Chapter 17 – Sebastian #2
I drive in silence, knuckles tight on the wheel, the city blurring past as my mind runs faster than the car. Every turn, every red light, stretches the tension tighter in my chest.
When we reach the gallery, chaos greets us at the door.
The director meets me halfway across the floor, face pale, tie loosened, sweat at his temples.
He talks fast—too fast—words tumbling over each other.
Then he leads us into his office. He moves straight to his desk, wakes the computer with a sharp tap of the keyboard, and gestures for me and Marko to come closer.
The screen lights up, and my stomach drops.
Folders scroll past in rapid succession. Red warning icons bloom across the monitor like infections.
“Here,” he says, pulling up an email thread. “These went out at 3:17 a.m. Encrypted. Direct to every major investor.”
My name sits at the top of the signature.
I lean closer. The documents attached look right at first glance—letterheads, timestamps, seals—but the deeper I look, the more wrong they feel. Subtle distortions. A digit off in a serial number. A watermark placed a fraction too low.
Forgery.
He clicks again.
Another window opens. A ledger. Then another. Then another.
“Authentication files,” he says, swallowing. “They’re…gone. Not deleted. Removed. Like they were never here.”
He refreshes the page. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
My jaw tightens.
“And this,” he adds, voice dropping as he pulls up a final file.
Art provenance logs. My logs.
Dates altered. Ownership chains rewritten. Transactions that never happened, now sitting comfortably in the system like they belong there.
Marko exhales sharply behind me.
“Fucking hell.”
The director turns to face me, eyes glossy, almost apologetic. “They didn’t just attack your reputation, Sebastian. They anticipated every defense. If we contest this, we’ll be fighting shadows.”
I straighten slowly, my reflection faint in the darkened screen. Calm settles over me, not peace, but something colder. Sharper.
This isn’t random.
This isn’t messy.
It’s precise. Calculated. Surgical.
Whoever did this knows my world. Knows where to cut to cause maximum damage. Not just financially—but reputationally. The kind of blow that doesn’t just bruise. It cripples.
By the time we step out of the director’s office, Marko is already pacing the corridor, running a hand through his hair, boots striking the marble in short, angry bursts.
“This is insane,” he snaps. “We can’t just stand here and watch them burn you.”
I don’t answer.
My mind is elsewhere. On red hair against white sheets. On glassy eyes that wouldn’t meet mine. On a voice that said ‘nothing’ too quickly.
My instincts coil tight in my gut.
Sienna.
The name lands heavy—but it doesn’t sit alone.
This isn’t the work of someone acting on impulse. This is precision. Infrastructure. Patience. Someone who understands encryption, authentication systems, investor psychology.
Not just her.
Someone backing her.
Using her. Feeding her pieces. Steering the blade while letting her believe she’s in control.
Heat surges up my spine, sharp and blinding.
If someone is manipulating my wife—
If someone thinks they can reach me through her—
I hear Marko’s voice again, sharper now. “Sebastian. Are you listening to me?”
I turn, already moving. “We’re going back to the penthouse.”
He falls into step beside me. “And then?”
“I call every investor and private client myself,” I say, my tone clipped, decisive. “I buy us time. I remind them who I am. What I’ve built. They better not play with me now.”
My jaw locks.
If I find whoever is trying to turn my marriage into a weapon, it will end fast for them. Quiet. Permanent.
By noon, I’ve called everyone I need to, and the bleeding slows. Not stopped, but slowed enough to breathe. Enough to hold the structure together for another day. Still, something feels wrong. Like I’ve patched a wall while the foundation shifts beneath my feet.
Marko and my team are still digging. Mikhailov’s name keeps showing up in our search, but no direct ties link him to the act. I know he’s the culprit; I just need to find a link.
***
When I return home, the suite is quiet.
Too quiet.
Sienna is at the window, knees drawn to her chest, my shirt hanging loose on her frame. She stares out at the city like she’s already somewhere else. Somewhere far away from me.
I approach slowly and sit beside her. Close enough to feel her warmth. Close enough to know she’s trembling. She doesn’t look at me.
For a long moment, I don’t speak. I just exist beside her. Let her feel that I’m here.
“I’m not angry,” I say finally, my voice low.
She exhales, shaky. “Maybe you should be.”
“I’m not angry,” I repeat. “I’m afraid.”
She turns then, eyes snapping to mine. “Of what?”
“That someone has their claws in you.”
Her throat moves. Once. Twice.
I brush my fingers against hers, gentle but deliberate, anchoring her. “You need to tell me the truth, Sienna.”
Her voice cracks. “I don’t know how.”
“Start with one thing,” I murmur. “Just one.”
I hold her gaze, steady, unflinching.
Her lips part. Then close. She can’t. Not yet.
But I see the battle in her eyes. The war she’s waging with herself.
I reach for her hand again, threading my fingers through hers. “I won’t lose you,” I say softly. “Even if you try to run.”
She shakes. A tremor, small but undeniable.
I lean in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple. She leans into me despite herself.
I don’t know yet what Mikhailov has done, but the moment I find out, I’ll burn down everything. And anyone in my way.