*
By the time Sebastian had showered and dressed, his hangover was mostly gone. He didn’t bother to wait for his driver to arrive, but instead took a taxi to his mother’s building. The anger he’d been sitting on was slowly building, until Sebastian felt as if he’d erupt the moment he saw her.
If she’d hurt Chelsea somehow, he didn’t know how he was going to act. He tolerated his mother’s strangeness because she was family and he loved his father and his siblings. But the more entrenched his mother became in her show, the less he liked her.
This could break their relationship entirely. He didn’t care that his ancient father still adored his much-younger and fame-obsessed wife. If his mother had caused him to lose Chelsea for good, he was going to lose his shit. He really, really was.
Sebastian slammed into his mother’s penthouse, not bothering to knock. He ignored the “FILMING—QUIET!” sign on the door and stormed in. “Mother? We need to talk. Now.”
His mother looked up from getting her nails done. Her friend Betty was seated next to her, and a manicurist sat between them, a case of nail polish bottles in front of her. Cameras filmed them as they sat on the sofas, no doubt dishing gossip about someone who had pissed them off lately.
And it had better not be Chelsea, or he was going to be guilty of suing his own mother.
Mrs. Cabral pulled her hand away from the manicurist and blew on them. “Nugget, we’re filming. This is going to have to wait—”
“It’s not going to wait. I need to know what the fuck you said to my wife.” His nostrils flared with anger, and it took everything Sebastian had not to launch himself at her and shake the truth out of her.
She paled. Looking away, she waved her hands at the cameras. “Stop filming. Stop. Let me up.” She detangled herself from the deep sofa and both Betty and the nail lady moved out of her way. Mrs. Cabral stood, straightened her white pantsuit, and then headed out of the living room area and waved for Sebastian to follow her. Still seething with rage, he did so.
Instead of heading for the kitchen, she headed into his father’s study and shut the doors behind them. “Listen, Nugget, I know you’re mad—”
“You cannot even begin to know how mad I am,” he said, voice hoarse. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What the hell did you say to my wife?”
She gave him a cool look. “Did she not tell you? She’s not good for you, darling. Between encouraging your doodling and then this newest, I really don’t think—”
“I don’t give a shit what you think, Mother. I love her. I love her and I want her in my life. Now tell me what you’ve done before I lose my mind.”
“So she’s gone?”
“Left yesterday. Refused to tell me why. Says we’re done. I know you’re responsible. Now spit it out.”
“She’s not right for you, Nugget—”
He remained calm, even though he wanted to utterly lose his mind. “So help me, Mother, if you do not spit it out right now—”
“She has a sex tape,” his mother hissed. “An incredibly vulgar, awful sex tape.”
That . . . wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “What are you talking about?”
“Your precious, sweet little bride had sex with some man on camera. She allowed him to do all kinds of nasty . . . things to her.” Her mouth pursed distastefully around the words. “Someone sent the footage to me to blackmail the Cabral family. They were going to release it unless I paid them an enormous amount of money. I took care of the situation and suggested she get out of your life so there’s no reason to blackmail.” She blew on her nails. “I see now that she’s a sensible girl after all. I—”