She discovers it in the restroom.
Curiosity lights her face. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips before she catches herself and smooths it away.
That smile twists something cruel inside me.
I continue.
Letters. Observations. Distance.
I follow her without being seen, tracking her days the way I track patterns in forged work. I learn her habits. Her rhythms. Her silences.
The way she pauses in front of art pieces that most people walk past without a glance. The way she tilts her head slightly when something almost moves her. The way her fingers tracethe stem of her wine glass when she’s thinking—slow, absent, intimate.
I watch everything.
I file it all away.
For later.
***
Later arrives at the biggest art event of the year.
Tonight, I won’t hide.
Tonight, I’ll step out of the shadows and let her see me—reallysee me. I know enough about her now to disarm her. Enough to intrigue her without overpowering her. Enough to make her curious before she realizes she’s already too close.
I straighten my jacket as the car pulls to a stop, the city glittering like a dare beyond the doors.
I’m done observing.
When I enter the hall, the shift is immediate. Conversations taper off, laughter stutters, bodies subtly reorient. I’m used to it. Presence does that when it’s cultivated carefully.
I scan the room once—only once—until I find her.
Sienna Roth stands near a large-scale installation, champagne flute loose in her hand, posture effortless, alert. She’s already looking at me. Holding my gaze like she’s daring me to blink first.
She doesn’t know me.
I know her. Very, very well.
I walk toward her without hesitation, the crowd parting instinctively. I stop a few feet away and extend my hand, a smile curving my mouth.
“Hello, Miss Roth. I’m Sebastian Rusnak.”
She takes my hand. Her grip is firm, deliberate. No hesitation. No nerves. She looks at me like I’m a problem worth solving. Like I’m a man worth knowing.
I smile down at her.
“I’ve wanted to meet you,” I say. And I mean it.
Just not for the reason she thinks.
She studies my face for a beat, then frowns slightly. “Do I know you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But you wrote a review about my work.”
Recognition blooms—slow, sharp. Her eyes widen just a fraction.
