Chapter 8 – Sienna
“I can’t believe you’re getting married to Sebastian,” Vivian says for the third time, hovering so close I can feel her excitement vibrating through the air. “And you didn’t tell me? I had to hear it from Dimitri.”
I smile at my reflection as my makeup artist blends foundation along my cheekbones with light, precise strokes.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know until a few days ago?” I ask lightly.
Vivian blinks. “Yes. It’s the Rusnaks we’re talking about.”
I laugh, soft and convincing. “Fair.”
I haven’t told her.
She doesn’t know that five years ago, the artist who haunted me with letters, who pulled me into his orbit and dropped me the moment he was done, is Sebastian Rusnak. There is no reason to tell her. No reason to unwrap that humiliation and place it in her hands.
Why would I confess how stupid I was—how deeply I fell for a man who was laying a trap?
The door opens, and the stylist walks in with my dress, garment bag draped like a sacred offering over her arms. Conversation pauses instinctively. Even Vivian goes quiet.
I rise from the chair.
The dress is laid out with reverence—ivory silk, clean lines, understated but unmistakably expensive. No excessive lace. No fairy-tale nonsense. It is not the dress of a woman being swept away. It is the dress of a woman stepping into a role she understands perfectly.
Approval flickers through me.
Today is my engagement soirée.
The backyard of my father’s Chicago mansion is already alive. I can hear it even from here—the hum of voices, the clink of glasses, laughter polished to sound effortless. Power gathering. Alliances breathing. Deals being measured behind smiles.
My father doesn’t do intimate celebrations. He does statements.
Vivian circles the dress, hands clasped. “You’re really okay with this?” she asks, softer now. “I mean…marriage. To him.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and it’s the truth. Just not the truth she thinks.
I catch the stylist’s eye in the mirror. “You can all go. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The stylist hesitates. “Are you sure?”
I nod once. Firm. Final. “I’m sure.”
They gather their kits and leave, heels clicking away, the door shutting softly behind them. The room exhales. Silence settles, thick and private.
Vivian moves immediately, stepping behind me. “Let me help you with the dress.”
Her hands are gentle as she smooths the fabric down my back, adjusts the waist, fixes a barely-there crease that doesn’t need fixing. When I lift my eyes, our gazes meet in the mirror.
She smiles—but it’s careful. Searching.
“You’re not the type of woman to accept something like this without a fight, Sienna,” she says. “It’s making me wonder why you’re so…quiet about it.”
I laugh, light and easy, the kind that convinces people.
“It’s an alliance,” I say. “I owe it to my family.”
The words taste flat. Necessary.
I hate that I’m lying to her. Vivian has held my hair while I cried. She has seen me furious, reckless, and heartbroken.
But this truth isn’t for sharing.
This one is mine.
She studies my reflection a second longer, then nods. “Okay.” She smooths the dress over my hips again. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” I agree.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Aunt Isla, the closest relation I have to a mother, enters the room. I really don’t like to think about my mother, especially since I lost her very young, but in moments like this, I miss her so much. If she were here, none of this would have happened.
Aunt Isla, my father’s youngest sister, looks radiant in silk and diamonds, joy softening her sharp features. She looks at me like this—fully dressed, composed—and her smile widens.
“You look perfect,” she says. “Everyone’s waiting.”
“Give me a few minutes,” I reply.
She nods, satisfied, already turning back toward the celebration. The door closes behind her.
Vivian sits on the edge of the bed beside me, the mattress dipping slightly. We sit in silence for a moment, the distant sound of voices and music floating up through the walls.
“You know,” she says quietly, “marriage doesn’t always have to be a cage.”
I look at my reflection again. Calm. Immaculate. Unreadable.
“No,” I say. “Sometimes, it’s a stage.”
She laughs softly, missing the edge beneath my words.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Together, we leave the room.
The moment I step into the backyard, the air changes.
Light spills everywhere—warm bulbs strung across the lawn, chandeliers hanging from tree branches like stolen stars.
The Roth estate looks immaculate, engineered for spectacle.
Long tables dressed in linen, servers gliding with trays of champagne, a string quartet playing something elegant and unobtrusive.
Wealth made tasteful. Power disguised as celebration.
Families from both sides mingle with practiced ease.
Laughter comes easily here. So do lies.
I move slowly through the crowd, my posture perfect, my smile controlled. Hands reach for mine. Voices overlap.
“Congratulations, Sienna.”
“What a beautiful match.”
“You look radiant.”
“We’re so pleased for both families.”
I thank them all the same way—warm tone, distant eyes, impeccable manners. The same neutrality I reserve for artists after a mediocre exhibition. Polite. Professional. Unmoved.
Inside, I feel nothing.
Every step I take across the manicured grass reminds me why I agreed to this arrangement. Not to become a Rusnak. Not to disappear into their world of violence polished with money and art.
But to dismantle one man’s place within it.
To stand exactly where I was never meant to stand—and pull the ground out from under him.
I accept a glass of champagne I don’t drink. I listen to my father discuss futures and alliances, nodding at the right moments. I let my mother beam beside me, proud and oblivious.
Then—I notice it. His absence. Sebastian isn’t here.
My gaze sweeps the yard once. Then again, slower.
I catalog faces, suits, and familiar silhouettes.
Marko—Sebastian’s right-hand man, whom I’d been introduced to years ago—stands near the bar, staring at me.
I meet his eyes once and not again. Lev is deep in conversation with my uncle.
Dimitri laughs with Vivian across the lawn.
But Sebastian Rusnak is nowhere to be seen.
Interesting.
I don’t let it show. I keep smiling. I keep moving. I keep playing my role.
But something sharp curls in my chest—not disappointment. Not worry.
Anticipation.
I don’t care how late he arrives. This wedding will be held. It’s too late for either of us now.
An hour passes.
I’m midway through a conversation I’m not listening to when something happens.
I feel it first.
A shift in the air. A tightening under my skin. The same instinctive awareness that used to haunt me five years ago, before I learned how to bury it. My spine straightens without permission. My fingers curl lightly around the stem of my glass.
He’s here.
I turn.
Sebastian steps into the backyard like he owns the space—like he always does.
The charcoal suit fits him too well, cut sharp across his shoulders, tailored to a body that hasn’t softened with time. His hair is neatly combed back, jaw clean, expression carved into something cool and controlled. Power made elegant.
My pulse jumps. I hate it for that.
His eyes lift—and find me instantly.
Not searching. Not scanning.
Finding.
The way his gaze locks onto mine sends a familiar, infuriating heat through my chest. There’s no softness there. No apology. Just a slow, deliberate assessment, like he’s cataloguing damage and calculating distance.
Interest flickers. Brief. Sharp.
The chatter around us dulls, not because anyone announces him, but because presence like his demands attention. Conversations trail off. Heads turn. People straighten their posture, adjust their smiles.
He begins to walk toward me.
Each step is unhurried, like he knows exactly where he’s going and that nothing in his path has the power to stop him.
I don’t move.
I don’t retreat. I don’t soften. I don’t look away.
I meet his gaze head-on, my expression calm, my spine tall, my face carefully neutral. If he’s expecting hesitation, or emotion, or even anger, he won’t get it.
From somewhere behind me, a woman murmurs, almost reverently, “Sebastian looks so handsome.”
The compliment lands wrong.
A spark of irritation flares low in my chest, but I don’t turn. I don’t react. I don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.
Sebastian stops in front of me.
Close enough that I catch his scent—clean, familiar, dangerous. Close enough that I can see the faint line between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too hard or trying not to feel something.
Our eyes lock.
The heat that once burned between us is still there, but it’s changed.
No warmth now. No comfort. Just a sharp, electric tension, like exposed wire humming between two points that shouldn’t touch.
He reaches for my hand.
I let him take it.
His fingers are warm. Steady. His thumb brushes my skin once—an unconscious habit I remember too well—before he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
Polite. Public. Perfect.
“Hello, Sienna,” he says.
His voice is smooth, controlled. I smile.
“Hello.”
Before anything else can settle between us, Aunt Isla appears at my side, perfectly timed and glowing, her eyes sharp with expectation.
“Sebastian,” she says, her tone warm but edged. “You’re late.”
He doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t excuse himself clumsily. He simply turns to her, takes her hand like a man raised on manners and power, and bows his head slightly.
“Something came up,” he says smoothly. “My apologies. I promise I’ll make it up to Sienna.”
Aunt Isla’s irritation dissolves instantly. She beams—actually beams—like a woman watching a victory she prayed for unfold in real time.
She reaches for my hand, then his, and presses them together. “Go,” she says. “Greet the guests. They’ve been waiting to see you both.”