Chapter 3 – Sebastian #2
I watch her enter her apartment building every morning, posture straight, steps measured, security-coded door sliding shut behind her like the world bending to accommodate her presence.
I wait. I always wait. Then I watch her walk out again, coffee in hand, phone tucked under her arm, mind already ten steps ahead of everyone else.
I don’t rush her.
I study her.
She’s tall. Taller than most women. Moves like she’s aware of the space she occupies and refuses to shrink for it.
Her copper-red hair catches the sun like it’s been set alight, impossible to ignore even when she’s trying to blend in.
She always wears red lipstick—always the same shade.
A signature. A declaration. Like she’s daring someone to tell her she’s too much.
Perfect white designer suits. Crisp lines. No excess. Everything is intentional.
A pristine socialite degree wrapped around a razor-sharp intellect.
The type of woman who believes knowledge is armor. Who walks through rooms with her chin lifted, eyes assessing, cataloguing. The kind of woman who thinks she understands everything she looks at—and maybe she usually does.
I’ve read her other reviews.
She’s precise. Surgical. Brutal without being sloppy. She dismantles careers with elegance and sleeps soundly afterward because she believes in the righteousness of her truth.
Too intelligent for her own good.
And critiquing me?
That was arrogance.
A step too far.
Not because she spoke, but because she spoke without understanding what she was touching. She thinks art exists in isolation. That it can be evaluated without consequence. That words don’t echo beyond the page.
She needs to learn that there are things you don’t reach for simply because you can.
Not everything should be dissected.
Not everything survives scrutiny intact.
And Sienna Roth—brilliant, untouchable Sienna Roth—has wandered too close to something that doesn’t forgive easily.
I don’t plan to hurt her.
I plan to educate her.
Slowly.
Intimately.
Until she understands exactly what she woke up to when she decided to take my name apart in public.
***
My first interaction with Sienna Roth happens at a gallery event later that week.
I don’t approach her. Not yet.
I write her a letter instead.
Your critique was the first honest thing this city has heard in years. I’d like to meet the woman who sees through the shadows.
Short. Simple. Flattering, but not fawning. The kind of sentence that respects her intelligence without surrendering mine.
I have Marko deliver it. He blends in easily, murmuring something to the bartender, slipping the envelope across the counter like it’s nothing more than a receipt. Then he disappears and melts into the room.
I watch from the shadows.
She takes the note with mild curiosity, her fingers elegant and unhurried. Her face is a mask—controlled, polished, unreadable to most.
Not to me.
I catch it. The fractional pause. The way her eyes sharpen, then soften. Interest flickers there, brief but undeniable.
She likes it.
That realization coils low in my gut, dark and satisfying.
Her intrigue intrigues me in return, sharpens something predatory and patient inside my chest. So I write another.
This time, it’s at an exhibition. It’s quieter, more intimate. Marko slips the note into her coat pocket without her noticing, fingers precise, breath timed to the crowd’s movement.
She discovers it in the restroom.
Curiosity lights her face. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips before she catches herself and smooths it away.
That smile twists something cruel inside me.
I continue.
Letters. Observations. Distance.
I follow her without being seen, tracking her days the way I track patterns in forged work. I learn her habits. Her rhythms. Her silences.
The way she pauses in front of art pieces that most people walk past without a glance. The way she tilts her head slightly when something almost moves her. The way her fingers trace the stem of her wine glass when she’s thinking—slow, absent, intimate.
I watch everything.
I file it all away.
For later.
***
Later arrives at the biggest art event of the year.
Tonight, I won’t hide.
Tonight, I’ll step out of the shadows and let her see me—really see me. I know enough about her now to disarm her. Enough to intrigue her without overpowering her. Enough to make her curious before she realizes she’s already too close.
I straighten my jacket as the car pulls to a stop, the city glittering like a dare beyond the doors.
I’m done observing.
When I enter the hall, the shift is immediate. Conversations taper off, laughter stutters, bodies subtly reorient. I’m used to it. Presence does that when it’s cultivated carefully.
I scan the room once—only once—until I find her.
Sienna Roth stands near a large-scale installation, champagne flute loose in her hand, posture effortless, alert. She’s already looking at me. Holding my gaze like she’s daring me to blink first.
She doesn’t know me.
I know her. Very, very well.
I walk toward her without hesitation, the crowd parting instinctively. I stop a few feet away and extend my hand, a smile curving my mouth.
“Hello, Miss Roth. I’m Sebastian Rusnak.”
She takes my hand. Her grip is firm, deliberate. No hesitation. No nerves. She looks at me like I’m a problem worth solving. Like I’m a man worth knowing.
I smile down at her.
“I’ve wanted to meet you,” I say. And I mean it.
Just not for the reason she thinks.
She studies my face for a beat, then frowns slightly. “Do I know you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But you wrote a review about my work.”
Recognition blooms—slow, sharp. Her eyes widen just a fraction.
“Oh. Yes.” A pause. “Sorry, I write a lot of reviews.” Her gaze sweeps over me again, more intent now. “I recognize you, Rusnak.”
Then it clicks.
Her brows draw together. “Wait,” she says carefully. “Were you the one sending all those letters?”
Her expression tightens, suspicion creeping in where curiosity had lived.
I don’t answer immediately. I tilt my head, studying her the way I’ve done from a distance for weeks—only now she can feel it.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” I say calmly.
The frown deepens.
“Should I be concerned?” she asks.
I smile again, slow and unreadable.
“That depends,” I reply, lowering my voice just enough to make it intimate, “on whether you believe curiosity is dangerous or necessary.”
“In this case,” she says coolly, “it’s very necessary.”
Interesting.
I lift her hand before she can pull it back and press a kiss to the back of it.
“Yes,” I say. “I sent the letters.”
Her eyes sharpen immediately. “Why?”
“Because,” I reply evenly, “no one has had the courage to be honest with me in years.” I straighten slightly, studying her face. “And now I’m interested.”
“I don’t want your interest,” she says without hesitation.
I smile faintly. “You already have it. You don’t need to want it.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Mr. Rusnak,” she says, voice clipped, “I don’t take bribes or whatever this is. If you think you can woo me into changing my review, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Ah,” I say softly. “Miss Roth.”
I lean in, close enough that my breath brushes her ear—not touching, not quite. A calculated inch.
“With all due respect,” I continue, “your review changes nothing for me. I’ve been an artist longer than you’ve been talking.”
Her eyes flare—bright, furious, offended.
Good.
I step closer still, invading her space just enough to make a point, my voice low, controlled.
“I’m here to woo you, yes,” I say. “But not for your words. Not for your influence.” My gaze locks onto hers. “I’m here because you caught my interest.”
I pause.
“And I don’t intend to take no for an answer.”
The air between us tightens, charged and dangerous.
She doesn’t step back.
She doesn’t step forward either.
She just looks at me—measuring, furious, intrigued despite herself.
And in that moment, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
Sienna Roth isn’t afraid of me.
Which means this is going to be far more interesting than I anticipated.