At exactly six thirty, Sienna walks in.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
She wears a cream suit, tailored as if crafted directly against her skin, with clean lines hugging strength rather than softness. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek knot, exposing the elegant line of her throat. Every step she takes is unhurried, deliberate. Her posture is straight, regal. Nothing about her wavers. Nothing about her asks for permission.
This isn’t the woman I left behind.
This woman is older, better, sexier. She’ll bring me to my ones if I’m not careful.
She sees me then.
And she doesn’t falter.
She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t hesitate. She approaches the table with calm precision, a faint curve to her lips that’s neither smile nor mockery, just acknowledgment. When she sits across from me, she does it with the ease of someone who knows exactly what effect she has. Not just on me, but on the room.
Heat crawls through my chest.
Regret.
Memory.
Curiosity.
And something darker.
I study her like she’s a composition—balance, intention, restraint. But she isn’t art.
She’s the hand that holds the blade.
She places her bag beside her and folds her hands on the table. No small talk. No pleasantries. No courtesy offered out of obligation. She simply looks at me.
And under that steady, unflinching gaze, I feel stripped open.
Exposed.
Judged.
For the first time in five years, I understand something with terrifying clarity. I’m no longer in control.
I lift my hand and signal the server for another glass. Sienna doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She just watches me, her gaze steady, unblinking, patient—as if she has all the time in the world.
The server returns and asks if we’re ready to order food. I shake my head. Not yet. He leaves without question.
I pour Sienna a glass of wine.
She accepts it without a word, fingers closing around the stem with effortless finesse. She takes a small sip. Composed. Unrushed. There’s no tell in her face, no flicker of emotion I can latch onto. It’s obvious now—she won’t speak first.
So I do.
I clear my throat. “Hi, Sienna.”
“Hello, husband.” She smiles.
The word lands like a blade sliding between my ribs—clean, precise.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Aww,” she says lightly. “I’d never pass up an opportunity to see you again.”
