I start reading.
Halfway through, the smile fades.
By the final paragraph, it’s gone completely.
“Rusnak’s work is technically skilled but emotionally hollow. It imitates genius rather than generating it. The art feels unfinished, as if the artist is too afraid to confront his own depth.”
For a moment, the office goes quiet.
Too quiet.
What?
I reread it. Slowly. Carefully. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable if I give them time.
They don’t.
A pressure blooms behind my eyes—not anger exactly. Something colder. Sharper.
“Who the hell is this?” I murmur, more to myself than to Abram.
He watches me closely now. Measuring. Assessing damage.
“She doesn’t miss,” he says carefully. “And she doesn’t retract.”
I don’t respond.
Instead, I tap her name into my browser.
Her face loads instantly.
Copper-red hair. Pale, porcelain skin. Impeccably styled. Designer suits. Probably some rich bitch who knows exactly how much damage her words can do—and enjoys the precision of it.
Beautiful, I’ll give her that.
Extremely beautiful.
A dark image flashes unbidden in my head. Her perfect composure shattered, that porcelain skin cracked, stained with her blood.
I shut it down instantly.
No.
That’s the Rusnak blood stirring. The old instinct. The ugly one.
Here, I’m not that man.
Here, I’m an artist.
Violence would be crude. Ineffective. Beneath this.
If I want to correct this—if I want to win—there are cleaner ways.
I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket, my expression smoothing into calm.
“She’s wrong,” I say evenly.
Abram purses his lips, the earlier warmth gone. “Rusnak—Roth’s word is bond. Everyone knows she doesn’t fib.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “This doesn’t speak well of you.”
