Marko’s mouth curves slightly. “You planning to scare her?”
“No,” I say. “That would be crude.”
I scroll once more, then lock the phone.
“I’m going to meet her.”
Marko stiffens. “Seb—”
“Not like that,” I cut in. “I won’t touch her. I won’t threaten her. I won’t even argue.”
I lean back, my reflection faint in the glass.
“I’ll intrigue her,” I say. “Confuse her. Make her doubt her certainty.”
Marko studies me for a moment, then nods once. “That’s worse.”
“Yes,” I agree calmly.
Because Sienna Roth didn’t just critique my work.
She challenged my identity.
And I don’t destroy critics with force.
I make them curious.
I make them close.
And then I make them see exactly how wrong they were.
***
For one week after that meeting, I trail her in the shadows.
Marko offers to do it. Says it’s dirty work. Says I shouldn’t be the one this close to the flame.
I tell him no.
This is personal.
I learn her rhythms the way I learn brushstrokes—quietly, patiently, without rushing the process.
I watch her enter her apartment building every morning, posture straight, steps measured, security-coded door sliding shut behind her like the world bending to accommodate her presence. I wait. I always wait. Then I watch her walk out again, coffee in hand, phone tucked under her arm, mind already ten steps ahead of everyone else.
I don’t rush her.
I study her.
She’s tall. Taller than most women. Moves like she’s aware of the space she occupies and refuses to shrink for it. Her copper-red hair catches the sun like it’s been set alight, impossible to ignore even when she’s trying to blend in. She always wears red lipstick—always the same shade. A signature. A declaration. Like she’s daring someone to tell her she’s too much.
Perfect white designer suits. Crisp lines. No excess. Everything is intentional.
A pristine socialite degree wrapped around a razor-sharp intellect.
The type of woman who believes knowledge is armor. Who walks through rooms with her chin lifted, eyes assessing, cataloguing. The kind of woman who thinks she understands everything she looks at—and maybe she usually does.
I’ve read her other reviews.
