She’s precise. Surgical. Brutal without being sloppy. She dismantles careers with elegance and sleeps soundly afterward because she believes in the righteousness of her truth.
Too intelligent for her own good.
And critiquing me?
That was arrogance.
A step too far.
Not because she spoke, but because she spoke without understanding what she was touching. She thinks art exists in isolation. That it can be evaluated without consequence. That words don’t echo beyond the page.
She needs to learn that there are things you don’t reach for simply because you can.
Not everything should be dissected.
Not everything survives scrutiny intact.
And Sienna Roth—brilliant, untouchable Sienna Roth—has wandered too close to something that doesn’t forgive easily.
I don’t plan to hurt her.
I plan to educate her.
Slowly.
Intimately.
Until she understands exactly what she woke up to when she decided to take my name apart in public.
***
My first interaction with Sienna Roth happens at a gallery event later that week.
I don’t approach her. Not yet.
I write her a letter instead.
Your critique was the first honest thing this city has heard in years. I’d like to meet the woman who sees through the shadows.
Short. Simple. Flattering, but not fawning. The kind of sentence that respects her intelligence without surrendering mine.
I have Marko deliver it. He blends in easily, murmuring something to the bartender, slipping the envelope across the counter like it’s nothing more than a receipt. Then he disappears and melts into the room.
I watch from the shadows.
She takes the note with mild curiosity, her fingers elegant and unhurried. Her face is a mask—controlled, polished, unreadable to most.
Not to me.
I catch it. The fractional pause. The way her eyes sharpen, then soften. Interest flickers there, brief but undeniable.
She likes it.
That realization coils low in my gut, dark and satisfying.
Her intrigue intrigues me in return, sharpens something predatory and patient inside my chest. So I write another.
This time, it’s at an exhibition. It’s quieter, more intimate. Marko slips the note into her coat pocket without her noticing, fingers precise, breath timed to the crowd’s movement.
