I hesitate.
Because she’s right. I’m not shaking. I’m not afraid. I’m alert—but beneath that, there’s something else. A pull. A curiosity I don’t quite recognize in myself.
I fold the note carefully and slide it back into my bag.
“Well…” Vivian prods, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“You’re the strongest woman I know, Sienna. You’re no damsel in distress. If you didn’t want this, you would’ve put an end to it.”
“I just don’t like not knowing who it is,” I say.
“That’s the thing,” she replies, tilting her head. “If you’d met him first, you probably wouldn’t be this interested.”
I scoff quickly. “I’m not interested. I’m just…curious.”
Vivian laughs, delighted. “Sure. Curious.” She taps her chin. “You could try guessing who it is.”
I shrug. “The first letter implied I’d critiqued their work before. That narrows it down to…everyone. Literally, my job is to criticize people.”
She nods, conceding. “Fair. Then enjoy it. And if it ever gets overwhelming, you know you can have your family take care of it.”
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, buying myself a moment.
The last thing I’ll do is call my family.
The Roth name opens doors, yes, but it stains everything it touches. Power built on quiet violence, money that never stays clean. I’ve spent years carving out a life that exists far from their shadow. I barely know their world, and I don’t want to start now.
If it comes to it, there’s the police.
But for now?
I let the thought settle as the café hums around us, sunlight glinting off cutlery, laughter spilling freely from nearby tables.
For now…I’ll let the notes keep coming.
***
One week later, I’m driving to the most exclusive art gala in the country, held in the Upper East Side, where money doesn’t announce itself; it whispers. The streets are lined with black cars and polished stone, security posted like decor, discretion stitched into every corner.
I should be thinking about the art. About who I’ll see. Who I’ll avoid.
Instead, I anticipate.
For weeks now, it’s become a pattern. Every time I step into a public art space, every time I move through rooms filled with canvases and curated egos, I receive a letter. Always anonymous. Always incisive. Always…watching.
Tonight is the biggest art event of the year.
Of course I’ll get one.
I pull up, bypass the red carpet entirely, and slip through a side entrance reserved for “special guests”—the guests who don’t need cameras to validate their presence. Inside, the air is cool and expensive, perfumed with champagne and ambition.
I pluck a glass from a passing server and take a slow sip, letting the bubbles ground me as I acclimate to the room. The space glows: crystal chandeliers, white marble floors, walls lined with pieces that cost more than most people’s homes.
Collectors cluster. Artists posture. Critics observe.
I hate to admit it, but my gaze drifts.
Scanning faces. Doorways. Reflections in glass.
