I’m already dressed when I watch her move through the room, calm and deliberate. She stops at the mirror and applies red lipstick—the exact shade that twists something low and dangerous in my gut. She doesn’t look at me while she does it. She doesn’t need to.
“You’re quiet,” I say finally.
She caps the lipstick and meets my gaze in the mirror. “I don’t see the need for conversation.”
That stings more than it should.
It hits harder than it should.
“Why not?” I ask. “We’re married, aren’t we?”
She laughs softly, like I’ve said something mildly amusing. “And so what?”
That shuts me up.
She turns and walks into the closet, hips swaying with deliberate ease, like she knows exactly where my eyes are and doesn’t care. When she comes back out, I forget how to breathe.
The red gown clings to her in all the right places—skimming her waist, baring her legs, daring anyone to look away. She’s lethal in it. Beautiful and aware of it, which somehow makes it worse.
She faces the mirror again, lifting her hands to her hair. That red, fiery hair. My mind flashes to last night—my hands tangled in it, her breath uneven against my skin—and I have to clench my jaw.
Hell.
This woman is going to ruin me.
When she’s satisfied, she slips on her shoes, picks up her bag, and finally turns to face me.
“You ready?”
I release a slow breath, already exhausted, and the evening hasn’t even started.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure I am.
I leave the room. She follows.
And as we walk out together, perfectly composed, perfectly distant, one thought lodges itself deep in my chest:
If this is what being married to Sienna Roth feels like after one night….
I’m in far more trouble than I ever planned for.
By the time we reach the foyer, Marko is already waiting. He straightens when he sees us and gives a polite nod.
“Sienna, you look radiant,” he says, genuine admiration in his voice.
To my irritation, Sienna rewards him with a slow, devastating smile. “And you look handsome,” she replies. “Nice suit.”
Marko pretends to look down at himself. “This old thing?”
“Oh,” she says lightly, eyes flicking over him, “then it must be the body.”
They both laugh.
I feel my jaw tighten. Hard.
Just as I’m about to tell Marko to focus on his job, he turns to me, professionalism snapping back into place. “The car is waiting.”
Moments later, we’re inside the vehicle, the door shutting with a solid thud as Marko pulls out of the compound.
