Chapter 9 – Sebastian
It’s almost midnight when the elevator carries me up to the penthouse.
The ride is silent, smooth, too controlled. I welcome it. I need the quiet.
The doors slide open, and I step out, loosening my cufflinks as I move through the foyer. My shoes echo against marble. Every sound feels too loud, too deliberate—like the night itself is watching me.
The engagement soirée should be over in my head by now. Especially since I don’t give a fuck about being married.
It isn’t.
Sienna Roth doesn’t leave my head when I tell her to. She lingers—in the way she smiled without warmth, in the way she touched me like she was testing a weapon, in the calm certainty in her eyes that made my skin itch.
I push into my study and shut the door behind me.
The room smells like leather and cedar and old money. Familiar. Safe. Mine. But not tonight.
I drop into the leather chair, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped together. My jaw tightens as I stare at the darkened window across the room. The city glows beyond it, distant and indifferent.
I replay the night without meaning to.
The way she leaned into me during the photographs.
The way her fingers slid across my chest, slow and intentional.
The way she didn’t flinch—didn’t hesitate—like she wasn’t pretending at all.
I exhale through my nose and scrub a hand over my face.
It’s irritation, I tell myself. Nothing else.
Annoyance at her composure. At how easily she slipped into the role. At how she never once looked unsure, never once sought reassurance. She moved through the evening like she owned it—like I was the variable, not her.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I don’t look at it.
I stand abruptly and pour myself a drink. The burn of the alcohol does nothing to quiet the tension crawling under my skin.
She took the ring without hesitation.
Slid it onto her finger like it was inevitable.
Like she’d already decided how this ends.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
Whatever game Sienna Roth is playing, she’s playing it well. And the worst part? I don’t know whether I’m angry because I don’t trust her—or because some traitorous part of me wants to know exactly how far she’s willing to go.
My phone starts ringing.
I glance at it once and look away.
It’s probably one of my brothers. They’ve been circling me like hawks since the engagement was announced, watching for cracks, waiting for the inevitable explosion. They expected resistance. Expected me to fight the council, the families, the timing.
I would have with any other woman.
But this is Sienna Roth.
The phone keeps ringing.
I exhale sharply and answer without checking the screen.
“What?”
“For fuck’s sake, Sebastian,” Roman snaps. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“What do you want?”
“I sent you a text. The Mikhailov family was watching the engagement. Be careful.”
My spine straightens.
“What?”
“One of our guards caught someone lingering near the perimeter. He admitted he works for Viktor Mikhailov. Do you have any active business with him?”
The word active hangs between us.
Do I?
Not anymore. Not for years.
“No,” I say.
Roman goes quiet for half a beat. Then, “They don’t just watch people for fun. You should come back to the villa. You’ll have access to Rusnak resources and full security. Marko isn’t enough now that you have a fiancée.”
I don’t respond.
He swears under his breath and hangs up.
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and lean back into the chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answers might be written there.
Viktor Mikhailov.
Mid-forties. Art trafficker. A parasite wrapped in silk. His galleries front illegal auctions; his collectors bankroll wars; his forgeries circulate quietly through Europe, destabilizing markets without ever making the news.
He was once a client of mine.
Once.
He admired my work. Revered it. Until I refused to belong to him—to work exclusively under his name.
He called it betrayal.
He promised I’d regret it.
I let out a slow breath and smile faintly.
I’ve always stayed three steps ahead of my enemies. That’s why I’m still alive. That’s why Viktor hasn’t touched me—yet.
I’m not afraid of him.
The smile fades.
A different thought slips in, unwelcome and sharp.
Sienna.
My posture stiffens.
Does she have ties to the Mikhailovs?
Maybe not loyalty, but as leverage against me.
She moves in a world where influence is currency, where destruction doesn’t come loud or fast but quiet and surgical. If she wanted to dismantle me, she wouldn’t reach for scandal.
She’d reach for access. Access to me.
A cold realization settles in my chest.
What if this marriage isn’t personal?
What if it’s professional?
What if she plans to ruin me from the inside—piece by piece, reputation first, legacy next?
My chest tightens.
I once seduced her for a review.
A calculated move. Clean. Professional.
She could seduce me now for something far more catastrophic.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound cracks through the quiet, sharp and final.
I need to understand her angle before she plays it.
I need to see how far she’s willing to go.
The night replays itself against my will. Again. The balcony.
The way she stood with her back straight, hands resting lightly on the rail, the city stretched out before her like a map of possible destruction. Not overwhelmed. Not sentimental.
Assessing.
When she turned her head just enough to acknowledge me, the city lights caught her face, softening nothing. Her eyes were steady. Focused.
She didn’t look afraid.
She looked ready.
I hated how that stirred something low and dangerous in me.
I hated even more the memory that followed—the way her body had felt five years ago. Warm. Soft. Open. Trusting in a way that makes my jaw tighten now.
The past has claws.
Tonight, it sinks them in deep.
I lean back in the chair, fingers digging into the armrests, grounding myself in the pressure.
There’s attraction.
Undeniable.
Unwanted.
Infuriating.
It never left.
That’s why I never searched her name. Why I avoided exhibitions she might attend. Why I made sure our worlds never overlapped again.
The attraction is even more brutal now.
And guilt—rotten, persistent guilt—claws at me. I ruined her once. And fate—or karma—has brought her back, wrapped in silk and diamond rings.
I don’t believe in destiny. But I believe in consequences.
And I can feel one coming, with Sienna’s perfume on its breath.
The wedding is set for ten days.
I need to prepare.
Not for matrimony. Not for family politics. But for the war she has brought to my doorstep.