Chapter 2 – Sienna #2
The café is warm and sunlit, all white tile and hanging plants, the air thick with roasted coffee and citrus. Cutlery clinks against porcelain. Laughter drifts from nearby tables. A waiter squeezes past us carrying a tray of mimosas, orange light catching in the glasses like jewels.
I’m eating with my close friend, Vivian. She comes from a Franco-Russian old-money family, and although I usually turn a deaf ear and blind eye to that part of my life associated with power and wealth, Vivian is someone I love so much.
She isn’t the typical wealthy heiress. She’s a smart, kind, and talented artist, which is why we bond so well. Plus, she’s never asked me for a review. We never mix business with our relationship.
Vivian is mid-story about a disastrous date when I unfold the latest note I received from this nameless sender.
“Listen to this,” I say, reading aloud.
“Meet me someday. I want to know what else you ruin so beautifully.”
Vivian gasps, one manicured hand flying to her chest. “Oh my goodness,” she says, grinning. “That is such a sweet letter.”
I snap the paper shut and glare at her. “It’s not sweet. It’s disturbing.”
She laughs, undeterred. “Sienna, please. Someone is clearly obsessed with your mind. This is romantic. Mysterious. Very dark-academia-coded.”
“This is not a book,” I say flatly. “This is my life. Someone is following me, Vivian. Slipping things into my pockets without me noticing.”
Vivian leans forward, lowering her voice. “Or,” she says, “it’s an admirer who knows exactly how to get your attention.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She shrugs, sipping her mimosa. “You don’t seem terrified.”
I hesitate.
Because she’s right. I’m not shaking. I’m not afraid. I’m alert—but beneath that, there’s something else. A pull. A curiosity I don’t quite recognize in myself.
I fold the note carefully and slide it back into my bag.
“Well…” Vivian prods, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You’re the strongest woman I know, Sienna. You’re no damsel in distress. If you didn’t want this, you would’ve put an end to it.”
“I just don’t like not knowing who it is,” I say.
“That’s the thing,” she replies, tilting her head. “If you’d met him first, you probably wouldn’t be this interested.”
I scoff quickly. “I’m not interested. I’m just…curious.”
Vivian laughs, delighted. “Sure. Curious.” She taps her chin. “You could try guessing who it is.”
I shrug. “The first letter implied I’d critiqued their work before. That narrows it down to…everyone. Literally, my job is to criticize people.”
She nods, conceding. “Fair. Then enjoy it. And if it ever gets overwhelming, you know you can have your family take care of it.”
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, buying myself a moment.
The last thing I’ll do is call my family.
The Roth name opens doors, yes, but it stains everything it touches. Power built on quiet violence, money that never stays clean. I’ve spent years carving out a life that exists far from their shadow. I barely know their world, and I don’t want to start now.
If it comes to it, there’s the police.
But for now?
I let the thought settle as the café hums around us, sunlight glinting off cutlery, laughter spilling freely from nearby tables.
For now…I’ll let the notes keep coming.
***
One week later, I’m driving to the most exclusive art gala in the country, held in the Upper East Side, where money doesn’t announce itself; it whispers. The streets are lined with black cars and polished stone, security posted like decor, discretion stitched into every corner.
I should be thinking about the art. About who I’ll see. Who I’ll avoid.
Instead, I anticipate.
For weeks now, it’s become a pattern. Every time I step into a public art space, every time I move through rooms filled with canvases and curated egos, I receive a letter. Always anonymous. Always incisive. Always…watching.
Tonight is the biggest art event of the year.
Of course I’ll get one.
I pull up, bypass the red carpet entirely, and slip through a side entrance reserved for “special guests”—the guests who don’t need cameras to validate their presence. Inside, the air is cool and expensive, perfumed with champagne and ambition.
I pluck a glass from a passing server and take a slow sip, letting the bubbles ground me as I acclimate to the room. The space glows: crystal chandeliers, white marble floors, walls lined with pieces that cost more than most people’s homes.
Collectors cluster. Artists posture. Critics observe.
I hate to admit it, but my gaze drifts.
Scanning faces. Doorways. Reflections in glass.
I tell myself I’m just being aware. Just taking in the room.
But deep down, I know the truth.
I’m looking for him, even though I don’t really know who he is.
I spend the night doing what I do best. Socializing.
Listening. Observing. I meet new artists eager to be remembered, catch up with old ones already canonized, and exchange pleasantries with collectors who are looking for their next big purchase.
I nod as people sing my praises, accept compliments with practiced ease, and deflect flattery without offense.
The room sparkles. Laughter swells and recedes. Glasses clink. Music hums low and indulgent beneath conversation.
Time slips.
Sometime close to midnight, the energy shifts.
It’s subtle at first. A pause. A collective inhale. Conversations falter, then hush altogether, like a tide pulling back from shore. Heads turn toward the entrance. Whispers ripple through the room.
I follow their gaze.
And then I see him.
He’s young—obviously—but he commands the room in a way age has nothing to do with. He’s tall, easily over six-three, but that’s not what does it. It’s his aura. His presence. The way the space seems to bend slightly as he walks through it.
And then there’s his face.
Ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so.
Black hair, shaggy and deliberate, falling just enough to look careless without being messy. Gunmetal eyes—cold, sharp, penetrating. The kind that don’t glance. They assess.
As soon as he steps inside, everyone stares.
He stares back.
His gaze moves slowly, unhurried, skimming the room until it finds me.
And stays.
My breath catches. Completely. Like my body forgets how to perform a basic function.
He starts walking toward me.
I’m not prone to fear. I don’t get nervous around powerful men, beautiful men, or men who think they’re both. But something about him makes my instincts flare—sharp, urgent.
I want to run.
Not because he looks dangerous. Not because he’s threatening.
Because…I don’t know why.
Who is he?
An artist? A collector? A patron? A sponsor with too much money and not enough restraint? I’ve never seen him before. I’d remember a man like this.
He keeps walking. Unstoppable. Intent.
The crowd seems to fall away as he stops only a foot away from me, close enough that I can feel his heat, the quiet authority radiating from his skin. He holds out his hand—steady, unhurried, like he knows I’ll take it.
“Hello, Miss Roth,” he says.
His voice is low. Cultured. Controlled.
“I’m Sebastian Rusnak.”