The call came just after midnight.
Sebastian had been pacing his living room, unable to sleep. The article lingered like smoke in the corners of his mind. Helen's silence echoed louder with each hour. And then the phone rang—his sister's number flashing across the screen.
"Sebastian," her voice cracked. "It's Mom. She collapsed."
His breath caught. "Where is she?"
"St. Andrew's. They say it's her heart. It's bad, Bas. The surgery—it's urgent, and we don't have enough..."
He was already moving. Coat. Wallet. Keys. But he knew—knew in the pit of his stomach—that "enough" meant more than he could pull together. His company had survived Berlin, but barely. Much of his liquid assets had gone into repaying debts and salvaging his reputation. What was left now wasn't nearly enough for the surgery.
By morning, Sebastian sat in a sterile hospital hallway, hands buried in his lap, knuckles white. His mother slept in a dim ICU room nearby, tubes in her arms, monitors tracing the faint rhythms of a faltering heart. She looked small beneath the weight of the machines. Fragile.
His chest ached—not just from fear, but helplessness.
He had never asked Helen for anything. Not once. Not even when he'd lost everything in Berlin. Pride and love had kept him silent.
So when the nurse approached with a clipboard and murmured, "The balance has been paid, Mr.Sebastian," he blinked in disbelief.
"What?" he asked. "That's impossible. I didn't—"
The nurse smiled gently. "The payment was made this morning. Anonymously. But we have the name on record."
She handed him the receipt.
Helen Ross.
He stared at the paper, heart twisting. Shock, then gratitude—and finally, something softer. Something painful.
Love.
She hadn't asked. Hadn't waited for an explanation. She had simply acted. Quietly. Selflessly.
It was the most intimate act he'd ever experienced.
---
Across town, Helen stood by the boutique's window, watching the snow settle over Fifth Avenue. She hadn't slept either. Her mind was a tangle of doubt, affection, fear—and something deeper. An ache that no longer came from betrayal, but from longing.
She hadn't told anyone about the hospital bill. Not Anita, not Elizabeth. It wasn't about pride. It was about instinct.
Sebastian had been honest. Wounded, but unguarded. When she'd seen the article, the pain in his eyes haunted her more than the words ever could. And when she learned about his mother, something shifted.
Pity hadn't driven her decision.
Love had.
Quiet, trembling love—flawed, but real.
And though she still didn't know the full story behind Berlin, Celeste, or the shadows Jennifer had stirred, Helen was beginning to understand something Jennifer would never grasp:
Love isn't about certainty. It's about choosing someone anyway.
---
That evening, Sebastian found her in the studio—alone, sketching in silence. He stepped into the doorway, holding the receipt she'd never meant for him to see.
"You paid the hospital," he said quietly.
Helen didn't look up. "She needed the surgery."
He stepped closer. "You didn't even ask me."
"You wouldn't have let me," she replied. Then—softer—"You would've gone into debt or worse before letting me help."
A long pause.
Then: "Why?"
She looked up finally, eyes wet but steady.
"Because I see you, Sebastian. All of you. The past, the pain. The mistakes. And I… still see a man worth fighting for."
His breath hitched.
And just like that, the wall between them cracked—letting the light in.
Sebastian crossed the room, knelt before her, and took her hand.
"I don't know if I deserve you," he whispered.
Helen smiled faintly. "Neither do I."
But still, their hands remained clasped.
And for the first time in a long while, love didn't feel like a risk.
It felt like a choice.
---
Elsewhere in Manhattan, Steven Ross stood at the edge of his marble terrace, a glass of bourbon trembling in his hand. The cold wind bit into his skin, but he didn't move. The penthouse, once a symbol of dominance, felt more like a gilded cage now.
Behind him, voices rose again.
Valerie.
Her heels clicked angrily across the marble floors, followed by the sharp slam of a door. Her presence, once distant and perfunctory, had grown steadily louder since Helen left. And now, she was everywhere—uninvited but relentless.
"Steven!" she snapped, stepping into the open space. "You promised me this house after the divorce. Why is your assistant telling me my name isn't on the deed?"
He didn't turn.
"I never promised you the house," he muttered. "I said we'd discuss it."
Valerie scoffed. "Don't you dare twist your words. I gave you two children. I stood by you when you were nothing but a glorified intern in your father's shadow. And then you threw me aside like trash the second you saw her—Helen."
Steven's jaw tensed. The name stung.
"I left because our marriage was already dead," he said. "You knew it."
"No," she shot back. "You left because you needed a woman who would feed your ego, clean up your messes, and stroke your pride. That's what you thought Helen would do. And now that she's gone, you're unraveling like a drunk teenager."
The words hit home. Steven turned, fire in his eyes—but there was no denying the truth in hers.
Valerie stepped closer, her voice lowering. "I want what I'm owed. A bigger share. Full tuition for the kids. And a monthly transfer—six figures."
Steven's grip tightened on the glass. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," she said, lips curled. "I'm reminding you. You left me to marry someone you thought would save you. But you're the same selfish, spiraling man. And now that she's gone, you're not just alone—you're exposed."
There was silence.
Then Steven said, quieter this time, "You still want to live here?"
Valerie raised a brow. "Why not? Clearly, no one else does anymore."
And she walked past him, stilettoes echoing like war drums.
---
Later that night, Steven sat alone in the study—Valerie having commandeered the master bedroom—his children away at boarding school, and Helen unreachable.
He glanced at his phone again. Still no response.
The bourbon burned deeper this time.
He had everything once. Power. Family. A woman who didn't just love him, but believed in him.
Now?
He had only a house full of ghosts, and a woman back under his roof who no longer loved him—just waited for him to fail.
And Helen?
She was out there… rebuilding. Loving someone else. Someone better.
Steven leaned back in his chair, eyes closing.
He was beginning to realize that losing Helen wasn't just a mistake.
It was the moment everything he'd built began to fall apart.
After two weeks, Valerie was able to move into the house with the two children she had.The girl's name was Isabella while the boys name was smith.