Not the woman from tonight—cool, distant, untouchable—but the one burned into my memory. Her head tilted slightly, eyes sharp and knowing, mouth caught between softness and defiance. The lines are bold where they should be, delicate where they must be. I even captured the faint tension in her jaw, the thing she did when she was thinking too much and pretending she wasn’t.
My chest tightens.
I started drawing this before Lev walked into my studio. Before anyone said her name in connection with marriage. Before I knew.
What a fucking coincidence.
I step closer, my fingers curling at my sides. Charcoal dust smudges the edge of the canvas, fingerprints I don’t remember leaving. I must have worked fast. Feverishly. Like I was chasing something I didn’t want to name.
Her eyes follow me no matter where I stand.
I can still see her the way she looked five years ago—unguarded, alive, too honest for a world like mine. And then I see her from tonight, sealed shut, impenetrable, a woman who learned how to survive me.
My head swims, vodka and memory tangling into something sharp and unpleasant.
Artists like to pretend inspiration is random. Accidental. Pure. But this—this feels deliberate. Like my hands knew before I did. Like some cruel instinct dragged her back onto my canvas before fate could drag her back into my life.
I stare at the portrait until the lines blur.
If this is a warning, it’s too late.
Chapter 8 – Sienna
“I can’t believe you’re getting married to Sebastian,” Vivian says for the third time, hovering so close I can feel her excitement vibrating through the air. “And you didn’t tell me? I had to hear it from Dimitri.”
I smile at my reflection as my makeup artist blends foundation along my cheekbones with light, precise strokes.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know until a few days ago?” I ask lightly.
Vivian blinks. “Yes. It’s the Rusnaks we’re talking about.”
I laugh, soft and convincing. “Fair.”
I haven’t told her.
She doesn’t know that five years ago, the artist who haunted me with letters, who pulled me into his orbit and dropped me the moment he was done, is Sebastian Rusnak. There is no reason to tell her. No reason to unwrap that humiliation and place it in her hands.
Why would I confess how stupid I was—how deeply I fell for a man who was laying a trap?
The door opens, and the stylist walks in with my dress, garment bag draped like a sacred offering over her arms. Conversation pauses instinctively. Even Vivian goes quiet.
I rise from the chair.
The dress is laid out with reverence—ivory silk, clean lines, understated but unmistakably expensive. No excessive lace. No fairy-tale nonsense. It is not the dress of a woman being swept away. It is the dress of a woman stepping into a role she understands perfectly.
Approval flickers through me.
Today is my engagement soirée.
The backyard of my father’s Chicago mansion is already alive. I can hear it even from here—the hum of voices, the clink of glasses, laughter polished to sound effortless. Power gathering. Alliances breathing. Deals being measured behind smiles.
My father doesn’t do intimate celebrations. He does statements.
Vivian circles the dress, hands clasped. “You’re really okay with this?” she asks, softer now. “I mean…marriage. To him.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and it’s the truth. Just not the truth she thinks.
I catch the stylist’s eye in the mirror. “You can all go. I’ll take care of the rest.”
