Chapter 3 – Sebastian
Five Years Ago
“So, Rusnak, I’ve always loved your work.
I truly believe I’m watching the rise of a once-in-a-lifetime talent,” Abram Powers says, leaning back in his chair like a man accustomed to owning the air around him.
“I have over ten of your pieces already, and frankly, I intend to keep buying until you get too expensive for even me.”
I let a small, practiced smile touch my mouth and nod once, as if his words don’t echo the same praise I’ve heard from men like him for years.
Abram’s office is exactly what men like him think power should look like.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Midtown Manhattan, the skyline stretched out like a kingdom at his feet.
Steel, glass, and polished walnut dominate the space.
No warmth. No clutter. Just expensive restraint.
Abstract sculptures sit in corners—pieces bought, not loved.
A Rothko hangs behind his desk, real, authenticated, insured for more than most people’s lifetimes.
I helped verify it three years ago.
Abram steeples his fingers, studying me with open fascination. He’s in his late sixties, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed. A kingmaker. The kind of man who funds art movements without ever getting his hands dirty.
“I’ve been following your evolution,” he continues. “Early work was impressive—raw, hungry. But what you’re doing now? It’s refined. Controlled. Dangerous.” He smiles. “That last part is a compliment.”
“Of course,” I say mildly.
He laughs, pleased. “You don’t deny it. I like that.”
He rises and walks toward the windows, gesturing vaguely at the city. “Art isn’t about beauty anymore, Sebastian. It’s about influence. And influence requires access.”
He’s about to continue when his phone buzzes on the table.
“Excuse me,” he says, already reaching for it.
I stay silent, watching him scroll. The faint satisfaction on his face tightens into something else—a frown, quick and sharp. He glances up at me, studying me in a way he wasn’t a moment ago.
“Roth just posted a review about you.”
It takes a second for the name to settle.
“Who?” I ask calmly.
“Sienna Roth,” he adds.
Oh.
The art critic.
Our paths have never crossed. Never met. Never spoken. Intentionally. Critics orbit artists like parasites, feeding off proximity, and my work has never needed her approval. I’ve existed far above that ecosystem.
“She just critiqued your work,” Abram continues.
I don’t react. Don’t tense. Don’t rush.
She’s probably praising it. That’s what usually happens. I’ve never had a negative review about my work.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, right on cue.
Abram nods toward it. “I just forwarded it to you. It’s already going viral.”
A small, indulgent smile touches my lips as I pull my phone out. I expect flattery. Reverence. Maybe envy dressed up as intellectual restraint.
The review is short. Too short.
I start reading.
Halfway through, the smile fades.
By the final paragraph, it’s gone completely.
“Rusnak’s work is technically skilled but emotionally hollow. It imitates genius rather than generating it. The art feels unfinished, as if the artist is too afraid to confront his own depth.”
For a moment, the office goes quiet.
Too quiet.
What?
I reread it. Slowly. Carefully. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable if I give them time.
They don’t.
A pressure blooms behind my eyes—not anger exactly. Something colder. Sharper.
“Who the hell is this?” I murmur, more to myself than to Abram.
He watches me closely now. Measuring. Assessing damage.
“She doesn’t miss,” he says carefully. “And she doesn’t retract.”
I don’t respond.
Instead, I tap her name into my browser.
Her face loads instantly.
Copper-red hair. Pale, porcelain skin. Impeccably styled. Designer suits. Probably some rich bitch who knows exactly how much damage her words can do—and enjoys the precision of it.
Beautiful, I’ll give her that.
Extremely beautiful.
A dark image flashes unbidden in my head. Her perfect composure shattered, that porcelain skin cracked, stained with her blood.
I shut it down instantly.
No.
That’s the Rusnak blood stirring. The old instinct. The ugly one.
Here, I’m not that man.
Here, I’m an artist.
Violence would be crude. Ineffective. Beneath this.
If I want to correct this—if I want to win—there are cleaner ways.
I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket, my expression smoothing into calm.
“She’s wrong,” I say evenly.
Abram purses his lips, the earlier warmth gone. “Rusnak—Roth’s word is bond. Everyone knows she doesn’t fib.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “This doesn’t speak well of you.”
I frown. “What exactly are you saying?”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m saying that if I put serious money into your work right now, I may have trouble reselling. Collectors pay for certainty. Sienna Roth just introduced doubt.”
The word irritates more than the insult.
Doubt.
I push back from the chair and stand before he can soften it with diplomacy. “So you’re pulling out because of a review?”
Abram looks almost regretful. “I don’t want to. But I’ll wait. Let the dust settle. Your pieces aren’t cheap, Sebastian. I can’t afford to miscalculate.”
Something cold locks into place inside my chest.
I step closer, leaning my hands against the edge of his desk, forcing him to look at me. “This will be sorted,” I say quietly. “And when it is, don’t call me.”
His brows lift. “Sebastian—”
“I don’t appreciate hesitation,” I cut in. “Or men who mistake temporary noise for truth.”
Silence stretches between us.
Abram finally nods, stiff. “Understood.”
I straighten, adjust my jacket, and turn without another word.
As I walk out of the office, past assistants who suddenly won’t meet my eyes, one thought burns clean and precise in my mind—
Sienna Roth didn’t just critique my work.
She disrupted my world.
And I don’t lose control of my world.
Not to critics.
Not to doubt.
And certainly not to a woman who thinks she can carve me open with words and walk away untouched.
Marko, my right-hand man, is waiting in the car when I slide into the backseat. The door shuts with a muted thud, sealing me back into myself. The interior smells faintly of leather and gun oil—familiar, grounding. The city hums beyond the tinted windows.
He turns halfway in his seat, brows already drawn together. “Is something wrong?”
He’s Hungarian, and his accent thickens when he’s concerned.
“Harlem Winston just backed out of the deal we were about to close,” he continues. “He’s the Chairman of the East Coast Art Acquisition Board and doesn’t usually flinch.” He studies my face. “What happened in there?”
“Roth,” I say.
One word. Sharp as glass.
Marko exhales through his nose and doesn’t ask another question. He’s known me long enough to recognize the signs—the tightness in my jaw, the stillness that means violence has nowhere to go. Not here. Not yet.
The car pulls into traffic.
I pull out my phone.
Her review has metastasized.
Headlines. Think pieces. Reaction threads.
“Has Rusnak Been Overhyped?”
“Sienna Roth Finally Says What Everyone’s Been Afraid To.”
“Technical Skill Isn’t Genius—Roth Dismantles Rusnak.”
It was a public execution delivered with a silk-gloved hand.
I scroll.
Comments pile up like vultures.
“She’s right. His work never made me feel anything.”
“I always thought something was missing.”
“Guess money can’t buy soul.”
Humiliation eats at me like acid—slow, corrosive, deliberate.
Years of precision. Control. Ascension.
Undone by a few paragraphs written by a woman who’s never held charcoal long enough to feel it burn into her skin.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“She cost you money,” Marko says quietly.
“She cost me leverage,” I correct.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Want me to dig?”
“I already am.”
I tap through her social media profile.
Sienna Roth. British-American. Chelsea apartment. Renowned art critic. Untouchable reputation. No scandals. No bribes. No obvious weaknesses.
Perfect.
Which means the cracks are hidden.
I click through images of her—gallery openings, panels, interviews. Always composed. Always sharp. Red lipstick like a challenge. Eyes that look straight into the lens, daring someone to flinch first.
There’s something familiar in that gaze.
Something irritating.
Something that makes my skin prickle.
“She doesn’t bluff,” Marko says. “If she said it, she meant it.”
“I don’t need her to like my work,” I say coldly. “I need her to retract.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I look out the window, watching the city smear into motion. “Then I’ll make her look again.”
Marko’s mouth curves slightly. “You planning to scare her?”
“No,” I say. “That would be crude.”
I scroll once more, then lock the phone.
“I’m going to meet her.”
Marko stiffens. “Seb—”
“Not like that,” I cut in. “I won’t touch her. I won’t threaten her. I won’t even argue.”
I lean back, my reflection faint in the glass.
“I’ll intrigue her,” I say. “Confuse her. Make her doubt her certainty.”
Marko studies me for a moment, then nods once. “That’s worse.”
“Yes,” I agree calmly.
Because Sienna Roth didn’t just critique my work.
She challenged my identity.
And I don’t destroy critics with force.
I make them curious.
I make them close.
And then I make them see exactly how wrong they were.
***
For one week after that meeting, I trail her in the shadows.
Marko offers to do it. Says it’s dirty work. Says I shouldn’t be the one this close to the flame.
I tell him no.
This is personal.
I learn her rhythms the way I learn brushstrokes—quietly, patiently, without rushing the process.