Back in His Arms, Back in His Game... a Billionaire's Price

Atheria, Five Years Ago

The candles had burned down to stubs, wax cooling on fine china.

Alina Hart-Vaughn sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a second glass of wine untouched beside the dinner she had prepared: lamb roasted perfectly, delicate sides arranged with care, a chocolate torte brushed with gold leaf. Another year, another birthday she spent alone.

He didn’t even know it was today.

She traced the rim of her glass, trying to steady the ache inside her chest. The soft hum of the city, the warm glow of the candles, and the untouched dinner offered little comfort. Everything on the table would grow cold, and no one would notice but her.

Then her phone buzzed.

A message. Happy Birthday, Alina.

In the picture, Sebastian was at a table with friends. Natasha was right next to him, her face close... too close. She had her hand resting lightly on his chest. As she laughed, her eyes were completely focused on him with clear intent, as if no one else was in the room.

Sebastian was smiling. Openly. Freely. A smile he had never once given Alina.

Her fingers trembled as she set the phone down. Her chest hollowed, the ache deepening. She had hoped, quietly, foolishly that tonight he might remember her. That she might matter, even in the smallest way.

But Natasha’s message wasn’t an accident. It was meant to cut, sharp and deliberate.

Alina locked the phone and placed it beside her glass. Silence returned, but it felt heavier now, thick with pity, pity for herself, for her hope, for her loneliness.

“Mrs. Vaughn?” a soft voice said from the doorway.

Martin, the Vaughn family’s long-serving butler, stepped closer. His lined face carried a kindness this house rarely offered.

“It’s almost midnight,” he said gently. “You haven’t eaten. Maybe it’s best to call it a night?”

Alina forced a small smile. “I’m still waiting.”

His gaze moved to the untouched dishes. “Forgive me, ma’am, but he may not…”

“He will,” she whispered, though even she wasn’t sure the words meant anything anymore.

Martin lingered, loyal to her in ways her own husband wasn’t. “At least eat before it all goes cold?”

“Later,” she murmured. “Thank you, Martin.”

He bowed slightly and withdrew, leaving her with the fading warmth of concern and the growing weight of waiting.

It was past two when Sebastian finally walked in. He was wet, his tie was messy, and he smelled like he'd been drinking.

“You’re still awake?” he asked, his voice even, but empty of warmth.

“I waited,” she said. Her voice was calm, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue.

He saw the untouched dinner and the candles, but ignored her. "I told you not to wait up," he said, not apologizing, just reminding her her effort was wasted. He shrugged off his wet, whiskey-smelling coat and walked away.

“Sebastian…”

He stopped. Only then did she notice how unsteady he was. His steps wavered, and his breathing was rough. The smell of whiskey was so strong it hurt her eyes. By instinct, she reached out and held him steady when he swayed.

Rain darkened his hair, pasting it to his forehead. His eyes looked shiny and unfocused.

But she stayed because it was her birthday.

She stayed because she had waited for hours.

She stayed because a small part of her still wanted to matter.

Later, when the city and the house were silent, he leaned in. His lips grazed the curve of her neck. His breath was warm and wet from the rain and liquor, giving her a shiver just before his mouth followed slowly, deliberately, as if confirming a right he still had over her.

His hands cupped her face, fingers brushing her jaw with a light squeeze that felt more like ownership than love. His body pressed to hers, heavy and warm, his heart beating steadily against her. His eyes held hers as his lips moved again, slow and certain, starting a familiar heat she wished she could stop.

The room was dark. The sheets were cool. But where he touched her, she felt a warmth, dangerous and all-consuming.

For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it meant something. That this closeness was real. That she wasn't invisible.

Until he whispered—slurred, careless, barely audible...

“Natasha…”

Her eyes flew open.

Sebastian's face was blurry in the dim light, looking relaxed and unaware. Hearing the name was like a physical blow.

She suddenly remembered the picture of Natasha, the smile, the hand on his chest, the way she leaned in. Every detail was meant to cause pain. And it did.

Not because of Natasha herself, but because Sebastian had made it so simple for another woman to step into the place she wished she had.

Alina looked up at the ceiling. The small space between them felt huge. Her birthday quietly disappeared, swallowed by the same silence that always filled the house around her.

Morning came, pale and cold.

Sebastian stood by the window, putting on his cufflinks. His face was calm and distant. Alina watched him from the bed, staying under the covers.

He didn't look at her.

"Last night," he started, his voice sharp. "I drank too much. I wasn't thinking. It shouldn't have happened. We were both just tired. It was a mistake."

Her hands gripped the sheets. He remembered the whiskey, but not her birthday.

"A mistake," she repeated quietly.

He didn't react. "You know what I mean."

Then, adding more hurt, he said, "I'll have Martin bring you something. You need to take it. We can't risk problems."

He meant the morning-after pill. He said the words easily, but they hit her hard.

Sebastian looked at his phone. "Dinner tonight. My mother is expecting us. Don't be late."

He left without another word. The soft click of the door felt colder than the rain he brought in.

Alina fell back against the pillows, staring at the empty space beside her. The silence wasn't heavy anymore, it was empty.

And in that emptiness, something inside her changed and broke. Not loudly or obviously, but cleanly like a deep crack she knew would never heal right again.