Chapter 7 – Sebastian
The Calloway restaurant is designed to intimidate.
Glass walls hang suspended over the river, giving the illusion that the entire structure might drift away if it chose to.
Chandeliers shaped like frozen droplets hover above silk-black tablecloths, candlelight shivering against crystal and steel.
This is the kind of place where silence costs as much as the wine—where businessmen bury scandals and criminals launder reputations with a single reservation.
It feels correct.
Poetic, even, that this is where I will face her again.
I arrive early.
The meeting is set for seven. It’s six forty-five.
I choose a table near the window and sit with my back straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely in front of me like I’m carved from marble instead of flesh.
I’ve spent the entire day preparing for this—coaching myself into indifference, into detachment—but my pulse betrays me with every quiet thud against my ribs.
I’ve forged Botticellis under pressure. Negotiated with killers in languages they didn’t speak. Outthought men in the Bratva network who would slit a throat over a misplaced word.
And yet the thought of seeing Sienna Roth again makes something primal and unwelcome coil low in my chest.
A server approaches, posture perfect, voice respectful.
“May I get you started with something to drink, sir?”
“Barolo,” I say after a beat. “2016, if you have it.”
He nods once and disappears.
I shouldn’t care this much.
I shouldn’t feel anything at all.
I told myself long ago that she was a closed chapter. A beautiful error. A brief diversion that served its purpose and ended exactly how it was supposed to.
That’s the lie I built my life on.
Because sitting here now—waiting for her—feels like waiting for a verdict. For a reckoning. For a confession I never gave but somehow deserve.
I glance at the entrance, then back to the river below, watching the lights fracture across the dark water. My jaw tightens.
I left her sleeping.
I blocked her.
I erased her like she was nothing.
Still…sometimes…it haunts me.
The server returns with the wine, pouring it slowly, reverently. The glass glows a deep, dangerous red. I don’t touch it.
The fact that Sienna agreed to this marriage willingly sets off every alarm in my head. She isn’t a woman who bends. She never was. If she said yes, it’s because she wants something.
And that something is my blood.
I check my watch.
Six o’clock passes.
Then 6:05.
There’s still no sign of her.
Five years ago, Sienna Roth was never late. Not to meetings, not to exhibitions, not to anything that mattered. Punctuality was a form of respect to her—a discipline. A weapon.
Today, she’s late on purpose.
Because this meeting belongs to her.
Because she’s calling the shots.
I should have expected it.
I did expect it.
What I didn’t expect is the way tension crawls across my skin at the thought. Not anger. Not irritation.
Anticipation.
My fingers tighten briefly around the stem of the glass before I force them to relax. I still don’t drink. The wine can wait. I can’t afford dulled edges tonight.
At exactly six thirty, Sienna walks in.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
She wears a cream suit, tailored as if crafted directly against her skin, with clean lines hugging strength rather than softness.
Her hair is pulled back into a sleek knot, exposing the elegant line of her throat.
Every step she takes is unhurried, deliberate.
Her posture is straight, regal. Nothing about her wavers. Nothing about her asks for permission.
This isn’t the woman I left behind.
This woman is older, better, sexier. She’ll bring me to my ones if I’m not careful.
She sees me then.
And she doesn’t falter.
She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t hesitate. She approaches the table with calm precision, a faint curve to her lips that’s neither smile nor mockery, just acknowledgment.
When she sits across from me, she does it with the ease of someone who knows exactly what effect she has. Not just on me, but on the room.
Heat crawls through my chest.
Regret.
Memory.
Curiosity.
And something darker.
I study her like she’s a composition—balance, intention, restraint. But she isn’t art.
She’s the hand that holds the blade.
She places her bag beside her and folds her hands on the table. No small talk. No pleasantries. No courtesy offered out of obligation. She simply looks at me.
And under that steady, unflinching gaze, I feel stripped open.
Exposed.
Judged.
For the first time in five years, I understand something with terrifying clarity. I’m no longer in control.
I lift my hand and signal the server for another glass. Sienna doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She just watches me, her gaze steady, unblinking, patient—as if she has all the time in the world.
The server returns and asks if we’re ready to order food. I shake my head. Not yet. He leaves without question.
I pour Sienna a glass of wine.
She accepts it without a word, fingers closing around the stem with effortless finesse. She takes a small sip. Composed. Unrushed. There’s no tell in her face, no flicker of emotion I can latch onto. It’s obvious now—she won’t speak first.
So I do.
I clear my throat. “Hi, Sienna.”
“Hello, husband.” She smiles.
The word lands like a blade sliding between my ribs—clean, precise.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Aww,” she says lightly. “I’d never pass up an opportunity to see you again.”
A lie.
I know it is, but her eyes give me nothing. The woman who once wore her emotions openly, who burned and softened and hurt in plain sight, is gone. This version of Sienna Roth is sealed tight.
“Apparently,” she says lightly, folding her hands on the table, “the families organized this little meeting so we could meet before the soirée tomorrow.” She leans forward, a conspiratorial glint that doesn’t reach her eyes, and lets out a soft giggle.
“Imagine the scandal if they knew we’ve already met. ”
I don’t smile.
Her smile widens when she realizes that.
I study her for a beat, then ask the question that’s been burning a hole through my chest. “Why did you agree to this marriage?”
There it is. The opening. The invitation.
I brace myself for impact—for the anger she’s earned the right to unleash. For accusations. For the questions I deserve. Why did you disappear? Why did you use me? Why did you throw me away like nothing?
She does none of it.
Instead, she laughs again. Easy. Almost amused. “Why not?”
The words land wrong. Too casual. Too clean.
She reaches for her glass, takes another measured sip, then continues like she’s reciting from memory. “The Roths gain expanded access to Eastern European shipping lanes. The Rusnaks gain political insulation stateside. Combined wealth increases leverage. Combined protection reduces vulnerability.”
She ticks them off with her fingers. One. Two. Three.
“Power consolidates,” she finishes. “Everyone wins.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”
Her gaze sharpens—not defensive, not startled. Just…alert.
“That’s unfortunate,” she says calmly. “But it’s not my responsibility to convince you.”
I realize then what unsettles me most. It’s not that she won’t talk about the past. It’s that she doesn’t seem to need to. She doesn’t need closure.
“The soirée is tomorrow,” I say carefully, “and the wedding is ten days after. You’re probably wondering why it’s so rushed, but alliances like this usually are. If you want to change anything, let me know, and I’ll—”
“Nah.” She shakes her head once, dismissive. “It’s fine with me.”
My eyes narrow. “Okay. Do you have any suggestions, or—”
“Whatever the families arrange is fine.” She drains the rest of her wine in one smooth motion and sets the glass down. “My duty is to show up. And I will.”
A pause.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She starts to gather her bag.
“You’re leaving?” The words slip out before I can stop them. It’s barely been twenty minutes.
She tilts her head, studying me. “Is there something else you’d like to discuss?” Her smile curves—polite and empty. “Please let me know. I’m more than willing to indulge.”
Indulge.
The word lands like a slap.
I try again. “Sienna, please. If you’re not okay with the wedding, you can say so. I’ll try to stop it.”
Her brows draw together, not in pain, but irritation. “Don’t project your fears onto me, Sebastian.” Her voice stays calm, precise. “I’m okay with the wedding. But if you want to stop it, you’re welcome to do so.”
I say nothing.
She stands, smooth and unhurried, and lifts her bag onto her shoulder. “I think we’ve acquainted ourselves enough.”
She leans in just enough for me to catch her perfume—familiar and devastating.
“See you tomorrow, my darling husband.”
Then she turns and walks away.
I don’t look away until she disappears through the doors.
Fuck. I’m in hell.
When I slide into the backseat, Marko already looks like he has an opinion loaded and ready to fire. I hope—for both our sakes—that he keeps it to himself. I’m not in the mood to be analyzed.
He starts the engine. The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and fast.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out.
Lev: How did the meeting go? Don’t mess this up, Seb.
I don’t reply. I lock the screen and stare out the window as the city blurs past.
Tomorrow is the engagement soirée.
Ten days later, I marry a woman whose motives I don’t know.
Who am I kidding? I know.
The fact that she agreed to this marriage is answer enough.
“Sebastian,” Marko says from the driver’s seat. “How did the meeting with Sienna go?”
“Fine.”
He hums, like he doesn’t believe me. “I saw her go in. She looks good.”
My body goes rigid.
Something about Marko saying that—about anyone saying that—scrapes wrong under my skin.
“Watch your mouth,” I snap. “She’s going to be my wife.”
“Your wife, huh?” He shakes his head. “Why’d you even agree to marry her?”
I turn my glare on the back of his head. “What do you want me to do, Marko? Go against the council? Against the Pakhan?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he shoots back. “You jilted her, Sebastian. You were cruel to her. And now she’s agreed to marry you, just like that, and you think it’ll be a bed of roses?” He exhales sharply. “She’s got something up her sleeve.”
“And so what?” My voice hardens. “I’m supposed to run forever?”
Silence stretches.
“It doesn’t matter what she’s planning,” I continue. “I’ll always be steps ahead. I’m not calling off the wedding.”
There’s something final in my tone.
Marko doesn’t say another word for a long time.
Just before he pulls up at my studio, he breaks the silence. “I think you should apologize to her.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Apologize? You think an apology fixes everything? She didn’t even bring it up.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s gone,” he says calmly. “It just means she’s waiting. For you.”
“Well, I don’t see the point.”
I do. I just don’t want to admit it.
“Just talk to her, Seb,” he adds. “It’ll help.”
The engine cuts. I’m out of the car immediately, already moving, already done with this conversation. I cross the lobby in long strides, hit the elevator button, ride it up in silence to the penthouse where my studio sits like a fortress above the city.
Marko doesn’t follow.
The moment I step inside, I loosen my tie and yank it off, toss my jacket aside, and head straight for the minibar. Wine won’t do tonight.
I need something that burns.
I pour a shot of vodka and down it. Pour another. This time I sip, slow and deliberate, letting the heat carve its way down my throat.
I’m just turning away when my phone rings.
Dimitri.
I stare at the screen for a second, then swipe to answer. “What?”
“Vivian and I just arrived,” he says. “We’ll be in New York for a while.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. My engagement inspired a transatlantic flight.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Sienna is close friends with Vivian. And Vivian’s been missing home.”
I exhale slowly.
Dimitri does too. “How do you feel about everything?”
The question hits harder than it should. My thoughts tangle, crowding in. I realize—uneasily—that I’m not furious about marrying Sienna. Part of me is…anticipating it. I’d rather remain unmarried, yes. But if it has to be someone—if it has to be her—I’m not angry about it.
“I don’t see the point in dissecting my feelings,” I say flatly. “It’s not like I can change anything.”
“You can,” he counters. “You can talk to Lukin. Or Adrian. It’s up to—”
“Why does everyone keep saying I can change my mind?” I snap.
“If the alliance isn’t set in stone, why make the decision for me in the first place?
” I pause, anger sharpening my words. “You’re right.
I should talk to Lukin and Adrian. Let them know this will be the last time they make decisions about my life in my absence and expect me to comply. ”
Dimitri laughs softly. “You’re being performative. Sebastian, I know you. If you didn’t want to marry her, you wouldn’t. You’re my brother.”
“Are you done?”
He starts to argue, but I end the call.
I knock back the rest of my vodka and slam the glass onto the counter, the sound echoing through the studio like a gunshot.
I cross the room and stop in front of the easel near the wall. Without hesitation, I yank the cloth away.
The charcoal portrait stares back at me.
Sienna.
Not the woman from tonight—cool, distant, untouchable—but the one burned into my memory.
Her head tilted slightly, eyes sharp and knowing, mouth caught between softness and defiance.
The lines are bold where they should be, delicate where they must be.
I even captured the faint tension in her jaw, the thing she did when she was thinking too much and pretending she wasn’t.
My chest tightens.
I started drawing this before Lev walked into my studio. Before anyone said her name in connection with marriage. Before I knew.
What a fucking coincidence.
I step closer, my fingers curling at my sides. Charcoal dust smudges the edge of the canvas, fingerprints I don’t remember leaving. I must have worked fast. Feverishly. Like I was chasing something I didn’t want to name.
Her eyes follow me no matter where I stand.
I can still see her the way she looked five years ago—unguarded, alive, too honest for a world like mine. And then I see her from tonight, sealed shut, impenetrable, a woman who learned how to survive me.
My head swims, vodka and memory tangling into something sharp and unpleasant.
Artists like to pretend inspiration is random. Accidental. Pure. But this—this feels deliberate. Like my hands knew before I did. Like some cruel instinct dragged her back onto my canvas before fate could drag her back into my life.
I stare at the portrait until the lines blur.
If this is a warning, it’s too late.