Sebastian Rusnak.
On paper, it’s flawless.
Two influential families.
Two carefully cultivated reputations.
A union that strengthens alliances my father values with a greedy, almost feverish pride.
The art world will call it poetic. The press will frame it as redemption—the critic and the artist, reunited in love.
I almost laugh.
At first, my family tries to cajole me. Gentle persuasion. Strategic praise. They know how stubborn I am, how allergic I am to being managed.
They’re stunned when I agree immediately.
No arguments.
No negotiations.
No resistance.
“Why?” my father asks, suspicion sharpening his tone.
I shrug. “I want to help strengthen the family alliance.”
That’s all I give them.
They’re overjoyed.
Funny.
They have no idea what I’m doing.
I look back down at the contract.
I don’t see a union.
I see a noose—placed carefully, elegantly, around Sebastian Rusnak’s neck.
I see a stage where I’ll stand with perfect composure, smiling for the cameras while poisoning him in private.
I see a cage I step into willingly.
Just so I can burn it down from the inside.
Five years ago, he used me.
He watched me.
Learned me.
Took my body, my trust, my silence—and walked away the moment I was done serving his purpose.
And I fell.
Damn, I fell.
