I close my eyes, the ghost of Sienna’s smile burning behind my lids.
“You and Sienna know each other?” Dimitri asks.
The question hangs between us like a blade.
“No,” I immediately deny.
“You’re lying,” he says. “You know her.”
I roll my eyes, irritation flaring. “Did you call to mock me?”
A soft laugh drifts through the line. “Are you okay, though?”
“Yeah.” I take another sip of vodka. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll call you later.”
“Seb—”
“Goodbye.”
I end the call before he can finish.
The studio falls silent again.
I walk back to the canvas, glass still in my hand, and stop in front of it. The charcoal lines stare back at me, undeniable now.
Sienna.
I don’t erase it. I don’t pretend it’s anything else.
Maybe I’m ready.
Maybe I’m not.
But there’s no going back now.
Not from this.
Chapter 2 – Sienna
Five Years Ago
I stand in my Chelsea apartment, half-finished espresso cup in hand, staring at the painting on the table.
It’s hauntingly beautiful. Almost perfect. But shallow.
To anyone else, it might look flawless. To me, as a critic, something’s missing. Glaringly missing.
The artist is Sebastian Rusnak. I’ve never met him. Don’t even know him. But he’s already a rising star in the art world. Everyone is singing his praises. I’ve tried—tried hard—to like his work. I even went so far as to buy this piece myself. And still…nothing hits the way it should.
I shake my head and sit at my desk, determined to finish my critique. I started it earlier this morning, but gave myself time to look again, hoping maybe a second glance would change my mind. It doesn’t.
I set the espresso down and clear my throat, fingers finding the keyboard. My thoughts spill out into the last paragraph:
“Rusnak’s work is technically skilled but emotionally hollow. It imitates genius rather than generating it. The art feels unfinished, as if the artist is too afraid to confront his own depth.”
I read it twice. Fair. Honest. Objective.
I post it.
