Chapter 17 – Sebastian
That morning, I wake feeling…lighter. Grounded. As though the weight of five years has shifted into something I can actually carry.
Sienna is curled against me, her red hair spilling across the pillow like stolen fire. I reach out, brushing a strand from her face. She doesn’t stir.
I know we aren’t healed. We aren’t whole. We aren’t anywhere close to that. But last night…last night felt like a beginning. A moment where I looked into her eyes and didn’t see revenge, didn’t see war. I saw her.
My fingers trace her soft skin, careful, reverent. She moans softly in her sleep, and I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there, memorizing her warmth, her scent, the curve of her cheek.
For the first time in years, the quiet between us isn’t filled with tension. It’s possibility. It’s fragile. It’s terrifying.
It feels like home.
I hold her for a moment longer, tracing the line of her shoulder with a thumb, memorizing the warmth and softness, before the sunlight spilling through the curtains reminds me that the day is already moving.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, pulling the sheets up to cover her body, and then I step into the shower.
When I return, she’s still curled in sleep, serene and untouchable. I throw on comfortable clothes and head straight for the kitchen, needing the anchor of coffee.
Marko is already there, moving with quiet precision, leaning over the coffee machine as it hisses and drips. He glances up and nods at me. I nod back, leaning against the counter, waiting for a cup.
His gaze sweeps me like he’s reading my thoughts—or warning me of trouble. My goodness. He doesn’t shut up.
Thankfully, he doesn’t speak. Moments later, he pours me a cup of black coffee and hands it over.
I murmur my thanks, the warmth of the cup grounding me for the moment.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “what’s the plan for today?”
“I have some projects to finish in the studio,” I reply, taking a slow sip.
“Okay,” he says simply, letting it drop.
I finish my coffee and turn away from the kitchen.
On instinct, I check on Sienna. She’s still asleep, sprawled across the bed like she belongs there—like she’s always belonged there.
I don’t wake her. I just stand there for a second longer than necessary, committing the sight of her to memory, then quietly leave.
Up in the studio, the first thing I see is the charcoal portrait.
It’s still uncovered.
My steps slow. I stop in front of it, my gaze catching on every familiar line, every shadow I memorized years ago without meaning to.
I think of yesterday—of the way her breath hitched when she realized what she was looking at.
Of the way her eyes softened before she shut it down, before she told herself it meant nothing.
A small smile touches my lips despite myself.
Oh, Sienna.
I reach for the cloth and cover the easel, like I’m tucking away something dangerous. Something too intimate to be left exposed. Then I straighten, roll my shoulders back, and force my focus elsewhere. On other jobs that don’t have her face in it.
It doesn’t work.
My hands move automatically, muscle memory taking over, but my mind betrays me.
It drifts back to her voice earlier—how it softened when she spoke about her mother, how the sharp edges she wears like armor briefly fell away.
Pain lives there. Old, disciplined pain. The kind that never really leaves.
I learned about her mother’s death months after I walked away from her.
Not from Sienna, but through a private investigator I hired.
I learned that her critiques were born from that.
Became sharper, more ruthless, less forgiving.
I recognized the grief threaded through the precision.
It made sense of things I hadn’t wanted to understand before.
By then, my heart was already set like stone.
I’d told myself it was too late. Easier to stay silent than reopen a wound I caused. Easier to let distance harden into permanence.
Now, standing here, regret settles deep in my chest, and that excuse tastes like ash. I exhale slowly, staring at the blank canvas in front of me.
Damn it.
I was an asshole.
The elevator chimes.
I look up just as the doors slide open and Marko strides into the studio, fast and sharp, like a man running on instinct. His usual calm is gone. His eyes are wide, jaw set.
I straighten. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t waste time. “The gallery director just called.”
My chest tightens. I stay silent, watching his mouth, already bracing.
“He was rambling,” Marko continues, pacing now. “Authentication files are missing. Entire chains of custody—gone. Two investors pulled out this morning. Another three are ‘reviewing their positions.’”
My blood turns to ice.
“And,” Marko adds, slower now, “there are encrypted emails circulating. Provenance logs. Contracts. All of them point to forged acquisitions.”
I say nothing. I can’t. The room feels too small.
“All forged,” he emphasizes. “Not your work.”
Of course they aren’t.
Someone is very careful. Very thorough.
Someone wants it to look like I built my reputation on lies.
My mind races—years of curating, negotiating, protecting every piece like it was a living thing. Every artist who trusted me. Every collector who believed in my name.
All of it—my gallery, my credibility, my life’s work—flickers in front of my eyes like a house catching fire.
“This isn’t incompetence, Sebastian,” Marko says grimly. “It’s a frame. Someone is dismantling you piece by piece, and they’re very meticulous about it.”
My stomach swirls and dips.
Slowly, I turn back toward the covered easel.
Sienna’s face hides beneath the cloth.
Last night’s closeness. This morning’s peace. The fragile sense of home I dared to believe in.
And suddenly, a thought slides into place—quiet, terrible, undeniable.
“Pull everything offline,” I say, my voice stripped of emotion. “Every ledger. Every certificate. I’m coming in.”
Marko nods once. No argument. No questions. He pivots and disappears back into the elevator, his shoulders rigid, panic packed tight beneath discipline.
I move to the bar on instinct and pour vodka into a tumbler, the liquid sloshing too hard against the glass. My hand lifts it. Then stops.
I stare at the clear burn waiting for me—an old crutch, an easy escape.
Not today.
I set the glass down untouched and turn away from the studio.
My steps are light as I head back to the suite. Like if I move carefully enough, the ground won’t crack beneath me. I refuse to let the dread take shape. Refuse to give it breath.
I reach the suite and push the door open.
Sienna stands at the window, still as a statue, staring out at the city like it might confess something if she looks hard enough. For a split second, the fear loosens its grip, because she’s there.
Then desire hits me square in the chest.
She’s wearing my shirt. Nothing else. The hem skims her thighs, fabric soft and rumpled, sleeves too long for her arms. I know—know—there’s nothing beneath it.
Fuck.
She hears the door and turns slowly, eyes finding mine and holding. There’s no smile. No tension. Just quiet attention.
I don’t speak. I can’t yet.
“What’s wrong?” she asks eventually.
The concern in her voice lands harder than any accusation ever could. It slices clean through me.
“Someone’s trying to destroy my gallery,” I say.
The words fall flat between us.
Her face drains of color—not shock, not confusion. Something else. Too fast. Too complete.
I notice.
Silence stretches.
Her fingers curl into the fabric of the shirt at her thighs. A tiny movement. Unconscious. Protective.
My chest tightens.
“Sienna,” I murmur, stepping closer, closing the space between us. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t.
That alone tells me too much.
I lift my hand and tilt her chin gently, careful not to force her. Her eyes finally meet mine—glassy, too bright, holding something back.
“What do you know?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she whispers.
It’s a lie. Clean. Immediate. Instinctive.
My jaw tightens. “Sienna—”
“I said nothing.”
She turns too quickly, movement sharp, almost panicked. She grabs her clothes and disappears into the bathroom. The door shuts between us with a quiet finality that lands like a punch to the chest.
I stand there, pulse thudding in my ears, staring at the door like it might open if I will it hard enough.
Too pale.
Too fast.
Too defensive.
The pieces shift in my mind, rearranging themselves into a shape I don’t want to see.
Water starts running on the other side of the door.
I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the thin barrier between us, dread settling heavy in my gut.
Whatever is happening to my gallery didn’t come from outside.
It came from inside my marriage.
That thought lodges itself in my skull, sharp and unwelcome, but I refuse to let it settle. Not yet. What if I’m wrong? What if this is paranoia, jealousy, my own guilt looking for somewhere to land?
And then the darker question follows, relentless.
What if I’m not?
If Sienna is involved in this…if she fed someone information…if this is revenge—
I deserve the pain.
Every ounce of it.
But I won’t let it stand.
I leave the suite without another look at the bathroom door and head downstairs. My fingers move fast over my phone as I text Marko.
Garage. Now. We’re going to the gallery.
By the time I reach the car, he’s already there. This time, I don’t wait for him to open the door. I get behind the wheel. Marko slides into the passenger seat without comment.
“Found anything yet?” I ask as I start the engine.
He shakes his head. “Nothing solid. Whoever did this covered their tracks well. No sloppy entries. No obvious leaks. This isn’t amateur work.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re good,” he says grimly. “Very good.”