Sienna
I don’t cry at work.
Not when the woman who ordered the lemon cake decided it was “too yellow.”
Not when my boss said my customer service was “a little stiff and slow”.
And definitely not when I slipped on a patch of water someone left on the kitchen tile and landed on my ass hard enough to see stars.
But when I get home and find my apartment empty? Not a single box, a single hanger on the rod, or any of the several small pieces of furniture I own.
That’s when my eyes sting and my stomach caves.
I stand in the middle of my tiny one-bedroom, completely frozen, blinking at the space that used to be mine. That used to smell like vanilla and sugar and a little too much dry shampoo.
Now?
It’s wiped clean and scrubbed of me.
I’m still wearing my apron from the bakery, my hair’s falling out of its bun, and the only thing left in this godforsaken space is the stray hoodie I kicked under the bed a week ago.
My knees give out, and I squat to try and catch my breath.
This has to be a joke. A prank. A mistake.
Am I in the wrong apartment?
I tug my phone out of my bag and scroll through my call log.
Nothing from the landlord.
No texts.
No emails.
But then there’s a sound behind me. A rustle, then a slow, deliberate knock on the already open door that has me jolting around on my toes and falling to my butt again.
“Don’t shoot,” Artem says flatly, raising both his hands in the air like I have a loaded weapon on him.
I wish I did.
He’s leaned against the frame like he’s posing for a photo. Gray shirt, black pants, that same stupid expression that tells me he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
All the blood in my body rises to my brain, sparking an explosion of anger. I can’t speak, piecing and soaking all this in because it has Benedikt’s name stamped so freshly on my life, I can’t stand it.
I can’tdothis.
“Afternoon, princess,” he says. “Rough day?”
“Where’s my stuff?”
“Gone,” he says simply. “Ben sent a team in earlier to move it.”
“You mean hestoleit.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and Benedikt was in dire need of used furniture and women’s clothing. “I mean, he relocated it. To his penthouse.”
I actually laugh out loud.
