Headlines. Think pieces. Reaction threads.
“Has Rusnak Been Overhyped?”
“Sienna Roth Finally Says What Everyone’s Been Afraid To.”
“Technical Skill Isn’t Genius—Roth Dismantles Rusnak.”
It was a public execution delivered with a silk-gloved hand.
I scroll.
Comments pile up like vultures.
“She’s right. His work never made me feel anything.”
“I always thought something was missing.”
“Guess money can’t buy soul.”
Humiliation eats at me like acid—slow, corrosive, deliberate.
Years of precision. Control. Ascension.
Undone by a few paragraphs written by a woman who’s never held charcoal long enough to feel it burn into her skin.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“She cost you money,” Marko says quietly.
“She cost me leverage,” I correct.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Want me to dig?”
“I already am.”
I tap through her social media profile.
Sienna Roth. British-American. Chelsea apartment. Renowned art critic. Untouchable reputation. No scandals. No bribes. No obvious weaknesses.
Perfect.
Which means the cracks are hidden.
I click through images of her—gallery openings, panels, interviews. Always composed. Always sharp. Red lipstick like a challenge. Eyes that look straight into the lens, daring someone to flinch first.
There’s something familiar in that gaze.
Something irritating.
Something that makes my skin prickle.
“She doesn’t bluff,” Marko says. “If she said it, she meant it.”
“I don’t need her to like my work,” I say coldly. “I need her to retract.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
I look out the window, watching the city smear into motion. “Then I’ll make her look again.”
