A server approaches, posture perfect, voice respectful.
“May I get you started with something to drink, sir?”
“Barolo,” I say after a beat. “2016, if you have it.”
He nods once and disappears.
I shouldn’t care this much.
I shouldn’t feel anything at all.
I told myself long ago that she was a closed chapter. A beautiful error. A brief diversion that served its purpose and ended exactly how it was supposed to.
That’s the lie I built my life on.
Because sitting here now—waiting for her—feels like waiting for a verdict. For a reckoning. For a confession I never gave but somehow deserve.
I glance at the entrance, then back to the river below, watching the lights fracture across the dark water. My jaw tightens.
I left her sleeping.
I blocked her.
I erased her like she was nothing.
Still…sometimes…it haunts me.
The server returns with the wine, pouring it slowly, reverently. The glass glows a deep, dangerous red. I don’t touch it.
The fact that Sienna agreed to this marriage willingly sets off every alarm in my head. She isn’t a woman who bends. She never was. If she said yes, it’s because she wants something.
And that something is my blood.
I check my watch.
Six o’clock passes.
Then 6:05.
There’s still no sign of her.
Five years ago, Sienna Roth was never late. Not to meetings, not to exhibitions, not to anything that mattered. Punctuality was a form of respect to her—a discipline. A weapon.
Today, she’s late on purpose.
Because this meeting belongs to her.
Becauseshe’scalling the shots.
I should have expected it.
Ididexpect it.
What I didn’t expect is the way tension crawls across my skin at the thought. Not anger. Not irritation.
Anticipation.
My fingers tighten briefly around the stem of the glass before I force them to relax. I still don’t drink. The wine can wait. I can’t afford dulled edges tonight.
