Chapter 19 – Sebastian
The more Sienna trembles in my arms, the angrier I become.
It’s subtle at first—the way her fingers curl into my chest like she’s bracing for impact, the shallow hitch in her breath that tells me she’s still half-expecting the ground to give way beneath her. Each tremor feeds the fire in my blood. Each one sharpens my focus.
Mikhailov.
The name detonates in my head like a controlled explosion—precise, devastating, impossible to ignore.
Of all men.
I’ve always known Viktor Mikhailov was dangerous.
Unstable. Opportunistic. A man who smiles like a friend while measuring where to sink the knife.
He’s envied my influence for years—my foothold in the art world, the reach of my private dealings, the quiet power I’ve built without noise or spectacle.
But this?
This is personal.
Using my wife. Crawling into my marriage. Turning her pain into a weapon and aiming it at my throat.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
Sienna’s hand shakes in mine. I feel it immediately. I lace my fingers through hers and squeeze—firm, deliberate, anchoring. A silent command: stay here. I’ve got you.
She looks up at me, eyes bright with guilt and fear, and something in my chest fractures.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, steady, absolute.
Her lips part. “It feels like it is.”
I shake my head once, slow and controlled. “He chose this. He orchestrated it. He exploited an old wound and dressed it up as justice.”
I lift her chin gently, forcing her to meet my eyes. “That makes him the enemy. Not you.”
Her breath stutters. She leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest like she’s finally run out of strength to hold herself upright.
I wrap my arms around her fully now, enclosing her, claiming space and ground and certainty. Inside, something cold and lethal settles into place.
Mikhailov didn’t just make a move.
He declared war.
And wars end only one way, by completely ending the enemy.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, like the words might finally change something if she repeats them enough.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m the one who is sorry.”
Her eyes flicker up, confused, fragile.
I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing over her skin, grounding us both. “He manipulated you using the one wound he knew I caused,” I say quietly. “I won’t let you carry the weight of my mistake.”
She exhales shakily, but I can see it; she doesn’t believe me. Not fully. Guilt is still wrapped tight around her spine, thorned and stubborn, refusing to loosen its grip.
I hate that I put it there.
I hate that Mikhailov found it and used it.
I kiss her again, slower this time. Not to claim. Not to distract. To promise. To anchor her to what’s real. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers for a moment, breathing her in like I need the oxygen.
“I won’t let you face this alone,” I murmur.
Then I rise from the bed.
The shift is immediate. The air changes. Something inside me locks into place—cold, focused, lethal. I reach for the document Mikhailov gave Sienna, spreading them across the bed.
Memory clicks into motion.
“They’re planning a coordinated collapse of my entire client network,” I say, voice steady as I scan the pages. “Multiple forged certificates sent under my name. Anonymous tips routed to Europol. They want me arrested, disgraced, finished.”
Sienna swallows hard. “I didn’t know it was this big.”
“It is.” I look up at her. “Investors are pulling out. Private clients are already speaking to lawyers. Some to the police.”
Her breath stutters. Tears spill over, silent and devastating, and something in my chest cracks open.
“Are you going to get arrested?” she asks, barely audible.
I cross the space between us in two strides and slide my arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the bed and into me until we’re eye level. Her knees part instinctively, drawing closer, and I hold her there, solid, unmovable.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Look at me.”
She does, eyes wet and terrified.
“Your tears hurt me,” I say quietly. “Please stop.”
She nods, trying to breathe through it.
“I know what five years cost you,” I continue, my forehead resting against hers. “I know what I took. But I will not lose you again—to a man who thinks he owns your pain.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice breaking.
I kiss her eyes. Her tears. Her temple. Her jaw. Each touch slow, deliberate—absolution, not desire.
“Sorry doesn’t matter,” I murmur against her skin. “Only what we do now.”
She trembles, leaning into me. “What do we do?”
I hold her tighter for a beat, then answer without hesitation.
“We take control,” I say. “I pull my real ledgers. I bring in my forensic auditors. I call in favors with people who owe me more than loyalty.”
Her eyes search mine.
“And Mikhailov?” she asks.
My jaw tightens.
“He thinks this is chaos,” I say calmly. “But it’s exposure. He moved too fast. He left fingerprints.”
I pull back just enough for her to see my face.
“And when this is over,” I add softly, dangerously, “he won’t ever get close to you again.”
Sienna swallows. “Sebastian…he’s smart. He’s dangerous. He has illegal connections. Getting him won’t be easy.”
A slow smile touches my mouth. She’s right.
“Good,” I say. “Because easy never lasts.”
Thankfully, Konstantin is back. He has a lot of resources accessible to him.
Both government resources and the black market.
He walks the fine line between legal and illegal.
Pretends he prefers the law. Lies to himself about it.
But when it matters, he always chooses the darker road. This will be a piece of cake for him.
I meet her eyes. “Do you trust me?”
The question hangs there—heavy, loaded, terrifying.
She nods. “Yes.”
“Good.” I release a slow breath. “Then we flip the trap.”
I spread the documents across the table, flattening them with my palm.
“Mikhailov thinks he can destroy me through the art world,” I say. “So we take his leverage away. We expose his forgery network before he exposes anything of mine. We trace the attacks back to him. We turn his plan into a confession.”
Her breath catches as she follows the lines, the names, the implications.
“But that would mean—” she starts.
“Yes.” My voice stays calm. Controlled. “We weaponize your involvement.”
Her blood drains from her face. “Sebastian—”
“Listen to me,” I say carefully, stepping closer. “You’re the only person he trusts enough to keep communicating with. If you pull away now, he escalates. He panics. He burns everything.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “But if I stay…he’ll think I’m still helping.”
“Exactly.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes.
Fear follows immediately after.
“I’d be playing spy,” she says.
“No,” I correct softly. “You’d be playing yourself.” I lift my hand, brush my thumb along her wrist, grounding her. “A woman who wants peace. A woman who wants out.”
She swallows, throat working. “And what about you?”
A faint smirk curves my mouth—not amused, not careless. Calculated. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Her eyes darken, worry cutting through the fragile calm we’ve built. “He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
The words aren’t a boast. They’re a fact.
She moves suddenly, cupping my jaw with both hands, fierce in a way that steals the air from my lungs. “Promise me you won’t let him push you into something reckless.”
I turn my head and press a kiss into her palm, slow and deliberate. A vow without paperwork.
“I promise only one thing,” I murmur against her skin. “I won’t let him take you.”
Her breath shudders. Emotion flashes across her face—fear, relief, something dangerously close to love.
She pulls me down into a kiss.
It’s not hungry. Not frantic. It’s slow, desperate, tender—like she’s anchoring herself to me, like she’s asking without words: Stay. Survive. Don’t leave me again.
I answer the only way I know how.
By kissing her back, and holding on.
We fall back onto the bed together, not rushed, not desperate—just tangled. Her head settles on my chest, right over my heartbeat, and I stroke her hair slowly, steadily, until her breathing evens out. She fits there like she always has. Like she always will.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur into the quiet, “you’ll send him a message.”
She shifts slightly, fingers curling into the fabric at my side. “And say what?”
“That you’re ready.”
Her eyes close, lashes trembling. For a second, I think she might pull away. Instead, she exhales.
“But I’m not,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say softly, honest as a blade. “But I am. And I’ll guide you. Every step.”
She nods against my chest, small and resolute, like the decision costs her something precious. Then she curls closer, tucking herself into me as if the world can’t reach her here.
Her eyes squeeze shut.
And I hold her.
Almost an hour later, her breathing changes. It slows, deepens, and evens out as sleep finally claims her. I stay still for a moment, memorizing the weight of her, the warmth, the quiet. Then I carefully slide out of bed, making sure she doesn’t stir, and take my phone with me.
The hallway is dim as I move quickly, barefoot against cold marble. I dial Konstantin before doubt can catch me.
He answers on the fourth ring.
“Send me an address,” I say without preamble. “I need your help.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Just long enough to register. Then, “Okay,” he says, and the line goes dead.
As I reach the foyer, my phone buzzes. A location link flashes on the screen.
“Where are you going?”
Marko’s voice cuts through the silence.
I turn. He’s halfway down the stairs, hair mussed, eyes sharp despite the hour. Always alert. Always watching.
“Go back to sleep,” I say.
“No.” He descends another step. “Tell me.”
I exhale. “I’m going to see Konstantin. I got new information about what happened. He can help.”
Marko’s jaw tightens. “Then I’m coming.”
“No.”
He almost smiles. “You can’t stop me.”
He’s right, and we both know it. I’m wasting time arguing. I shake my head once, sharp and resigned, then turn and head for the door.
Behind me, I hear his footsteps follow.
Marko takes the wheel. The engine hums low as we cut through the sleeping city, streetlights sliding over the windshield in pale streaks. The night feels electric. My pulse matches the speed of the car. Viktor Mikhailov is finally within reach, and the thought sharpens everything inside me.
Silence stretches until Marko breaks it.
“Sienna has something to do with this, doesn’t she?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He exhales slowly, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. She didn’t imagine this. Viktor played her. She underestimated how far he’d go.”
Marko nods once, eyes still on the road. “I can see how that happened.” A beat. Then, quieter, “She also has every reason to want revenge.”
I don’t argue.
“You married her without giving her an apology,” he continues. “You were wrong.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw.
A corner of his mouth twitches, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I hope you both survive this,” he says. “You’ve got too many enemies already. There shouldn’t be a crack in your marriage. Not now.”
I stare out the window, the city blurring past, Konstantin’s address glowing on my phone screen like a destination and a warning all at once.
I don’t respond.
Konstantin lives exactly how I expect him to.
Small building. Nondescript facade. No cameras in plain sight, but I know better. The kind of place you forget the moment you turn the corner. The kind of place men like him choose on purpose.
He opens the door before we knock.
Just…opens it, steps back, and flicks his fingers in a lazy gesture. Come in.
The apartment smells faintly of smoke and metal and something sharp. There’s a single lamp on. No art. No personal touches. A couch. A table. A laptop already open, screen glowing like he’s been waiting.
He motions to the couch.
I don’t sit.
“I need your help.”
Konstantin studies me for a beat, eyes flicking over my face, my posture, the tension coiled too tight to hide.
“This about your business?” he asks calmly.
“So you’ve heard.”
“I didn’t hear,” he says. “I watched it coming.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Meaning?”
He leans back against the counter. “Your wife met Viktor Mikhailov. The night we were at the bar.”
The words land wrong.
My brow furrows. “You saw her?”
“I did.”
For a second, I don’t know whether to be angry or impressed. Both, probably.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Konstantin shrugs. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do when it mattered. I don’t get information by tattling, brother.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he says flatly. “You hurt her.”
The statement is casual. Not accusatory. Just…fact.
“You knew about that too.”
He rolls his eyes. “Sebastian, if I look hard enough, I know what you’ll eat in three days. I know which of your investors cheat on their wives and which ones cheat on their taxes.” A pause. “Information is my language.”
I exhale through my nose. “That’s why I’m here.”
Marko stays silent behind me. Watching. Listening.
“I want Viktor Mikhailov dismantled,” I say. “Carefully. Completely.”
Konstantin’s interest sharpens.
“He used my wife,” I continue, voice low, controlled. “Fed her revenge dressed up as justice. Then escalated. Forged documents. Contaminated my provenance records. Triggered investor panic. Routed anonymous tips to Europol.” I meet his eyes. “He’s trying to bury me under my own name.”
Konstantin nods slowly, already following.
“I want everything,” I say. “His illegal galleries. His shell companies. His off-book shipments. His forged certificates. His money trails. His contacts in customs, in enforcement, in the black market. I want leverage so heavy he won’t be able to breathe without my permission.”
Silence stretches.
Then Konstantin turns away from us.
He moves to the laptop, fingers already flying, screens changing too fast for most people to track. Names. Files. Maps. Accounts.
“You’re asking for a counterstrike.”
“Yes.”
A thin smile curves his mouth.
“Good,” he says. “Because men like Viktor don’t stop unless he’s made to understand consequences.”
He looks back at me, eyes cold and calculating.
“And once we start,” he adds, “there’s no half-measures.”
I don’t blink.
“I don’t want half,” I say. “I want final.”
Konstantin nods once.
“Then sit,” he says. “And let’s see how deep the rot goes.”