Sebastian Veyron | Second Oldest

The dining hall of St. Ignatius Academy was a cathedral of wealth disguised as education.

Sunlight streamed through arched windows, glittering against polished cutlery and crisp white linens.

Most students sat in buzzing clusters, their tables crowded with laughter and chatter. But at the far end of the hall, elevated slightly above the rest, the Veyron family’s table stood like an altar.

Reserved, untouchable, theirs by legacy and money alone. No one else dared sit there, not even the headmaster.

The seven of you were gathered as always, Aurelia poised like a queen with her perfect posture, Étienne distracted by a leather-bound novel in one hand, Lucien lazily stirring his tea as though the world existed solely for his amusement. The twins whispered conspiratorially to each other, giggling softly at some shared mischief.

You sat near the center, where your father had always insisted, his favorite kept closest to the heart of the family.

And beside you, as ever, sat Sebastian.

He had taken it upon himself to serve you, sliding the plate of fresh fruit closer, adjusting your fork so you wouldn’t have to reach.

He refilled your water glass without asking, his movements precise, controlled, as though he were both brother and sentinel. His attention never truly left you, even when he seemed to glance around the hall.

His gaze tracked the shifting of shadows, the weight of stares, the hush that fell whenever your name passed through someone’s lips.

It was into this fragile silence that a boy dared to step.

He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, uniform slightly wrinkled, tie hanging loose as if he hadn’t bothered to polish himself for this impossible task.

His tray trembled slightly in his hands, though he abandoned it halfway across the room, moving toward the family table with the determined stride of someone who knew he’d regret it if he didn’t act.

Conversations stilled.

Eyes followed.

A hundred students held their breath as he approached the untouchable.

Sebastian noticed first.

His hand stilled on the glass pitcher, dark eyes narrowing, lips tightening into something sharp.

A low hum of warning rose in his chest, though he said nothing yet.

Aurelia raised a brow, intrigued by the audacity. Étienne didn’t bother looking up from his book, but you could see the faint twitch of amusement tug at his mouth. Lucien, of course, smirked outright, leaning back in his chair as if he were watching a play.

The boy stopped just at the edge of the table. His voice cracked, but he forced the words out.

"Would you… would you like to go out with me sometime?"

The silence that followed was unbearable. It stretched across the hall like glass waiting to shatter.

Your fork paused midway to your plate. You hadn’t even answered, hadn’t moved, before Sebastian’s hand closed around the stem of your water glass.

He set it down with such deliberate care that the faint clink echoed louder than the boy’s question.

His chair scraped back an inch, his body leaning forward across the table, his gaze locking onto the boy with the cold precision of a blade.

"No."

The word cut cleaner than any rejection could have.

The boy swallowed, stammering, trying to recover. "I—I was asking her, not—"

Sebastian’s laugh was soft, humorless. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing until his gaze looked almost cruel in its calm.

"You think you get to speak to her without going through me?" His voice was low, silk over steel.

"You don’t even deserve to look at her."

Lucien chuckled darkly, sipping his tea. "Told you not to try, kid. She’s untouchable."

The boy’s resolve faltered, but before he could retreat, Aurelia’s voice slid across the table like velvet over ice.

"How bold," she said, her smile not unkind, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "But terribly stupid. Our sister is not. . . available. Certainly not to the likes of you."

The twins giggled, whispering into each other’s ears, enjoying the spectacle. Étienne finally closed his book, looking up long enough to remark dryly, "He has nerve. I’ll give him that. But nerve is not the same as worth."

Sebastian pushed his chair fully back now, standing with slow, deliberate grace.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

His hand found the back of your chair, his body angled slightly toward you, protective, possessive. "Leave. Before I make sure you don’t walk back to your table."

The boy’s courage crumbled under the weight of those words.

He stumbled back a step, muttered something that might have been an apology, and turned, retreating with his shoulders hunched.

The hall broke into whispers, the kind of hushed awe reserved for those who had witnessed something forbidden.

Sebastian sat again, sliding your plate closer as though nothing had happened. His expression softened only when his eyes returned to you.

"Eat," he murmured, voice low and steady, a command wrapped in care. "Don’t let vermin spoil your appetite."

And just like that, lunch resumed as though the interruption had never happened—except for the whispers that followed the boy all the way back to his lonely seat, and the quiet knowledge that no one would dare approach you again.