Chapter 12

***Vanessa’s POV***

I wasn’t sure what I expected when Sergie Ivanov said he wanted to visit my studio, but the sight of him standing in the small space, his tailored coat contrasting sharply with the chaotic splashes of paint and scattered sketches, was almost comical. He didn’t seem out of place, though. Instead, he scanned the room with a cool curiosity, his keen eyes taking in every element.

“Is this where the magic happens?” he asked, a faint smile curving his lips as he turned to face me.

I chuckled nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “If by magic you mean sleepless nights, self-deprecation, and lots of caffeine, then yes.”

His grin broadened a little as he moved further into the studio, pausing briefly to watch a half-completed canvas leaning against the wall.

“This is impressive,” he said, his voice low but genuine. “It’s raw... honest. You don’t hold back, do you?”

Heat crept up my neck. “I try not to,” I admitted. To me, art has to be about what's real, even if it's a mess or incomplete.

Sergie nodded, his gaze lingering over the painting before settling on a pile of sketches on the table. He picked one up—a detailed pencil drawing of a young girl with a wistful expression—and studied it intently.

“You did this?” he asked, his tone softer now.

I nodded. “It’s just something I do in my free time. Sometimes the ideas don’t stop, so I just let them out.”

“You’re talented, Vanessa,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “More than you give yourself credit for.”

His words sent a flutter through my chest, and I quickly turned away, pretending to straighten a pile of brushes. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

We moved around the studio for a while in silence. Sergie seemed completely at ease, taking in everything with an appreciation that surprised me.

Finally, I spoke, my words tumbling out before I could forestall them. “My mom was an artist too. She was the one who taught me everything I know.”

Sergie looked up, his expression thoughtful. “She must have been remarkable.”

“She was,” I said, my voice quieter now. “She passed away when I was a teenager. My dad did too, a few years later.”

“I’m sorry,” Sergie said sincerely.

I shook my head, offering him a small smile. “It’s okay. They were both incredible people. My mom painted, and my dad was a pianist. I guess creativity ran in the family.”

“Do you play?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

I laughed softly and shook my head. “Not at all. I wish I could, but I've simply always looked up to it.”

Sergie's visage betrayed a change as something like a smile emerged on his face. “I play the piano,” he said almost casually.

My eyes widened. “You do?”

He nodded, leaning back against the table. “It’s something my father taught me when I was young. Music was his life; he passed it on to my sister and me,” he said.

I hesitated, sensing a weight behind his words. “What happened to him?”

Sergie’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away. “He passed away when I was in my early twenties. It shook our family... especially my sister, Anastasia.”

I noticed how his voice softened when he uttered her name and couldn't help but inquire, "Do you guys know each other?"

A shadow fell across his face as he shook his head. “Not anymore. We grew apart after his death. It’s complicated.”

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.

Sergie met my gaze for a moment of intense eye contact. “Life doesn’t always give us second chances; that’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard. For the first time, I saw a crack in the carefully constructed armor he always wore. Hours passed without either of us noticing as we discussed art, music, and how fate throws odd twists and turns to get us here. I showed him more of my work—paintings and sketches I’d done on a whim—and he complimented each one with sincerity that made my heart ache.

At one point, he picked up a painting I’d almost forgotten about—a vibrant abstract piece with sweeping strokes of blue and gold.

“This one,” he said softly, “it’s beautiful.”

I swallowed hard; my throat suddenly tight. “Thanks; it’s... personal.”

He looked at me then, his gaze intense. “Everything you create is personal; that’s what makes it special.”

Before I could respond, Sergie stepped closer and gently touched my cheek with warm fingers against my skin; my breath caught as I looked up at him.

“Vanessa,” he said softly.

I didn’t know what he was going to say, but the moment was electric—charged with something I couldn’t quite name. My pulse quickened and for a second wondered if...

However, he retracted and brought his hand to his side.

“It’s getting late,” he said suddenly businesslike. “I should get you home.” The car trip back to Emma's was uneventful but not uncomfortably quiet; Sergie seemed lost in thought as he stared out the window.

As soon as we arrived there, he got out of the car and opened my door—showing off those impeccable manners of the gentleman he always is.

“Thanks for tonight,” I murmured stepping onto the sidewalk as the chill night air embraced me.

He nodded; his expression unreadable. “Thank you, Vanessa—for sharing your world with me.”

I smiled and turned to head inside but glanced back for one last glimpse of him standing by the car with his hands in his pockets.

***Sergie’s POV***

I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

As the car departed from her friend's brownstone, I cupped my hands on the seat—overthinking each moment of the evening with rich new focus: The way her eyes sparkled when she spoke about her parents; the unassuming power in her voice when she spoke of grief; the softness of her skin beneath my hand.

I shouldn’t have touched her—it was unprofessional—crossing a line I’d promised myself not to cross. But in that moment... I hadn’t been able to stop myself.

Vanessa was different; she was true in a way that no one else was in my world—and she was starting to break through walls I hadn’t even realized I'd built.

As soon as I got back to my penthouse, I poured myself a glass of scotch and stood by the window looking out at the city skyline.

I’d always prided myself on control—over my business; over my emotions; over my life—yet Vanessa Miller was becoming something I could not control.

And for the first time in years... I wasn’t sure I wanted to.