Dominic stared at my phone, his face ashen.

Marcus coughed awkwardly. "Sienna, how much did you hear?"

"Enough," I said, stopping the recording. "Thanks for the material."

Dominic finally found his voice, a raw whisper. "Sienna, you don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand," I cut him off. "I understand exactly how fucking arrogant you are."

I turned and walked away.

I heard his footsteps chasing after me, but I didn't look back.

The Lamborghini screamed through the Chicago night.

My mind flashed through the last two years.

The full scholarship to the Paris College of Art. I gave it up. He said three years was too long to be without me.

The recommendation letter from Anselm Kiefer's lead assistant. It expired.

I changed how I dressed. Traded my bohemian, free-spirited style for the elegant look he preferred.

I learned to make his favorite Old Fashioned, just the way he liked it.

I gave up my weekends in the studio to attend his boring family functions. I even learned to quiet my laugh because he said it was "unladylike."

I erased myself, piece by piece, to become his perfect fiancée.

And for what? It was never enough. I was never his only choice.

The light turned red. The tears finally came.

Not for him.

For the Sienna I had lost.

At midnight, I found myself parked outside "The Night Library," a 24-hour indie bookstore.

My old sanctuary. Before Dominic.

The store was quiet, just the rustle of pages and the low hum of the coffee machine.

I found a corner in the art section and opened a book on Van Gogh.

The swirling cosmos in The Starry Night felt like a scream.

The burning yellows of his Sunflowers were like a soul on fire.

This was who I used to be. Passionate. Real. Uncompromising.

Now I was a painting that had been painted over so many times, it was unrecognizable.

Two hours later, I felt calmer. At least I wasn't crying anymore.

As I left the bookstore, I heard a familiar voice from the bar across the street.

"Sienna! Sienna, where are you?"

My body went rigid.

Dominic.

He was leaning against the wall, completely drunk, his white shirt a mess.

"I love you, Sienna! I fucking love you!" he yelled at the empty street. "Come back! Please, come back!"

A few people stopped to watch, whispering.

I looked at this man, once a king, now a pathetic stray dog.

I felt nothing. No pity.

Just disgust.

I walked faster toward the parking lot, desperate to escape this circus.

Just as I reached the corner, a Maserati pulled up to the curb.

The window rolled down. Vivienne's flawless face.

She looked radiant, her lips painted blood-red.

"Sienna," she cooed. "All alone so late at night?"

In the passenger seat, Dominic was passed out, his head lolling against the seat, mumbling my name.

"Wandering the streets alone. You look so pathetic," Vivienne said, faking concern. "Need a ride? I'm taking Dom home anyway. It's on the way."

She stressed the nickname "Dom." The smugness practically poured out of the window.

"No, thanks." I didn't even glance at Dominic. "I'm afraid your cheap perfume might rub off on me."

Vivienne's smile froze. "What?"

"That jasmine perfume. It's so cheap you can smell it from a block away," I said, my voice dripping with disdain. "That kind of stench clings to everything."

Her face turned ugly. "You—"

I was already walking to my car.

Inside, my phone rang. Harper.

"Sienna! Are you okay?" she said, her voice full of worry. "I got mobbed at the party and by the time I got free, you were gone."

"I'm fine."

"Marcus said Dominic got wasted and was looking for you. Vivienne picked him up." Harper's voice dropped. "Whatever you do, don't run into them. It's better not to see it."

I gave a bitter laugh. "Already did."

"What? What'd they say?"

"Nothing. Just confirmed something for me."

"What?"

"They deserve each other," I said, watching the Maserati disappear in my rearview mirror. "A self-important bastard and a fake-ass bitch. A match made in hell."

Harper was silent for a second. "Sienna, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm great," I said. "Never been clearer."

After I hung up, my phone buzzed.

A text from Dominic's mother.

"Dearest Sienna, it's Elena. I've missed you. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? I'd love for you to come over. I have something to talk to you about. There will always be a place for you here. Mama's promise."

I stared at Elena's text for a long time.

Mama's promise.

The words were a silver bullet, aimed right at my heart.

My mother died when I was fifteen.

Elena knew that. She always sent me white orchids—my mother's favorite flower—on my birthday. She held me when I cried. She treated me like her own daughter.

And now, she was using it against me.

I deleted the text and turned off my phone.

No reply.

The next afternoon, I was at the gallery with a major collector from New York.

He was about to sign the contract to purchase a Picasso.

My assistant's voice came through the intercom. "Ms. Sienna, you have an important guest waiting."

"I'm busy right now—"

"She says she's Mr. Dominic's mother."

My blood ran cold.

The collector noticed my expression. "Is it an emergency? We can do this another time."

"No, it's fine," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Please, give me just a few minutes."

My legs felt weak as I walked to the reception area.

Elena was sitting elegantly on a leather sofa.

A beautiful thermal lunch box sat on the table in front of her, smelling delicious.

Two bodyguards in black suits stood silently nearby.

She smiled warmly when she saw me. "Sienna, my dear."

In a French café nearby, Elena opened the containers.

Risotto, truffle pasta, and tiramisu. All my favorites.

She served me with that familiar, motherly grace. "You're too thin, tesoro," she murmured.

"Elena—"

"Call me Mama," she said, taking my hand. "You'll always be my daughter."

My eyes welled up. Damn her. She knew all my weak spots.

"Sienna, I know my son is a fool," she said, her voice laced with regret. "He made a terrible mistake."

"Vivienne is his past. You are the future of this family."

I looked at the woman who had been a mother to me.

For three years, the entire Carvalho family had been kind.

Dominic's father taught me about wine and family history.

His sister took me shopping, sharing secrets.

Even their butler treated me like family.

But all that kindness was built on a lie.

I took out my phone and pulled up screenshots from Vivienne's Instagram. The bed photo, the provocative captions.

"Elena, look at this." I slid the phone toward her.

Her face turned to stone. Anger flashed in her eyes.

"When were these taken?" I asked.

"I don't know—"

"The four days Dominic was missing. Did you know where he was?"

Elena was silent.

"You knew," I said with a cold laugh. "Your whole family knew. While I was the fool, losing sleep, thinking he was dead."

"Sienna, it's complicated—"

"No, it's not," I said, standing up. "He chose her. I accept it."

"Child, listen to me—"

"Elena, thank you for everything these past three years," I said, looking her in the eye. "But Dominic and I are really over."

I walked out of the café.

I could hear her calling my name, but I didn't look back.

Back at the gallery, I buried myself in work.

Signing contracts, planning exhibits, contacting artists.

Being busy was the only thing that helped.

My assistant, Chloe, took one look at my face and rushed over. "Sienna? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. How's the Picasso exhibit coming along?"

"Amazingly! Pre-sale tickets are already thirty percent over our projection," Chloe said, excited. "The New York Times wants to do a feature."

I forced a small smile. "Good."

Chloe's phone lit up. She glanced at it and gasped.

"Oh my god! She's pregnant!"

"Who?"

"This fashion blogger I follow," Chloe said, showing me her phone. "She's gorgeous, I've followed her since college. She just got a new boyfriend who treats her like gold."

I glanced casually at the screen.

My blood turned to ice.

Vivienne.

She'd posted a photo of a pregnancy test. Two clear pink lines.

The caption: "The best surprise of my life. "

My world started spinning.

Pregnant?

With Dominic's child?

His pleas echoed in my head. Begging me to come back.

Then, a different image burned behind my eyes.

Him, screwing another woman. Getting her pregnant.

A bitter laugh broke from my lips. Tears stung my eyes.

Enough. I was done.

Three hours later, I made a decision. I was closing the gallery.

I emailed Anselm Kiefer’s studio in Paris.

Three years ago, they offered me a position.

Is it still open? I typed. I want it.

Chloe stared, shocked, as I packed up my office. "Sienna, are you really leaving?"

"Yeah." I put the last of my things in a box. "Wrap it all up for me."

"But the exhibition—"

"Cancel it."

I dragged my suitcase to the door.

Everything here reminded me of Dominic.

I had to get away.

O'Hare International Airport. The gate.

I sat in the waiting area. An email had just come in.

Paris wanted me.

Anselm's studio had an assistant position open. They'd kept it for me.

I closed my eyes. For the first time in years, I could breathe.

My phone buzzed. Chloe’s number.

"Hello?"

"Sienna."

It was Dominic's voice.

My blood ran cold.

"Where are you?" His voice was desperate, frantic. "I know you closed the gallery. I know you're leaving."

"I handled the Vivienne thing. I can explain everything—"

"Explain?" My laugh was a shard of ice. "Explain that you got her pregnant?"

"It's not my kid!" he roared. "Sienna, please, you have to believe me. It's not mine!"

I looked at the departures screen.

"Now boarding."

"You're at the airport?" Panic filled his voice. "Sienna, you can't go! Wait for me, let me explain—"

"Dominic." I stood up, grabbing my suitcase and walking to the gate. "You know something?"

"What?"

"I finally get it."

I handed my boarding pass to the flight attendant, not looking back.

"The worst part of love isn't the betrayal. It's not the lies. It's the waiting. The stupid, hopeful waiting for an explanation."

"And I'm done."

"Sienna!" he screamed into the phone. "Don't hang up! Please—"

I stabbed the 'end call' button.

And powered my phone down.