Chapter 4 – Sienna
When Sebastian Rusnak said he doesn’t take no for an answer, he wasn’t joking.
After the art evening, he starts to show up everywhere—always impeccably timed, always polite, always asking the same question as if repetition might soften it.
“Just one date.”
I refuse.
Every time.
At first, it’s almost amusing. A coincidence, I tell myself. New York is small for people who move in the same circles. Art openings overlap. Donors attend the same dinners. Critics and artists inevitably collide.
But then it stops feeling like coincidence.
He’s at the café where I stop for espresso before work, standing at the counter like he belongs there, black coat draped over one arm, eyes lifting the moment I walk in.
He’s at the gallery in Chelsea, where I’m meant to preview a private showing—already mid-conversation with the curator, as if he’s been there all along.
He’s at a charity auction I didn’t even RSVP to, leaning casually against a marble pillar, watching me the way people watch storms roll in from the horizon.
Everywhere I turn, he’s there.
Always calm.
Always controlled.
Never crossing a line, just standing close enough to remind me that he exists.
“Dinner,” he says one evening as we end up side by side at a benefit. “I promise I won’t talk about art.”
“No,” I reply, without missing a beat.
He smiles, unbothered. “Tomorrow, then.”
I don’t even dignify that with an answer.
After the letters, I’m not new to his…tendencies. I know what this is. I know what it looks like from the outside. I know I could report it—to the police, to my family, to someone who would make it stop swiftly and decisively.
I don’t.
And that truth sits heavy in my chest.
Deep down, in a place I don’t examine too closely because I don’t like what it says about me, I like the attention.
I like the way he watches me—not openly hungry, not crude, but intent. Focused. As if I’m a problem he’s decided to solve. As if my existence has disrupted the clean order of his world.
No one has ever looked at me like that.
Men have wanted me before. They’ve flirted, chased, postured. But Sebastian’s gaze is different. It strips without touching. It lingers without permission. With a single look, he undresses me—not my clothes, but my composure. My certainty.
And the infuriating thing is, he’s never said anything inappropriate. Never made a crude remark. Never crossed into something I could easily reject without consequence.
Which makes it worse.
Because when his eyes meet mine across a crowded room, something coils low in my stomach: tight, unwelcome, undeniable.
I tell myself it’s irritation.
I tell myself it’s anger.
But irritation doesn’t make my pulse trip when he steps closer. Anger doesn’t make me hyper-aware of the space between our bodies, of the quiet confidence in the way he stands, as if he already knows how this ends.
I hate that he’s gotten under my skin.
I hate that some nights, when I’m alone in my apartment, I catch myself wondering where he is. What he’s doing. Whether he’s thinking about me the way I try—and fail—not to think about him.
This isn’t like me.
I’m Sienna Roth. I dismantle men like him for a living. I turn their work inside out, expose the cracks, and walk away untouched.
And yet—
Every time I refuse him, his eyes darken just slightly. Not with anger. With satisfaction.
As if my resistance isn’t a wall but an invitation.
Whatever this is between us, I like it. A lot.
That realization alone is enough to make me reckless, so I do the sensible thing and distract myself.
Tonight, I’m on a date with Vivian—strictly platonic, strictly grounding. We pick an upscale restaurant tucked just off Madison Avenue, all low lighting and polished brass.
Surprisingly, it works.
We’re halfway through dinner, and Sebastian isn’t in my head.
Vivian is animated, gesturing with her fork as she tells me about her most recent art purchase.
We’re sharing burrata drizzled with olive oil and blistered heirloom tomatoes arranged like they belong in a still life.
For mains, I have seared sea bass resting on a bed of saffron risotto, the skin perfectly crisp, the flesh melting at the slightest pressure of my fork.
Vivian went for the filet mignon—medium rare, of course—because Vivian believes anything else is a personal insult.
We’re drinking a bottle of Burgundy she insisted on ordering. Something smooth and indulgent, all dark fruit. It’s the kind of wine that makes you loosen without realizing it.
“…and the dealer swore it was his last piece in private hands,” Vivian is saying, eyes bright. “Abstract, late period. I shouldn’t have bought it, but the brushwork—Sienna, it spoke to me.”
I nod, genuinely interested. “You say that every time you overspend.”
“And I’m right every time,” she shoots back, smiling.
I take a sip of wine, savoring the way it warms my chest, the way the restaurant hums softly around us.
For the first time in days, my shoulders relax.
I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t tell Vivian about Sebastian—or let him become the topic of our conversation.
He would’ve ruined the night just by existing in it.
By the time we finish our plates, a dull pressure settles in my bladder.
“Hold that thought,” I tell Vivian, dabbing my mouth with my napkin. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Should I come with?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Our wine’s already open. Stay and guard it.”
She laughs. “Fair. Go.”
I flag down a server and ask for directions. She gestures toward a narrow hallway at the far end of the restaurant.
I head that way.
The moment I step into the hall, I stop.
Sebastian is standing at the very end, leaning casually against the wall like he’s been waiting for me all along. One ankle crossed over the other. Hands loose. Relaxed.
Butterflies erupt violently in my stomach.
I freeze.
He’s dressed in black, as always: black dress shirt, black coat, black shoes. Darkness wrapped around sharp edges. He pushes off the wall and walks toward me, unhurried, deliberate.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He stops in front of me and takes my hand before I can pull it away. His fingers are warm. There’s a faint smear of yellow paint on his knuckle.
He presses a kiss to the back of my hand, then releases it gently, like I was the one in control.
“You look ravishing in this dress,” he says.
My pulse stutters. “Should I call the police?”
“Let’s not,” he replies easily. “You would have already if you wanted to.”
I narrow my eyes. “I will. Right now.”
“Do it, then.” He slips his hands into his pockets, unbothered.
I don’t move. I don’t reach for my phone.
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
After a moment, he tilts his head, studying me. “Just one date,” he says quietly. “What are you so afraid of?”
You.
Of how you make me feel.
Of how easily my control slips around you.
Of the fact that I don’t trust your intentions—and don’t fully care.
I cross my arms over my chest. “One date,” I say sharply. “One. And you stop hovering around me.”
A slow smile curves his mouth. “Yes, yarkaya.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He steps closer—too close—and lowers his voice. “Bright. Vibrant. Like your hair.”
He catches a single strand of my red hair between his fingers, rubbing it thoughtfully between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.
“Like you, Sienna.”
His fingers brush my jaw so lightly I’m not sure it really happened. Then he steps back, just as suddenly, reclaiming the space he stole.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he says. “Six p.m.”
He turns to leave.
“Sebastian.”
He stops, but doesn’t look at me.
“Promise you’ll leave me alone after one date.”
“I promise.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the hallway colder—and me standing there, heart racing, knowing full well that I’ve just agreed to something I won’t be able to undo.
***
By noon the next morning, there’s a knock at my door.
I open it to find a delivery courier holding a large, immaculate box wrapped in cream paper and tied with a deep, wine-colored ribbon. No branding. No logo. Just quiet luxury.
I sign for it and carry it inside, setting it carefully on my dining table.
Only then do I notice—there’s no return address. No sender’s name.
My pulse ticks faster.
I loosen the ribbon and lift the lid.
I suck in a sharp breath.
Inside is a dress, folded with obsessive precision. I lift it out slowly, reverently—and gasp.
It’s midnight blue silk, smooth and fluid, catching the light like water under moonlight.
The cut is elegant—long sleeves, a high, graceful neckline—but the fabric drapes in a way that clings subtly to the waist before falling into a soft, ankle-length skirt with a discreet slit at the back.
Modest. Refined. And undeniably sensual.
It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t beg for attention.
It commands it.
Beneath it, nestled in tissue paper, is a pair of silver heels—sleek, understated, impossibly elegant.
My exact size.
My stomach flips.
There’s more.
A velvet jewelry box. I open it.
Diamonds.
Not flashy. Not gaudy. Just clean, devastatingly beautiful pieces—drop earrings that catch light with every movement, a delicate necklace that would rest perfectly at the hollow of my throat, a thin bracelet that looks like it belongs on my wrist.
This is too much.
I set everything down, my thoughts spiraling.
Then I see the envelope tucked beneath the dress.
I pick it up slowly.
The paper is thick. Expensive. Familiar.
I open it.
For you, yarkaya.
Because you deserve the best.
Look stunning tonight. You always are.
I can’t wait to see you.
S.R.
Sebastian.
I exhale slowly, sinking into a chair.
As someone who grew up adjacent to wealth and power—who understands quiet money, old money—I know exactly how much this costs.
Too much for a first date.
Too much for someone who claims this means nothing.
Why would he splurge like this on me?
On one evening?
On a woman who’s refused him over and over?