And if I know Benedikt, he’s not done with me.
I blink hard, pushing the thought aside.
My grandmother watches me over the rim of her teacup, patient and curious in the quiet way she has—like she’s been waiting for me to talk since I walked in.
I give her a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Sorry. Work stuff.”
She hums, unconvinced. “You’ve been somewhere else all morning, baby girl.”
I reach for my cup, my fingers brushing the warm porcelain. “Just tired. Long week.”
It’s half true.
The other half is sitting somewhere an ocean away, furious, and probably planning just how he’ll undo the choice I made.
She’s not convinced. “You’ve been on edge, Sienna. I know you. I raised you. Something’s not right.”
“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s easier. “Just tired.”
Her silence is heavy in the way only grandmothers can make it—quiet judgment and love rolled into one.
“You don’t get to ‘I’m fine’ me, you know. I invented that line.”
“Then consider it borrowed,” I mutter.
She chuckles, but the sound fades fast. “You can tell me if you’re in trouble.”
The toast turns to glue in my throat. “I’m not.”
She studies me, her sharp gaze still cutting even after all these years. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you left part of yourself somewhere you shouldn’t have.”
I freeze for a second too long.
Then I busy myself with cleaning up plates that don’t really need cleaning.
“You’re reading too much into it, Grandma. I swear… I’m fine.”
She doesn’t respond, which makes it worse.
Because she’s right.
Of course, she is.
I left something behind.
Someone.
And even though I keep trying to convince myself I did the right thing—walked away before he could destroy me—it still feels like I left a door open.
Like he could walk through it any second.
I don’t know what I’d do if he did.
“Hey,” Nana says softly, bringing me back. “You’re thinking too hard again.” She reaches across the table, patting my hand. “Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
