“You’re not offended by the review I gave you?” I ask, studying him.
He laughs softly, the sound low and unforced. “Why should I be?”
I shrug. “Most artists are.”
“Well….” He tilts his head slightly, considering. “I think you could have chosen your words more carefully,” he admits. “But like you, I love art. And loving art means protecting it—from complacency, from worship without thought, from people who stop asking questions.”
My fingers tighten subtly around my glass.
“That means accommodating critics,” he continues, unhurried. “Reviews. Dissent. Discomfort. It means accepting that some people see, and I happen to admire people who see beyond the obvious.”
Something warm coils low in my stomach.
Hmm.
I hold his gaze, emboldened. “Do you think my critique was wrong?”
“In a way,” he says, nodding once.
My brows lift. “How so?”
“Art is subjective,” he replies. “Two people can stare at the same piece and walk away with entirely different truths. You saw something unfinished. Someone else might see restraint. Or mystery. Or a mirror of themselves.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “Your critique wasn’t false. It was your observation. And observations are always right to the observer.”
I blink.
No one has ever framed it that way for me. Ever.
The idea settles slowly, reshaping something I didn’t realize was rigid.
“I’m not apologizing for my critiques,” I say finally.
He smiles, almost pleased. “Good. I wouldn’t be sitting here if you were that kind of woman.”
The server returns just then, setting the first course between us, but the energy at the table has shifted.
This isn’t a standoff anymore.
It’s a conversation.
“This smells good, doesn’t it?” Sebastian says, already reaching for his fork.
There’s something almost childlike in his anticipation—so unexpected from a man who usually carries himself like he owns every room he enters—that it catches me off guard.
“It does,” I say, chuckling.
“I hope you have a big appetite,” he adds. “I do.”
I laugh softly and pick up my cutlery.
Normally, dinners like this make me hyper-aware of posture, etiquette, the unspoken rules of performance. But with Sebastian, that rigidity melts away. He eats while he talks, gestures with his fork, leans back comfortably in his chair. The table fills with warmth, with an easy familiarity that feels…dangerous in how natural it is.
“You mentioned earlier that some artists get upset by your reviews,” he says casually.
“Yes,” I nod, taking a bite.
“What was your most chilling experience with one?”
I laugh. “Oh, that was when I first started.”
