Rewind_ I Don't Love You Anymore

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Sebastian's private gallery, casting golden rectangles across the polished marble floor. I stood awkwardly in my simple gray dress, feeling painfully aware of the contrast between my servant's attire and the opulent surroundings.

"These are the pieces I need cataloged," Sebastian said, gesturing to the rows of paintings that lined the walls. "Each one requires detailed documentation—artist, date, provenance, and condition."

I nodded stiffly, still unsure why the Duke of Sterling had specifically requested me for this task. After our encounter at the Rothschild dinner party three days ago, he had approached Matilda Rothschild and arranged for my temporary transfer to his household.

"I'll fetch the ledger and pens," I said, turning toward the small desk in the corner.

"No," Sebastian stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. "Before we begin, I want you to look at this one."

He guided me toward a large canvas depicting a young woman in simple clothing, standing defiantly against a stormy landscape. Her expression was one of quiet determination rather than fear.

"This is 'Hope Amidst Adversity' by Thomas Cole," Sebastian explained. "Painted in 1825, during a time when many questioned whether America would survive as a nation."

I studied the painting, struck by the woman's posture—back straight, chin lifted despite the brewing storm behind her.

"Do you see the symbolism here, Elena?" Sebastian asked quietly.

"The woman represents hope," I replied cautiously. "Even in darkness."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. "And do you see her value?"

Something in his tone made me look closer at the painting. "It's... beautiful. Powerful."

"And worth more than most people's annual income," Sebastian added. "Yet she was painted to celebrate the resilience of ordinary people."

He moved me through the gallery, stopping before each painting. With each one, he didn't just explain the technical details but shared stories of their creation, their journeys through time, the lives they had touched.

"This one survived the French Revolution hidden in a baker's oven," he said, pointing to a delicate portrait of a young boy. "And this one was smuggled out of Russia during the Bolshevik uprising by a servant who believed it was too beautiful to be destroyed."

I found myself drawn into his world of art and history, forgetting momentarily my mission of revenge. These stories awakened something in me—a hunger for knowledge that had been dormant since my previous life.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I finally asked as we paused before a landscape painting of rolling hills bathed in sunset light.

Sebastian's expression softened. "Because you should know that beauty isn't just for those who were born to it, Elena. True appreciation comes from understanding."

Over the following days, our routine became established. Each morning, I would arrive at the Sterling mansion and make my way to the gallery where Sebastian would be waiting. We moved methodically through his collection, documenting each piece with meticulous care.

But I soon realized this wasn't just about cataloging art. It was an education—one tailored specifically to me.

"The brushwork here shows Caravaggio's influence," Sebastian would explain, his voice low and patient. Then he would place a magnifying glass in my hand. "See how the light catches here? That's called chiaroscuro—the play of light and shadow."

I tried to remain distant, to keep my emotional walls intact. But with each passing day, I found myself looking forward to these sessions, to the way Sebastian would notice when I showed particular interest in a piece.

"You seem drawn to the Renaissance works," he observed on our fifth day. "Especially those with strong female subjects."

I hesitated before answering honestly. "They remind me that women have always been more than ornaments."

Something flickered in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or understanding.

The next day, he had rearranged part of the gallery to feature more Renaissance paintings with female protagonists. I pretended not to notice this change, but it warmed something inside me that I thought had frozen forever.

On our seventh day working together, I caught him watching me as I studied a Botticelli painting. His expression was so raw—a mixture of profound sadness and fierce protectiveness—that it stopped me cold.

"What is this really about?" I demanded, turning to face him directly. "Why are you doing all this? What do you want from me?"

Sebastian didn't flinch at my directness. He set down his coffee cup carefully and approached me, stopping at a respectful distance.

"I want nothing from you, Elena," he said quietly. "Except perhaps what you want for yourself."

"That doesn't make sense," I insisted. "People like you don't waste time on servants without expecting something in return."

"People like me?" A hint of a smile touched his lips. "And what kind of person is that?"

"Powerful. Entitled. Used to getting what you want."

He shook his head slowly. "That's not who I want to be."

His sincerity caught me off guard. No one in my experience—in either life—had spoken to me with such genuine respect.

"Why are you really helping me?" I pressed, needing to understand.

Sebastian looked at me for a long moment, as if weighing his words carefully. Then he said something that would change everything:

"Because I see potential in you that you don't yet see in yourself, Miss Ashford. You're meant for greater things than servitude."

His words hit me like a physical blow. In both my lives, no one had ever suggested I was capable of more than I was—a maid, a servant, a disposable person.

"Who says I want more?" I challenged, though my voice lacked conviction.

"You do," Sebastian replied simply. "Every time you look at these paintings with hunger in your eyes. Every time you ask questions that prove you understand more than you let on."

For the first time since my rebirth, I felt my carefully constructed walls begin to tremble.