Nothing.
My jaw tightens.
“And this,” he adds, voice dropping as he pulls up a final file.
Art provenance logs. My logs.
Dates altered. Ownership chains rewritten. Transactions that never happened, now sitting comfortably in the system like they belong there.
Marko exhales sharply behind me.
“Fucking hell.”
The director turns to face me, eyes glossy, almost apologetic. “They didn’t just attack your reputation, Sebastian. They anticipated every defense. If we contest this, we’ll be fighting shadows.”
I straighten slowly, my reflection faint in the darkened screen. Calm settles over me, not peace, but something colder. Sharper.
This isn’t random.
This isn’t messy.
It’s precise. Calculated. Surgical.
Whoever did this knows my world. Knows where to cut to cause maximum damage. Not just financially—but reputationally. The kind of blow that doesn’t just bruise. It cripples.
By the time we step out of the director’s office, Marko is already pacing the corridor, running a hand through his hair, boots striking the marble in short, angry bursts.
“This is insane,” he snaps. “We can’t just stand here and watch them burn you.”
I don’t answer.
My mind is elsewhere. On red hair against white sheets. On glassy eyes that wouldn’t meet mine. On a voice that said ‘nothing’ too quickly.
My instincts coil tight in my gut.
Sienna.
The name lands heavy—but it doesn’t sit alone.
This isn’t the work of someone acting on impulse. This is precision. Infrastructure. Patience. Someone who understands encryption, authentication systems, investor psychology.
Not just her.
Someone backing her.
Using her. Feeding her pieces. Steering the blade while letting her believe she’s in control.
Heat surges up my spine, sharp and blinding.
If someone is manipulating my wife—
If someone thinks they can reach me through her—
I hear Marko’s voice again, sharper now. “Sebastian. Are you listening to me?”
I turn, already moving. “We’re going back to the penthouse.”
He falls into step beside me. “And then?”
