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Nothing.

I toss the phone into the cup holder, start the engine, and then pick it right back up at the first red light because apparently I have no self-control and no dignity and I'm fine with both of those things right now.

Still nothing.

It's the third time I've texted him since last night without getting anything back. Not still dealing with this. Not I'll keep you posted. Not silence dressed up as professionalism. An actual answer.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I almost type another message. Why are you doing this if we're over?

I don't send it.

Because I already know what version of him I'd get. Calm. Reasonable. Businesslike. The man in the foyer who told me I should be happy to be free.

I lock the phone and shove it back down hard enough that it rattles in the cup holder. If he wanted out, why expand my father's care beyond the terms? If this was just a job, why build in protection after the ending?

Why the house?

Why the studio?

Why any of it?

None of it lines up and I know—I know—that Everett doesn't say things he doesn't mean. If he said the arrangement was over, if he said this was a good thing, then some part of him believes it.

So why do all his actions keep contradicting his mouth?

The drive toward Seattle is slow and gray. Traffic crawls near the bridge, and my stomach rolls hard enough that I crack the window even though the air outside is cold.

Perfect. Heartbreak and motion sickness… love that for me.

By the time I get off the freeway, I've made exactly no progress in understanding Everett Kauffman. Which, if I'm being honest, has been the theme since I met the man.

I'm still trying to untangle it when I stop at a light two blocks from Serendipity's and glance toward the curb.

Everything in me locks.

He's outside one of those polished downtown restaurants that charge twelve dollars for coffee and act like lighting is a personality trait. Dark coat instead of the suit jacket. One hand low at a woman's back as he guides her toward the black town car idling at the curb.

Sienna.

She laughs at something he says, tipping her head toward him, red lipstick bright even from here.

He opens the car door for her.

She slides in and then he ducks in after her shutting the door behind them. And for one second I can't hear anything. Not traffic. Not the blinker ticking in my own car. Not the city. Just my pulse in my ears.

I should have know.

Sienna told me this would happen. Once our agreement was over, once the trust let him out, they'd find their way back. And I stood there and thought no, he's different now. And she smiled at me the way you smile at someone who still believes in Santa Claus.

The town car pulls away from the curb and disappears into traffic before I can stop staring at it.

The light changes behind me and someone honks. I jerk back into motion and make the turn toward Serendipity's with my hands gripping the wheel so hard they hurt.

That's why he could stand in the foyer and talk about freedom and clean endings.

That's why he looked like a man who'd already made peace with his decision. Because he wasn't losing anything.

He was going back to the woman who always fit. The one who belonged in his world before I showed up with my contract and my father's bills and my stupid, stupid heart. He doesn't have to remodel rooms for her or build out an apartment for her father. She fits like a puzzle piece to his already busy life.