“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.”
Chapter 23 – Sebastian
Dawn breaks warm and pale, streaks of honey-gold spilling across the studio as I stand over the table of documents, Marko beside me, piecing together the final strike. Konstantin had sent everything overnight—proof of Mikhailov’s laundering, falsified provenance logs he’s used against half the galleries in Europe, encrypted communications linking him to stolen Vatican artifacts.
The evidence is catastrophic.
Perfect.
I let my hand brush across the top sheet, feeling the weight of it—not just paper, but leverage, justice, control. Marko shifts beside me, quiet, efficient. He knows this is the kind of morning you never forget.
“Everything’s here,” I murmur, voice low, deliberate. “Every threat, every lie, every manipulation. He won’t see this coming.”
Mikhailov signed the confession yesterday.
But that isn’t the end.
It’s only the beginning.
A legal retraction clears my name.
A signed statement protects my galleries.
Disclaimers will explain how he framed me.
None of that destroys him.
And I don’t want him merely exposed.
I want him seen.
I want the world to understand exactly who Viktor Mikhailov is—the kind of man who weaponizes women’s pain, who forges histories, who hides rot behind curated respectability. The kind of man who tried to turn my wife into a villain to disguise his own corruption.
