Beneath the Mask

Sebastian Montague's office was a fortress of order. The massive oak desk in the centre gleamed with meticulous polish, it's surface devoid of clutter save for the neatly stacked financial reports he was supposed to be reviewing. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of London sprawled beneath a veil of mist and moonlight, its pulse faint but persistent. To most, this view was a symbol of power and success. To Sebastian, it was a reminder of everything he stood to lose.

He adjusted his tie, the silk feeling constricting around his throat. Focus, he commanded himself. But the numbers on the pages in front of him—valuations, profit margins, projections—blurred together, eclipsed by a single thought: Sophia.

For weeks now, his younger sister had dominated his mind. Not by intention but by necessity. She was a fire he couldn't extinguish, a constant source of chaos. He had taken her under his wing after their parents' untimely deaths, determined to give her stability, protection, and love. But it seemed the more he gave, the more she rebelled.

Tonight was no exception.

The sharp buzz of his phone shattered the fragile quiet. He reached for it, his jaw tightening when Marcus Jameson's name appeared on the screen. His head of security rarely called without reason. And those reasons were never good.

"Marcus," he said, his tone low and controlled. "What's happened?"

There was a pause on the other end, brief but telling. "Sir," Marcus began, his voice steady yet edged with caution, "there was an incident involving Miss Montague earlier this evening."

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his grip tightening on the phone. "What kind of incident?"

"She was at a nightclub when a photographer attempted to take unauthorized pictures of her. Miss Montague… confronted him. The altercation resulted in minor property damage—she struck his camera, injuring her hand in the process."

Sebastian's eyes closed briefly, frustration rolling over him in waves. "Is she hurt?" The question came out sharper than intended.

"Nothing serious," Marcus assured him. "The injury was minor. We took her to the hospital as a precaution, and the doctors treated her. She's back at the house now, resting under security supervision."

"And the photographer?" Sebastian pressed, his mind already racing through the implications. "Do we know who he works for?"

"Not yet," Marcus admitted. "We're investigating his background and connections. So far, there's no evidence he was targeting her on behalf of anyone specific, but we're not ruling it out. For now, we've neutralized the immediate threat—compensated him and secured his silence with a non-disclosure agreement."

Sebastian exhaled slowly, his free hand rubbing his temple. "Good. Keep me updated on the investigation. If he has ties to any of my competitors or anyone looking to exploit this, I want to know immediately."

"Understood, sir," Marcus replied. "And… for what it's worth, Miss Montague seemed genuinely remorseful. I think—"

"That will be all, Marcus," Sebastian cut him off, his voice clipped. 

He ended the call and set the phone down with more force than necessary. For a long moment, he stared at it, his mind a whirlpool of frustration, concern, and something far darker. Another scandal. Another mess. And always, it was Sophia who lit the match.

His gaze shifted to the window, his reflection faint but unmistakable. The man staring back at him looked composed, powerful even. But beneath the polished exterior, there was a storm brewing. He had spent his entire adult life building a legacy, transforming the Montague name into a beacon of influence and wealth. Yet every reckless move Sophia made threatened to undo it all.

He raked a hand through his hair, his thoughts turning bitter. She wasn't a child anymore. She was twenty-four—old enough to know better, to take responsibility. But instead, she acted like the world owed her something. Parties, scandals, impulsive decisions… it was a cycle she seemed unwilling to break.

Still, he couldn't abandon her. He wouldn't. Their parents' deaths had left a void in both their lives, but where he had filled his with ambition, she had drowned hers in distraction. He understood her pain—hell, he lived it every day—but understanding didn't make it any easier to deal with the fallout.

Leaning forward, he pressed his hands together, his elbows resting on the desk. What am I supposed to do with you, Sophia? The question hung in the air, unanswered.

The room felt colder now, the shadows deeper. Lately, he had been haunted by strange dreams—dark, fragmented things that lingered long after he woke. Whispers drifted through them, unintelligible but heavy with malice. And always, there was the sensation of being watched, as though unseen eyes tracked his every move. He told himself it was stress, the weight of his responsibilities manifesting in his subconscious. But some part of him, the part he rarely acknowledged, wasn't so sure.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he shook it off. He didn't have time for paranoia. There were more pressing matters to address—like the fallout from tonight's incident. The media would sniff it out eventually; they always did. And when they did, his PR team would have to spin yet another story to protect Sophia—and, by extension, the Montague name.

It wasn't just his sister's reputation at stake. It was his empire. His power. Everything he had sacrificed to build.

He rose from his chair and crossed the room to a small bar tucked into the corner. Pouring himself a glass of scotch, he stared at the amber liquid, its surface catching the faint glow of the city lights. For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Sophia. Part of him wanted to hear her voice, to reassure himself that she was truly okay. But another part, the part hardened by years of disappointment, held him back.

She wouldn't understand—she never did. No matter how many times he cleaned up her messes, she refused to see the cost—not just in money or reputation but in the toll it took on him. The sleepless nights, the relentless pressure to maintain control… it was a burden he carried alone.

Returning to his desk, he picked up the financial reports again. Numbers, at least, made sense. They were predictable and rational. They didn't defy logic or break promises. As his pen moved across the page, his thoughts began to settle, the rhythmic scratch of ink against paper grounding him.

But the reprieve was temporary. His mind drifted back to Sophia, to the life she was hurtling toward with reckless abandon. He could only shield her for so long. Sooner or later, she would have to face the consequences of her actions. And when that day came, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to save her.

No, he thought, his jaw tightening. I'll save her. I always do.

The clock struck midnight, its chime faint but resolute. Outside, the city carried on, oblivious to the storm brewing within the walls of Sebastian's office. He set his pen down, his gaze hardening.

He would do whatever it took to protect Sophia and the Montague name. No scandal, no rival, no sleepless night would bring him down.

But as the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, a thought lingered at the edges of his mind, unspoken but undeniable: Even the strongest fortresses can fall.

And Sebastian Montague, for all his power and control, was no exception.