Chapter 4 – Sienna #2
If he thinks this will soften me—convince me to agree to a second date—he’s joking.
I stare at the dress again, my chest tightening.
This is just one night.
One date.
And after that…it’s over.
***
At exactly six p.m., there’s a knock at my door.
Not early. Not late.
Precise.
I open it—and there he is.
Sebastian.
He’s dressed in a tailored black suit that looks like it was made for him, a crisp white shirt beneath, no tie.
His dark hair is neatly combed back, revealing sharp cheekbones and eyes that feel far too knowing.
He smells…incredible. Something deep and clean and unmistakably masculine, like cedar and spice.
He holds a bouquet of white roses, simple and elegant.
For a second, I forget how to speak.
He takes my hand gently, bringing it to his lips. His mouth brushes my skin, warm and deliberate.
“You’re ravishing,” he says, voice low, sincere.
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it. I feel myself blush and hate how much I like that he notices.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “You look…very handsome.”
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
He steps aside, gesturing toward the elevator. “Shall we?”
He leads me to the waiting car, opening the door and helping me in with effortless courtesy before taking his seat beside me. The door closes, sealing us into a cocoon of leather and quiet.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I glance at him. “So,” I ask, trying to sound casual, “where are we going?”
“To dinner,” he says simply.
I sigh softly, folding my hands in my lap. “Sebastian…I saw the gifts. And while I appreciate them, don’t you think that was a bit much?”
He turns his head to look at me fully now.
“No,” he says without hesitation. “It wasn’t.”
The certainty in his tone sends an unexpected shiver through me.
I look out the window, watching the city blur past, my heartbeat steady but alert.
One date, I remind myself again.
Just one.
The car pulls into the underground garage of Beelines, and my breath catches.
Beelines isn’t just a restaurant—it’s the restaurant.
The highest dining room in the city, all glass and skyline, the kind of place people brag about getting a reservation for six months in advance.
Sometimes a year. I’ve been here once, years ago, as a plus-one to a collector who wouldn’t stop name-dropping.
But tonight….
The garage is empty.
No luxury sedans. No attendants rushing about. No chatter, no heels clicking across marble. Just silence—and soft music drifting faintly from inside.
I frown. “This place is usually packed. What’s wrong?”
Sebastian steps out first and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering his hand. His touch is warm, steady.
“I prefer a private date with you, Sienna.”
I blink. “You—” I stop myself, then exhale sharply. “You bought out the place?”
“Yes.”
Just like that. No pride. No theatrics. As if buying out the most exclusive restaurant in the city is as casual as ordering dessert.
My stomach flips.
Inside, we’re greeted by the ma?tre d’, a silver-haired man in a tailored suit who bows his head slightly at the sight of Sebastian.
“Good evening, Mr. Rusnak,” he says, respectful. Familiar.
That alone unsettles me.
He leads us through the dim, glowing space—floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city sprawled beneath us like a constellation. Candles flicker. Music hums low and intimate. There is only one table set, positioned perfectly at the center of the room.
The only table.
Sebastian pulls out my chair and waits until I sit before taking his place across from me.
I shake my head, still stunned. “We only agreed to this last night. Beelines doesn’t do last-minute reservations. They barely do reservations.”
His lips curve. “I have certain connections that make things…flexible.”
Before I can press him, he brings his hands together in a soft clap.
Almost instantly, servers appear from seemingly nowhere—quiet, precise, dressed in black and moving like a choreographed performance.
Menus are placed. Water poured. Wine presented.
I glance at Sebastian, my pulse ticking faster despite myself.
“What would you like to eat?” he asks.
I hesitate for half a second, then shrug lightly. “Surprise me.”
His mouth curves into a pleased smile. He doesn’t even glance at the menu.
He turns to the servers and rattles off an order in a low, confident voice—courses, pairings, details delivered like facts he’s memorized long ago. They nod in unison and vanish as quietly as they arrived.
I raise a brow. “You didn’t even ask if I have allergies.”
“If you did, I’d know already,” he says calmly.
That should bother me.
It doesn’t.
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “When did you start critiquing art?”
The question catches me off guard—not because it’s invasive, but because of the way he asks it. No edge. No challenge. Just genuine curiosity.
“And why?” he adds. “Why criticism, instead of creation?”
I study his face for a moment, searching for mockery, for a trap.
There’s none.
So I answer.
“I grew up around art,” I say slowly. “Collectors. Galleries. People who talked about meaning but mostly cared about price tags. I learned early that not everyone who buys art actually sees it.”
His eyes stay on mine, intent, unblinking.
“I didn’t want to make art for people like that,” I continue. “I wanted to protect it. To translate it. To call out the empty things pretending to be profound.” I shrug. “Someone had to.”
“And you decided that someone would be you.”
“Yes.” I smile faintly. “I’m good at it. I don’t soften the truth to make people comfortable.”
“I noticed,” he says, quietly.
There’s no offense in his tone. If anything, there’s approval.
“You’re not offended by the review I gave you?” I ask, studying him.
He laughs softly, the sound low and unforced. “Why should I be?”
I shrug. “Most artists are.”
“Well….” He tilts his head slightly, considering. “I think you could have chosen your words more carefully,” he admits. “But like you, I love art. And loving art means protecting it—from complacency, from worship without thought, from people who stop asking questions.”
My fingers tighten subtly around my glass.
“That means accommodating critics,” he continues, unhurried. “Reviews. Dissent. Discomfort. It means accepting that some people see, and I happen to admire people who see beyond the obvious.”
Something warm coils low in my stomach.
Hmm.
I hold his gaze, emboldened. “Do you think my critique was wrong?”
“In a way,” he says, nodding once.
My brows lift. “How so?”
“Art is subjective,” he replies. “Two people can stare at the same piece and walk away with entirely different truths. You saw something unfinished. Someone else might see restraint. Or mystery. Or a mirror of themselves.” His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Your critique wasn’t false. It was your observation.
And observations are always right to the observer. ”
I blink.
No one has ever framed it that way for me. Ever.
The idea settles slowly, reshaping something I didn’t realize was rigid.
“I’m not apologizing for my critiques,” I say finally.
He smiles, almost pleased. “Good. I wouldn’t be sitting here if you were that kind of woman.”
The server returns just then, setting the first course between us, but the energy at the table has shifted.
This isn’t a standoff anymore.
It’s a conversation.
“This smells good, doesn’t it?” Sebastian says, already reaching for his fork.
There’s something almost childlike in his anticipation—so unexpected from a man who usually carries himself like he owns every room he enters—that it catches me off guard.
“It does,” I say, chuckling.
“I hope you have a big appetite,” he adds. “I do.”
I laugh softly and pick up my cutlery.
Normally, dinners like this make me hyper-aware of posture, etiquette, the unspoken rules of performance.
But with Sebastian, that rigidity melts away.
He eats while he talks, gestures with his fork, leans back comfortably in his chair.
The table fills with warmth, with an easy familiarity that feels… dangerous in how natural it is.
“You mentioned earlier that some artists get upset by your reviews,” he says casually.
“Yes,” I nod, taking a bite.
“What was your most chilling experience with one?”
I laugh. “Oh, that was when I first started.”
He watches me closely as I speak, the intensity softened now by genuine interest.
“I remember hovering over the post button for almost an hour,” I say. “My hands were shaking. It was my first big critique, and I knew the artist had powerful friends.” I smile ruefully. “The moment I hit publish, I thought I’d ruined my life.”
“And?” he prompts.
“And the backlash was immediate,” I continue. “Threats. Lawsuits that went nowhere. Anonymous emails telling me to retract or else. One artist showed up outside my apartment building, screaming my name.”
Sebastian’s mouth curves. “Charming.”
“I was terrified,” I admit. “But at the same time….” I pause, searching for the word. “It was freeing. I realized I couldn’t be controlled if I refused to lie. And once I understood that, there was no going back.”
He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“You’re braver than most,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “I just hate dishonesty more than I fear consequences.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s hot.”
I laugh, heat blooming in my cheeks despite myself.
I won’t lie to myself—the date turns out to be the most beautiful one I’ve ever been on.
Conversation with Sebastian is effortless. He asks questions, real ones. Thoughtful ones. He listens to my answers instead of waiting for his turn to speak. He doesn’t monologue about his wealth or his success the way most wealthy men do, using stories like currency.
He lets me talk.
And when I ask him things, he answers plainly. No preamble. No performance. Just truth, offered like a gift.