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"Artistic," I supply. "Quirky. Somewhat... unique?"

I drain my whiskey, regretting my characterization.

"Precisely," Mother confirms. "Someone else appears to have noticed."

"What?"

"Our courteous acquaintance, Mr. Barinov."

I look up. Sure enough, Viktor is glaring across the restaurant. Despite the intervening distance, with families and staff separating us, his anger remains clear. His desire for me to wed his daughter, Anya, is no secret.

"If I didn't abhor groveling to those bastards, I'd explain I don't even know her."

"Anya is charming," Mother says. "But throughout all your interactions, nothing has ever resembledthat. You seemed genuinely interested."

"You don’t have to say that like it’s a miracle."

"Forgive me, my dear, but it is."

Viktor knocks his drink back, intensifying his glare.

"Let me know if you want me to wipe that look off his face," Adrian says upon returning, whiskey bottle in hand.

ChapterTwo

Sienna

I pull out my notebook and pencil, quickly sharpening it over the sink. I'm in the restroom, briefly pausing after an hour on my feet. My sketchbook contains a portrait of a man's face against a forest backdrop, though his features remain indistinct. I swiftly define his eyebrows and contour his mouth.

I'm transforming him into the tall, suited gentleman, his black hair flecked with silver—depicted by erasing minute slivers from the charcoal darkness—his effortless smirk, our verbal sparring, his penetrating gaze...

A knock interrupts me. Duty calls. His visage emerges like a shadow through the more defined lines. My phone vibrates.

Hastily tucking my notebook away, I call, "Just a minute."

I pull my phone from my pocket. Another message from my landlord. Rent is due in a week, while my first paycheck from this place arrives in four days. I need to hustle. I’m one late payment away from an eviction notice. Hell, I almost lost all my paintings because I can’t even afford my storage unit.

My apartment is overflowing with paintings. Moving them last night from my storage unit was a nightmare, but losing all my work would have been worse. If only my artwork could sustain me financially. But reality demands pragmatism.

"Sorry, hon," Rachael says as I emerge. "I'm dying out there. Another family just arrived."

Rachael is the supervisor. She stares expectantly at me as if I’m getting on her last nerve. She caught me sketching last night. Now I’ve done it again. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it at work, but after the run-in with the tall man in the suit, I got that fuzzy, excited feeling. That ‘let’s do art!’ feeling… which has lost me jobs in the past.

“I’m right on it.”

I take two steps, then I hear, “You left your… pencil shavings in the sink?”

“Uh, they’re not mine,” I reply.

“I’ll choose to believe that girl, but get your behind out there.”

I get back to work, getting somewhat lost in the mayhem of it. I like to capture moments. The upscale restaurant, a man’s Stetson resting on the stool next to his at the bar, or a mother feeding her child. That’s how I can somehow link this job to art.

The Vine starts to get really busy, every table occupied, empties stacking up. Worse, Rachael just told me the bus boy has got food poisoning, so I’m going to need to help clear the tables. “No problem,” I say, with a big, fake smile.

My stress levels are rising, but I need to be chill. No rent means nowhere to live, nowhere to store my art, nowhere to put as an address for payment if I do score any portrait gigs. I begin with the long table in the corner. A group of men in suits, maybe ex-military, perhaps businessmen. It’s hard to tell. They speak in Russian as I pile up their empty glasses onto a black tray.

Then one of them speaks in gruff English at me. He’s the oldest of the group, with hard features and even harder eyes. “Girl, can I ask you a question?”