROMANTIC DISTRACTION: IS VERA LIN A LIABILITY OR A LIFESTYLE?* *THE SCANDAL NO ONE SAW COMING: HOW CROSS’S PRIVATE LIFE IS BECOMING PUBLIC DOMAIN*

The words blurred slightly. Not from tears. From rage. From the sheer, suffocating weight of it. I’d spent years building a life in the margins, staying out of the spotlight, keeping my hands clean of the political and professional machinery that consumed him. I told myself I was protecting us. Told myself I was smart. Told myself I was fine with being the secret.

But secrets have a way of rotting in the dark until they explode.

I handed him the phone. He didn’t take it. Just let it rest on the duvet between us, buzzing like a trapped wasp.

“Who talked?” I asked, my voice flat.

“I don’t know,” he said. His tone was measured, cold. The same tone he used when he was about to eviscerate a prosecutor in front of a jury. “Does it matter?”

“It matters because they’re calling it a distraction. They’re calling it unprofessional. They’re saying I’m using you, that you’re compromised, that I’m some kind of gold-digger with a grudge.” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “As if either of those things is true.”

Sebastian finally sat up. The sheet fell to his waist. He was bare-chested, lean muscle carved under pale skin, a faint scar running along his ribs from a case that went south in Prague three years ago. He never talked about it. He never talked about anything that didn’t serve the present. He reached for the phone, scrolled through the articles with a few precise taps, then set it face down on the nightstand.

“They’ll say anything,” he said. “They’re looking for a narrative. I give them one.”

I stared at him. “You’re not going to do anything? No statement? No denying it? No distancing yourself from me before your partners start packing your desk?”

He looked at me then. Really looked. His eyes were dark, bottomless, and utterly devoid of panic. That was the thing about Sebastian Cross: he didn’t panic. He assessed. He calculated. He controlled. And right now, he was looking at me like I was the only variable in an equation he’d already solved.

“Why would I?” he asked.

The question hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. I felt it land in my chest, heavy and sure.

“Because your career is literally built on perception,” I said, my voice rising. “Because you’re the youngest partner in the firm’s history. Because you’ve never lost a high-stakes trial. Because the media is already framing me as a liability, and if you don’t step back, they’ll frame you as compromised. They’ll question your judgment. They’ll question your ethics. They’ll drag me through the mud, Sebastian, and they’ll do it until you either push me away or burn yourself trying to protect me.”

He stood. Bare feet on the hardwood. He walked to the window, pulled back the blackout curtains just enough to let in a sliver of gray morning light. The city was already waking up. Sirens. Traffic. The endless hum of a million lives grinding forward. He looked at it like it was a chessboard.

“I don’t care,” he said.

The words were simple. Flat. Absolute.

I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt a cold, sharp thrill coil in my stomach. Because I knew what that meant. I knew the weight of those three words coming from a man who measured every decision in risk and reward. He didn’t say things lightly. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

“You don’t care,” I repeated.

“I don’t.” He turned back to me. His expression hadn’t changed. Still cold. Still brilliant. Still utterly unshaken. “Let them talk. Let them print. Let them send their little reporters to my door with their microphones and their questions. I’ve spent my entire life navigating walls built by people who wanted me to fail. I’ve won cases with less. I’ve dismantled careers with less. You think a few newspaper articles will touch me?”

“It’ll touch your firm,” I said. “It’ll touch your partners. It’ll touch your reputation. You know how this industry works, Sebastian. Perception is everything. If they decide you’re compromised, they’ll find a way to prove it. They’ll dig. They’ll twist. They’ll make it real.”

“Let them try.” He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t look at the phone. Didn’t look at the news. He looked only at me. His hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw, tracing the line of my cheekbone. His touch was precise. Controlled. But there was heat underneath it. Feral. Defiant. “You think I’m afraid of them? You think I care what a bunch of career journalists with deadlines and bylines decide my life is worth?”

“I think you care about the life you’ve built,” I said quietly. “And I’m trying to protect it.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re protecting nothing, Vera. You’re protecting an illusion. A idea that I’m the man who doesn’t let anything touch him. That I’m the man who stays cold and untouchable and in control.” His thumb pressed against my lower lip. “But you already know that’s a lie. You’ve seen what I do when I’m not in a courtroom. You’ve felt what I do when I’m alone with you. You know I don’t care about the rules. You know I never have.”

I swallowed. My heart was pounding. Not from fear. From recognition. From the terrible, beautiful truth of it. I had seen his coldness. I had felt its edges. But I had also seen what happened when it cracked. When it burned. When it consumed everything else in its path.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

His hand slid down my neck, over my collarbone, down my chest. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my sleep shorts and tugged. The fabric fell away. I didn’t resist. I never did with him. Not when he looked at me like that. Not when the world outside was screaming and his mouth was already on mine.

He kissed me like he was claiming territory. Like he was burning bridges behind him. His lips were hard, demanding, but his hands were everywhere. One tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. The other sliding down my thigh, pushing my leg higher around his waist. I gasped into his mouth. He made a low sound in his throat. Something dark. Something satisfied.

He lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, my hands locking behind his neck. He carried me to the bed, didn’t break the kiss, just laid me back against the pillows like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I was meant to be there. Like I was always meant to be there.

He undressed me slowly. Deliberately. Buttons. Fabric. Skin. He took his time. Not out of hesitation. Out of possession. He wanted me to feel it. Every inch of it. Every breath. Every pulse. When he finally pushed my shorts down, when he finally stripped away the last barrier between us, he looked at me like I was a verdict he’d been waiting years to deliver.

“You’re mine,” he said. Not a question. A statement. A law.

I arched into him. “You know I am.”

He didn’t rush. He never did when it mattered. He pressed his palm flat against my stomach, felt my skin heat under his touch. Then he slid his hand lower, fingers slipping through my folds, finding me wet and aching and already trembling. I cried out. He didn’t stop. He pressed two fingers inside me, curled them just right, and watched my face like it was the only case file that mattered.

“Fuck,” I breathed. My back arched off the mattress. My hips moved involuntarily against his hand. “Sebastian—”

“Breathe,” he murmured. His voice was calm. Controlled. But his eyes were dark. Burning. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to do anything but take it. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to pretend.”

He added a third finger. Stretched me. Felt me clench around him. I grabbed the sheets. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. He pulled out, replaced his fingers with his mouth, and that was it. That was the moment the world fell away.

His tongue was precise. Relentless. He knew exactly where to press. Exactly how long to hold. Exactly when to swirl. I came hard. So hard my whole body shook. My back bowed off the mattress. A cry tore from my throat, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. He took it. Took me. Took every shudder, every tremor, every broken sound like it was a gift. When it was over, when I was panting and trembling and utterly spent, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood, and finally let go of his own clothes.

He was hard. Already. Of course he was. He pushed me back down, aligned himself, and slid inside me in one smooth, relentless motion. I gasped. My nails dug into his shoulders. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He set a rhythm that was slow at first. Deep. Thorough. Every thrust deliberate. Every pull back a promise. He watched my face. Watched every reaction. Every breath. Every flutter of my lips.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did.

His eyes were black. Fierce. Unapologetic. He moved harder now. Faster. The bed frame groaned against the wall. My thighs burned. My back arched. He grabbed my hips, held me in place, and drove into me like he was trying to prove a point. Like the scandal outside didn’t exist. Like the phones weren’t buzzing. Like the world wasn’t screaming. Like none of it mattered.

And it didn’t.

Not when he was inside me. Not when his mouth was on my neck. Not when his hands were everywhere. Not when he whispered my name like a prayer and a curse and a verdict all at once.

I came again. Harder this time. Screaming his name. Clinging to him. He followed me over the edge a few seconds later, his body going rigid, his breath ragged against my shoulder, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside me. We stayed like that. Tangled. Breathing. Heartbeats syncing. The silence in the room was heavy. Real.

Outside, the world was still burning.

Inside, we were untouchable.

He rolled off me carefully. Didn’t break eye contact. Just reached for the phone on the nightstand, picked it up, and turned it on. The screen lit up. Dozens of messages. Calls. Emails. News alerts. He didn’t read them. He opened his contacts. Found a number. Dialled.

“Elias,” he said when the line connected. His voice was calm. Measured. The same tone he used in court. “It’s Sebastian. Tell the partners I’m not resigning. Tell them I’m not issuing a statement. Tell them if they try to pressure me about my personal life, I’ll take my cases and walk. Tell them if they threaten my license, I’ll sue them for defamation before they can blink. And tell them if they come near Vera, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

He paused. Listened. Nodded once.

“No. I don’t care. Not about the optics. Not about the scandal. Not about the headlines. She’s not a distraction. She’s not a liability. She’s mine. And I don’t share.”

He hung up. Tossed the phone onto the bed. Didn’t look at it. Looked at me instead.

“They’ll send more,” I said quietly. “More questions. More probes. More attempts to use this against you.”

“Let them.” He lay back beside me. Pulled me against his chest. His arm locked around my waist. Heavy. Unyielding. “I’ve survived worse. I’ve won harder. I don’t need their approval. I never did. And I sure as hell don’t need it now.”

I rested my head against his shoulder. Felt his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Unshaken. “You’re willing to burn it all down,” I said. Not a question. A realization.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I’m not burning anything. I’m just refusing to let them dictate the terms. You think I care about their games? Their perception? Their little moral panic? I’ve spent my life playing their game. Winning. Outmaneuvering. Outthinking. But this? This isn’t their game. This is mine. And I’m done letting them decide what’s acceptable. What’s risky. What’s worth protecting.”

He turned his head. Looked at me. His expression was still cold. Still brilliant. But underneath it, something raw. Something unguarded. “You think I don’t care about my career? I do. But not more than I care about you. Not more than I care about this.” He pressed his mouth to my temple. “Not more than I care about knowing that when I walk out that door every morning, I’m not walking back to an empty apartment. I’m walking back to you. And I’m done pretending I don’t want that. Done pretending I can’t have it. Done pretending it’s a weakness.”

I closed my eyes. Felt tears prick. Not from sadness. From surrender. From the terrible, beautiful weight of it.

“Let them talk,” I whispered.

He smiled. Small. Sharp. Defiant. “Let them.”

The phone buzzed again. And again. And again. A relentless storm of notifications, headlines, demands, questions. I didn’t look. I didn’t care. I just held onto him. Felt his fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. Felt his breath steady against my hair. Felt the world outside keep spinning, keep screaming, keep trying to break us.

But it couldn’t.

Not anymore.

Because Sebastian Cross didn’t break. He adapted. He fought. He won. And if the price was burning down the whole fucking circus, he’d light the match himself.

I pressed my hand over his heart. Felt it beat. Steady. Unshaken. Unafraid.

“Okay,” I said.

He tightened his arm around me. “Okay.”

And for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to hide. I didn’t want to protect him from the storm.

I wanted to stand in it with him.

Let them come. Let them scream. Let them print their lies and spin their narratives and drag my name through the mud. They could have the headlines. They could have the scandals. They could have the noise.

We had each other.

And that was enough.

More than enough.

It was everything.