“I’m Sebastian Rusnak.”
Chapter 3 – Sebastian
Five Years Ago
“So, Rusnak, I’ve always loved your work. I truly believe I’m watching the rise of a once-in-a-lifetime talent,” Abram Powers says, leaning back in his chair like a man accustomed to owning the air around him. “I have over ten of your pieces already, and frankly, I intend to keep buying until you get too expensive for even me.”
I let a small, practiced smile touch my mouth and nod once, as if his words don’t echo the same praise I’ve heard from men like him for years.
Abram’s office is exactly what men like him think power should look like.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Midtown Manhattan, the skyline stretched out like a kingdom at his feet. Steel, glass, and polished walnut dominate the space. No warmth. No clutter. Just expensive restraint. Abstract sculptures sit in corners—pieces bought, not loved. A Rothko hangs behind his desk, real, authenticated, insured for more than most people’s lifetimes.
I helped verify it three years ago.
Abram steeples his fingers, studying me with open fascination. He’s in his late sixties, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed. A kingmaker. The kind of man who funds art movements without ever getting his hands dirty.
“I’ve been following your evolution,” he continues. “Early work was impressive—raw, hungry. But what you’re doing now? It’s refined. Controlled. Dangerous.” He smiles. “That last part is a compliment.”
“Of course,” I say mildly.
He laughs, pleased. “You don’t deny it. I like that.”
He rises and walks toward the windows, gesturing vaguely at the city. “Art isn’t about beauty anymore, Sebastian. It’s about influence. And influence requires access.”
He’s about to continue when his phone buzzes on the table.
“Excuse me,” he says, already reaching for it.
I stay silent, watching him scroll. The faint satisfaction on his face tightens into something else—a frown, quick and sharp. He glances up at me, studying me in a way he wasn’t a moment ago.
“Roth just posted a review about you.”
It takes a second for the name to settle.
“Who?” I ask calmly.
“Sienna Roth,” he adds.
Oh.
The art critic.
Our paths have never crossed. Never met. Never spoken. Intentionally. Critics orbit artists like parasites, feeding off proximity, and my work has never needed her approval. I’ve existed far above that ecosystem.
“She just critiqued your work,” Abram continues.
I don’t react. Don’t tense. Don’t rush.
She’s probably praising it. That’s what usually happens. I’ve never had a negative review about my work.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, right on cue.
Abram nods toward it. “I just forwarded it to you. It’s already going viral.”
A small, indulgent smile touches my lips as I pull my phone out. I expect flattery. Reverence. Maybe envy dressed up as intellectual restraint.
The review is short. Too short.
