I tell myself I’m still in control. That this is about timing. About her review. About finishing what I started.
I don’t let myself question why my chest feels hollow as I step out into the night. I leave without looking back.
***
Her review goes live the next morning.
I’m in the studio when Marko storms in, tablet in hand, eyes sharp with something between triumph and accusation.
“Sienna posted a review of your work,” he says. “First thing this morning.”
I don’t respond immediately. I’m standing in front of a half-finished canvas, charcoal smudged on my fingers, pretending my pulse hasn’t already picked up.
Marko clears his throat and reads aloud anyway.
Sebastian Rusnak reveals a depth I previously failed to see. His work is haunting, intricate, brilliant, and devastatingly honest. This collection marks not a correction, but an evolution.
A beat.
It’s a glowing redemption. A professional resurrection.
I smile.
It’s small. Controlled. Satisfied.
“The business line is lighting up nonstop,” he says. “Notifications stacking, emails flooding in.” Marko scrolls the device. “I can’t even keep up.”
I hum.
“It’s viral. Abram Powers left three messages. He wants a private meeting. Congratulations, you’re officially untouchable again.”
“Ignore them,” I say calmly.
Marko looks up. “I knew you’d say that.”
I don’t respond.
He studies me for a moment. “What’s next?”
Before I can answer, my phone starts ringing. Marko grabs it.
“It’s Sienna.”
Her name fills the screen, and for half a second—just half—I feel it. That tug. That warmth. That dangerous pull in my chest.
Marko sees it. Of course he does.
“Pick up,” he says. “Start over. Stop pretending this was only revenge.”
I shake my head. “No.”
He exhales sharply. “Sebastian—”
“I don’t need her anymore.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I glare at him. “Drop it.”
