The guilt—buried deep, but not deep enough—cracking his perfectly controlled façade when he realizes I didn’t just accept this marriage.
I chose it.
I wonder if his hands still carry traces of ink or paint or charcoal. I wonder if he ever thinks of me in unguarded moments—if my name ever crosses his mind when he’s alone, when the bravado drops.
I wonder if he sleeps well at night.
I hope he doesn’t.
Next to the contract on my bed lie two other documents.
The first is the original review—the one that started everything. The one that cut deep enough to drag him out of his shadows and straight into my life. The words are still sharp, still precise. I remember writing them with a clear mind and steady hands, unaware that honesty would cost me my heart.
The second is the last review I ever wrote about him.
The glowing one.
The one I published after falling under his spell. After he made me believe I was special. After he made me believe I was his muse.
Gosh, I was stupid.
I pick them up one after the other, scanning the lines like they were written by two different women. One was untouched. The other was in love.
I fold the papers carefully and tuck them into my file.
My revenge won’t be loud. It won’t be impulsive. It won’t be sloppy.
It will be meticulous.
I will strip him the way he once stripped me—word by word, piece by piece, trust by trust. Let him think he still has the upper hand.
Let him think he’s walking toward a powerful alliance, a beautiful wife, a seamless future.
He has no idea.
No idea that every step he’s taking leads him closer to the edge I’ve spent five years sharpening.
And this time, when he falls, there will be no one left to catch him.
Chapter 7 – Sebastian
The Calloway restaurant is designed to intimidate.
Glass walls hang suspended over the river, giving the illusion that the entire structure might drift away if it chose to. Chandeliers shaped like frozen droplets hover above silk-black tablecloths, candlelight shivering against crystal and steel. This is the kind of place where silence costs as much as the wine—where businessmen bury scandals and criminals launder reputations with a single reservation.
It feels correct.
Poetic, even, that this is where I will face her again.
I arrive early.
The meeting is set for seven. It’s six forty-five.
I choose a table near the window and sit with my back straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely in front of me like I’m carved from marble instead of flesh. I’ve spent the entire day preparing for this—coaching myself into indifference, into detachment—but my pulse betrays me with every quiet thud against my ribs.
I’ve forged Botticellis under pressure. Negotiated with killers in languages they didn’t speak. Outthought men in the Bratva network who would slit a throat over a misplaced word.
And yet the thought of seeing Sienna Roth again makes something primal and unwelcome coil low in my chest.
