Chapter 5 – Sebastian
“Why are you smiling like that?”
I look up from my phone. I’m sprawled on the couch in my studio, the late afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air.
I’ve been texting Sienna for the past two hours—on and off since morning, really.
It’s been two days since the kiss. Two days of constant conversation.
Messages that start mundane and end with me laughing out loud like an idiot.
Fuck. She’s funny.
And worse—she’s never boring. Not once.
Marko stands across from me, arms folded, eyes narrowed in that familiar, unimpressed way. I lock my phone and drop it beside me.
“What?” I ask flatly.
“You’re texting Sienna again, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
That’s answer enough for Marko, obviously.
“She’s the only one who makes you smile when you text,” he says. “You do that thing with your mouth. Like you’re trying not to.”
I scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He walks closer, stopping right in front of me, searching my face like he’s trying to peel something off. “It means you like her.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” I stand abruptly. “This is all part of the plan. You were there when we made it. You saw what her review did—how close it came to ruining me. You think I forgot that?”
“I should be asking you that,” he shoots back. “You brought her here. To your studio. I didn’t discover this place until a year after you had it.”
“It was strategic.”
“Strategic?” He scoffs. “You don’t bring women into your studio, Sebastian. Ever.”
I clench my jaw. If Marko weren’t Marko—if he weren’t the one man who’s stood by me since we were reckless teenagers running underground art deals—I’d have thrown him out already. He’s the only person who sees me without the mask. The only one who knows where the bodies are buried.
Which is exactly why I want him to see that I’m not falling off. I’m just a really good actor.
“She inspired your latest collection,” he continues. “Care to explain that?”
I exhale sharply. “Every artist needs a muse. You know that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t buy it. “You’re smiling when she texts. You’re laughing. You’re happier than I’ve seen you in years. And it wouldn’t kill you to admit it. If you’ve found something good, maybe you don’t need revenge anymore.”
I take a step toward him, rage flickering hot and fast. “I’m this close to bashing your head in, Marko. Say what you came to say and leave.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Your new collection is going viral. Reviews are pouring in. We got a spot at the Baldwin Art Convention.”
That stops me.
“The Baldwin?” I ask slowly.
He nods. “Exclusive. Invitation-only. You’re the only artist exhibiting.”
A small, satisfied smile curves my mouth despite myself. The collection dropped this morning, and the response has been overwhelming. Praise. Think pieces. Speculation.
But there’s only one review I’m waiting for.
Sienna Roth.
I don’t care what Marko thinks. That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why she’s here. That’s why I let her get close.
“RSVP,” I say coolly. “We’re going.”
Marko nods, but his eyes linger on me like he knows something I don’t—or something I’m refusing to admit. Then he turns and walks out.
The door clicks shut.
I pick up my phone again.
A new message lights the screen.
Sienna: You’re quiet. That usually means you’re thinking something dangerous.
My lips twitch.
I type back.
Because whatever this is—I’m still in control.
Me: Marko just came by. My collection is doing well. Secured a spot at the Baldwin Convention.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Sienna: Sebastian, that’s incredible. It’s highly exclusive. I knew it would. The collection is…bold. Intimate. It feels different from your older works. I love it.
I smile to myself, slow and satisfied.
Good.
That’s what I needed to hear.
Now all that’s left is for her to say it out loud. Publicly. In print.
I hesitate for half a second before typing again. My next text is a risk. I’ve kept everything between us careful—wholesome—even after the kiss. No pressure. No lines crossed.
Still.
Me: And how exactly do you plan to praise me for it? I want more than words of mouth.
The silence stretches. A minute passes. Then two.
I set the phone down, pick it up again. Just as I’m about to lock the screen, it lights up.
Sienna: My apartment. Six p.m. One minute late, and it’s off.
A low laugh escapes me, surprising even myself.
I type back without hesitation.
Me: Then the world will pause until I’m standing at your door.
***
At exactly six p.m., I ring her doorbell.
When she opens the door, I know—immediately—how the night could end.
She’s wearing lingerie, modest in cut but merciless in effect. Soft fabric clings to her curves, high at the collarbone, low enough at the thighs to tease. Nothing is revealed, yet everything is suggested. My imagination does the rest.
She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Her fingers brush mine as she takes my coat, a brief, accidental touch that sends heat racing up my arm. I will my body to behave. I didn’t come here for sex.
I don’t plan to stay in her life for long.
Sex would complicate things.
“I made dinner,” she says, taking my hand and leading me inside.
The dining table is set with care: linen napkins folded neatly, candles casting a warm, flickering glow.
There’s roasted salmon glazed with honey and herbs, a bowl of lemony risotto dotted with parmesan, and grilled vegetables still glistening with olive oil.
Fresh bread rests in a woven basket, steam barely visible when she lifts the cloth.
An ice bucket sits nearby, champagne already sweating against the metal.
Intentional. Intimate. Thoughtful.
“Wow, Sienna,” I say honestly. “You went all out.”
She laughs lightly, the sound slipping under my skin, settling somewhere dangerous.
She presses me gently into the chair and takes the seat beside me—not across. Beside. Close enough that our thighs almost touch.
“Tomorrow,” she says casually, pouring champagne, “I’ll write another review of your work. It deserves an upgrade. You outdid yourself with this one.”
“You don’t have to,” I reply.
She smiles. “I know. But I love art. And I believe people deserve to experience the truth of it. They deserve to know you’ve found your depth.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I lean in and kiss her.
She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, and for one dangerous moment, I forget every reason I told myself I shouldn’t be doing this.
Eventually, she pulls away first, breath a little uneven.
“Let’s eat,” she says softly.
We do.
Dinner stretches longer than it should because we’re truly having a good time and enjoying each other’s company.
We talk about everything—the books she loves, cities she wants to see, the first painting that ever made her cry.
I tell her stories I don’t usually tell, details I normally keep locked away.
The more she talks, the more animated she becomes, the more her eyes light up when she laughs.
And the more afraid I get.
Because the desire in her gaze isn’t subtle anymore. It’s open. Curious. Wanting.
And I want her just as badly.
But sex would complicate things.
Sex would change things.
And leaving afterward would be…cruel.
I decide to fake a call. When she hurries into the kitchen to grab a napkin, I quickly text Marko to call me so I can get out of here before I do something that’ll make me hate myself. I want a clean break.
Ten minutes later, as Sienna animatedly tells me how she made the salmon, my phone buzzes. It’s Marko.
Sienna pauses and glances at the screen.
“Can you give me a moment, please?” I pick up the phone.
“Sure.”
I exhale through my nose like I’m annoyed, like this is inconvenient, unavoidable, then I take the call.
“Yes,” I say quietly. A pause. “Now?” Another pause, longer this time. “I understand.”
I run a hand through my hair. When I look up, she’s watching me over the rim of her champagne glass, eyes sharp despite the casual tilt of her body.
I slip the phone into my pocket and straighten.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, already standing. “Something just came up. I have to go.” I hesitate, then add, softer, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
She rises too.
She doesn’t speak at first. She simply closes the distance between us, close enough that I can smell her perfume again. Her fingers catch the front of my shirt lightly, not pulling, just anchoring.
“Sebastian,” she murmurs.
She yanks my dress shirt from my slacks and slips her hands underneath. The heat of her palms sends blood rushing straight to my cock.
“Sienna.”
She stands on the tips of her toes and grazes my jaw with her teeth. I groan.
“Sienna, please.”
“Don’t you want me?” she asks, trailing kisses down my neck. Her hands explore my chest before one slides down to grip me through my pants. I groan again.
My breath hitches as Sienna’s hands move with a bold, rhythmic intent. The friction of her palm against the fabric of my trousers is a slow torture, making my head roll back against the wall.
“You know I do,” I rasp, my voice dropping an octave, rough with the effort of keeping my composure.
“Then don’t fight this.” She unhooks my belt.
“Fuck, Sienna,” I rasp, my hands finding her waist, my fingers bruising the silk of her lingerie as I pull her flush against me. I want her so much it feels like a physical ache. I want to lose myself in her, to forget everything but the way she feels in my arms.
I spin us around, the wood of the table thudding against her hip as I pin her there. I need the leverage; I need to feel the full weight of her against me before I lose my mind completely. My heart is thundering, a frantic rhythm against my ribs that I know she can feel.
I lean down, my forehead resting against hers, our breaths mingling in the small space left between us.