He leads us through the dim, glowing space—floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city sprawled beneath us like a constellation. Candles flicker. Music hums low and intimate. There is only one table set, positioned perfectly at the center of the room.
The only table.
Sebastian pulls out my chair and waits until I sit before taking his place across from me.
I shake my head, still stunned. “We only agreed to this last night. Beelines doesn’t do last-minute reservations. They barely do reservations.”
His lips curve. “I have certain connections that make things…flexible.”
Before I can press him, he brings his hands together in a soft clap.
Almost instantly, servers appear from seemingly nowhere—quiet, precise, dressed in black and moving like a choreographed performance.
Menus are placed. Water poured. Wine presented.
I glance at Sebastian, my pulse ticking faster despite myself.
“What would you like to eat?” he asks.
I hesitate for half a second, then shrug lightly. “Surprise me.”
His mouth curves into a pleased smile. He doesn’t even glance at the menu.
He turns to the servers and rattles off an order in a low, confident voice—courses, pairings, details delivered like facts he’s memorized long ago. They nod in unison and vanish as quietly as they arrived.
I raise a brow. “You didn’t even ask if I have allergies.”
“If you did, I’d know already,” he says calmly.
That should bother me.
It doesn’t.
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “When did you start critiquing art?”
The question catches me off guard—not because it’s invasive, but because of the way he asks it. No edge. No challenge. Just genuine curiosity.
“And why?” he adds. “Why criticism, instead of creation?”
I study his face for a moment, searching for mockery, for a trap.
There’s none.
So I answer.
“I grew up around art,” I say slowly. “Collectors. Galleries. People who talked about meaning but mostly cared about price tags. I learned early that not everyone who buys art actually sees it.”
His eyes stay on mine, intent, unblinking.
“I didn’t want to make art for people like that,” I continue. “I wanted to protect it. To translate it. To call out the empty things pretending to be profound.” I shrug. “Someone had to.”
“And you decided that someone would be you.”
“Yes.” I smile faintly. “I’m good at it. I don’t soften the truth to make people comfortable.”
“I noticed,” he says, quietly.
There’s no offense in his tone. If anything, there’s approval.
