Rewind_ I Don't Love You Anymore

The dress Sebastian had commissioned for me arrived that morning—a simple but elegant midnight blue gown with subtle silver embroidery along the neckline. As I held it in my hands, I could hardly believe this exquisite garment was meant for someone like me, a former maid who had spent her life scrubbing floors and serving tea.

"It's not too much, is it?" Sebastian asked, watching me from the doorway of my room at Sterling Manor. His eyes held that same intense gaze that had unsettled me at the Rothschild dinner party—as if he could see straight through to my soul.

"It's beautiful," I admitted, running my fingers over the delicate fabric. "But I don't understand why you're doing this."

"Because you deserve to see this world from the other side," he said simply. "Tonight's auction at Blackwell's features several pieces from my collection. I want you there—not as a servant, but as my guest."

I met his gaze steadily. "And what do you get from this arrangement, Your Grace?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps someday you'll understand."

---

Two hours later, I stood beside Sebastian in the grand ballroom of Blackwell's Auction House, my heart racing beneath the elegant gown. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors, illuminating the faces of London's elite as they sipped champagne and discussed art with practiced nonchalance.

"Relax," Sebastian murmured, his hand a steady presence at the small of my back. "You belong here more than most of them."

I drew a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. Everything about this scene was surreal—the soft classical music playing in the background, the gentle murmur of sophisticated conversation, the way the waiters moved invisibly among the guests with trays of champagne flutes.

In my previous life, I had dreamed of attending such events. Now, I was here, but not as Damien's conquest or as a servant. I was here as Sebastian Sterling's companion, dressed in finery that rivaled the ladies around me.

"Your Grace," a silver-haired gentleman approached, bowing slightly. "The Monet you've donated for auction tonight is causing quite a stir."

Sebastian nodded. "Mr. Blackwell, may I introduce Miss Elena Ashford?"

The man's eyebrows rose slightly as he took in my appearance. "A pleasure, Miss Ashford."

I forced myself to smile and make small talk, drawing on knowledge I'd gained from years of overhearing aristocratic conversations while serving tea. To my surprise, I found I could hold my own.

"You're quite knowledgeable about art for someone so young," Mr. Blackwell commented.

"I've had excellent tutelage," I replied, glancing at Sebastian.

As the auction began, Sebastian guided me to seats near the front. I felt eyes on me—curious glances from women who wondered who I was, appreciative looks from men who admired what they saw. The attention was both flattering and terrifying.

I was so absorbed in the auction that I didn't notice him until he was beside me.

"Elena!" Damien's voice sliced through my concentration like a knife. "I've been worried about you."

I stiffened, turning slowly to face him. He looked exactly as he had at the dinner party—handsome, confident, dangerous.

"What are you doing here?" I asked coldly.

"I had to see you," he said, his voice pitched low and intimate. "Did Sterling force you to leave? Is he treating you well?"

I recognized the manipulation immediately—the same tactics he'd used in my past life to make me feel special, to make me believe he truly cared.

"He's concerned," Damien continued, his eyes flicking meaningfully toward Sebastian, who was engaged in conversation with another guest. "Sterling has a reputation..."

Something inside me snapped. The memories of my past life—of his betrayal, of Michael's death, of my own suicide—all crashed together in a wave of cold fury.

"Lord Rothschild," I said, loud enough for nearby guests to hear, "I left willingly."

Damien's expression faltered slightly.

"Unlike some households," I continued, my voice carrying in the sudden lull of conversation around us, "Sterling Manor values its employees as human beings."

A shocked silence fell over our corner of the auction room. Several aristocrats turned to stare openly, their expressions ranging from amusement to outrage.

Damien's face flushed crimson with anger and humiliation. "You don't know what you're saying," he hissed.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," I replied calmly.

Before he could respond, I felt a warm presence beside me. Sebastian materialized at my side, his hand coming to rest protectively on my shoulder.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft.

Damien's eyes narrowed as he looked between us. "Just catching up with an old acquaintance."

"How thoughtful of you," Sebastian replied, his tone making it clear the conversation was over.

As Damien stalked away, Sebastian's hand remained on my shoulder—steady, reassuring.

"You handled that admirably," he murmured.

I looked up at him, searching his face for signs of disapproval or anger. Instead, I found something unexpected—pride.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked quietly. "What do you gain from this?"

Sebastian's eyes darkened with an emotion I couldn't quite identify. "Some debts can never be repaid," he said cryptically. "Some wrongs must be righted."

Before I could press him further, Mr. Blackwell announced the next lot for auction—a rare Renaissance manuscript that Sebastian had contributed to the event.

As the bidding began around us, I couldn't shake the feeling that Sebastian Sterling knew far more about me than he should—and that his interest in my welfare went beyond mere kindness or charity.

What did he know? And how much had he seen?