No one has ever looked at me like that.
Men have wanted me before. They’ve flirted, chased, postured. But Sebastian’s gaze is different. It strips without touching. It lingers without permission. With a single look, he undresses me—not my clothes, but my composure. My certainty.
And the infuriating thing is, he’s never said anything inappropriate. Never made a crude remark. Never crossed into something I could easily reject without consequence.
Which makes it worse.
Because when his eyes meet mine across a crowded room, something coils low in my stomach: tight, unwelcome, undeniable.
I tell myself it’s irritation.
I tell myself it’s anger.
But irritation doesn’t make my pulse trip when he steps closer. Anger doesn’t make me hyper-aware of the space between our bodies, of the quiet confidence in the way he stands, as if he already knows how this ends.
I hate that he’s gotten under my skin.
I hate that some nights, when I’m alone in my apartment, I catch myself wondering where he is. What he’s doing. Whether he’s thinking about me the way I try—and fail—not to think about him.
This isn’t like me.
I’m Sienna Roth. I dismantle men like him for a living. I turn their work inside out, expose the cracks, and walk away untouched.
And yet—
Every time I refuse him, his eyes darken just slightly. Not with anger. With satisfaction.
As if my resistance isn’t a wall but an invitation.
Whatever this is between us, I like it. A lot.
That realization alone is enough to make me reckless, so I do the sensible thing and distract myself.
Tonight, I’m on a date with Vivian—strictly platonic, strictly grounding. We pick an upscale restaurant tucked just off Madison Avenue, all low lighting and polished brass.
Surprisingly, it works.
We’re halfway through dinner, and Sebastian isn’t in my head.
Vivian is animated, gesturing with her fork as she tells me about her most recent art purchase. We’re sharing burrata drizzled with olive oil and blistered heirloom tomatoes arranged like they belong in a still life. For mains, I have seared sea bass resting on a bed of saffron risotto, the skin perfectly crisp, the flesh melting at the slightest pressure of my fork. Vivian went for the filet mignon—medium rare, of course—because Vivian believes anything else is a personal insult.
We’re drinking a bottle of Burgundy she insisted on ordering. Something smooth and indulgent, all dark fruit. It’s the kind of wine that makes you loosen without realizing it.
“…and the dealer swore it was his last piece in private hands,” Vivian is saying, eyes bright. “Abstract, late period. I shouldn’t have bought it, but the brushwork—Sienna, it spoke to me.”
I nod, genuinely interested. “You say that every time you overspend.”
“And I’m right every time,” she shoots back, smiling.
I take a sip of wine, savoring the way it warms my chest, the way the restaurant hums softly around us. For the first time in days, my shoulders relax. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t tell Vivian about Sebastian—or let him become the topic of our conversation. He would’ve ruined the night just by existing in it.
By the time we finish our plates, a dull pressure settles in my bladder.
“Hold that thought,” I tell Vivian, dabbing my mouth with my napkin. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Should I come with?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Our wine’s already open. Stay and guard it.”
