Chapter 22 – Sienna
The drive home is quiet, but the silence isn’t empty. Sebastian’s hand finds mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow, grounding circles. I don’t deserve the gentleness, yet I cling to it anyway, like it’s the only lifeline I’ve had in years.
When we finally reach the suite, he locks the door behind us with a slow, deliberate motion. Then he leans against it, eyes dark, sharp, and impossibly focused on me—as if he can see every secret I’ve tried to bury.
“Tell me everything,” he says, voice calm, but there’s an undercurrent in it that makes my chest tighten.
I can’t sit. My legs refuse. I pace instead, the carpet muffling my footsteps, hands twisting in front of me. Ashamed. Terrified. Every memory that I’ve tried to push away crawls to the surface, relentless.
I remember the way he told Mikhailov I’m the only woman he’s ever loved. The words hit me harder than I expected. Could it be true? Does he really mean it? Or was that just another one of his calculated moves, another layer of the man I’ve spent years trying to decipher?
Even if it is true, even if his love is real…what if he hates me after hearing everything? What if my confession shatters the fragile trust we’ve clawed back from the edges of disaster?
My throat tightens, and I start, “I—”
He moves before I can finish. One moment there’s space between us, the next his hand is at my throat—not squeezing, but holding, thumb resting beneath my jaw, fingers firm enough to steal my breath anyway. His gaze pins me in place, dark and unrelenting.
“You’re testing my patience, Sienna,” he says quietly. Dangerously. “Because right now, as I look at you, all I can think about is burying myself so deep inside you that I forget everything. I’m holding back because you look like you’re about to break.”
His thumb shifts, tilting my chin up. Forcing me to meet his eyes.
“But if you don’t speak,” he continues, voice low and edged with restraint, “then forget this conversation. We move on. And I won’t ask again.”
Something in his control—how carefully he’s not hurting me—undoes me more than anger ever could.
“I never meant for it to go this far,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before fear can stop them. “I never meant to put you in danger.”
His hand loosens but doesn’t leave. He listens.
“When Mikhailov approached me five years ago, I was broken. Humiliated. Angry.” My voice shakes. “You disappeared without a word. No explanation. No goodbye. And he knew exactly how to twist that pain.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking as he absorbs every word. He doesn’t interrupt.
“He told me I could ruin your career the way you ruined my heart,” I continue. “That one review—just one—could destroy you the way you destroyed me.”
Sebastian exhales slowly and turns his head away, just enough that I see it: the guilt. Sharp. Undeniable. Real.
“But I didn’t do it,” I say quickly, needing him to understand.
“I couldn’t. I only became a critic because of my mother.
Because she taught me to respect art—to protect it.
I refused to desecrate someone’s work like that.
Even yours.” My voice cracks. “Even though you hurt me more than anyone ever has.”
His hand finally drops from my throat.
“So five years ago,” I finish, “I walked away from Mikhailov. I didn’t work with him. I didn’t touch your name.”
The room feels unbearably still.
“Until I came back,” Sebastian says quietly.
I nod. “Until you came back.” My voice wavers, but I force myself to keep going. “Until I saw the wedding alliance. And all the pain came back.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s when Viktor reached out again,” I say.
“This time, it wasn’t about a review. He’d figured out he couldn’t use me that way.
” I swallow. “He found out about the arranged marriage before you did. He told me it was fate—that the universe was giving me the perfect chance to finish what I started.”
Sebastian’s fingers curl slowly into the edge of the table. The wood creaks under the pressure.
“And you listened,” he says.
Tears blur my vision. “I did. But only at first.”
His eyes lift to mine, sharp. Unforgiving. Waiting.
“He said he needed small things,” I continue. “Harmless things. Notes on your habits. Copies of your public reviews. Tiny details. Nothing malicious. Nothing that would hurt you.”
“And then?” His voice is flat. Controlled.
“Then he escalated behind my back.” My chest tightens. “He used my access to your gallery files. He sent falsified certificates under your signature. He used my name to authenticate fake provenance logs.”
Sebastian’s head snaps up. “You didn’t send those?”
“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t even know how. He used my identity. My digital trail.” My voice breaks. “My vulnerability.”
Sebastian closes his eyes and exhales slowly, like he’s holding back something dangerous. Something final.
I take a step toward him, hands trembling, afraid and desperate all at once.
“I didn’t mean to betray you,” I say softly.
“I just…didn’t know how to stop him.” My voice cracks, but I don’t look away.
“I was stupid, Sebastian. Not cruel. Not calculating. Just hurt. And he took advantage of that.” I swallow hard.
“I swear to you, I never wanted this. I never wanted you ruined. I never wanted a war.”
He opens his eyes.
My heart stutters—because instead of fury, I see devastation.
“You should have told me,” he says quietly.
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you again,” I whisper. “This time for good.”
His hands come up, framing my face. His thumbs brush away tears I don’t remember shedding, gentle in a way that almost breaks me.
“I’m the one who left,” he murmurs. “I’m the one who broke something I didn’t understand. I’m the one who deserved your anger.” His forehead rests against mine. “But you didn’t deserve to carry this alone.”
A sob tears out of my chest before I can stop it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Sebastian kisses me—not with heat, not with desperation, but with aching, deliberate tenderness.
“I forgive you,” he breathes against my lips.
My knees nearly buckle.
He lowers me to the couch, sliding beside me, pulling me into his lap with quiet finality. My face buries against his neck as I cry into his skin, every tremor, every gasp, every frantic apology spilling uncontrollably.
He holds me through it all, strong and unyielding, his hands mapping my back, his warmth grounding me in a way I never thought possible. For the first time, the weight in my chest doesn’t feel like it’s mine alone—it’s shared.
When my tears finally fade, he strokes my hair, his touch gentle but deliberate.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers, voice low and certain, “we take everything he tried to use against us. And we turn it into his downfall.”
I nod weakly, my chest still heaving.
“And after that?” I murmur, almost afraid of the answer.
He tilts my face up, eyes blazing, fierce and raw.
“After that,” he says slowly, deliberately, “we start over. Properly. No lies. No revenge. Just you and me.”
My breath catches in my throat. My heart beats so loud it feels like it might shatter the quiet.
Then he kisses me again, his hands tangling in my hair, anchoring me. The world falls away. In that moment, everything feels right again. Safe. Whole. Us.
Just when I think he’ll go deeper, take me the way he promised earlier, he pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and careful. “About your mother. I…I want to know how she died. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
I swallow, my throat tight. “She was sick…when I was seven. It lasted until I was eight, and then…she died.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, just studies me, and I feel the weight of his concern pressing gently against me.
“How did you cope so young…without her?” he asks quietly.
I shrug, voice catching. “Aunt Isla did her best, but mostly…I was raised by nannies. A different one almost every year, because my father…he wasn’t the easiest person to work for.
He raised his voice too much. He’s arrogant.
” I pause, the memory bitter. “I went to boarding school as well. And…I just…got through life on my own, mostly.”
Sebastian doesn’t hesitate.
“You’ll never be lonely again,” he says quietly. “Not for one more day. You have me now. Always.”
Something inside me loosens. I smile, small but real, and lean closer, as if testing the truth of his words by the warmth of his body.
After a moment, he asks, “What do you want to do after all this is over?” His thumb traces slow circles at my waist. “Do you want to continue being a critic…or do you want to be more involved with art?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “I want my own space,” I say. “A private gallery. An art museum. Somewhere I run the show. Somewhere art is protected, not exploited.”
His mouth curves into a smile—proud, knowing.
“If you want,” he says casually, like he isn’t about to offer me the world, “I can go exclusive.”
I stiffen. “Exclusive?”
“My work,” he continues. “In only your gallery. Your museum. Nowhere else.”
I gasp, lifting my head to stare at him. “You’d really do that? For me?”
His gaze softens, dangerous and devoted all at once. “I’ve discovered there’s nothing I can’t do for you, yakarya.”
The word hits me like a memory reborn.
My breath stutters. He hasn’t called me that in years. Not since five years ago.
I lean into him, lips brushing his ear as I whisper, “I want you so bad, Sebastian. Stop talking and make love to me.”
His eyes blaze with desire. “You don’t have to tell me twice, baby.”