Chapter 16
SIENNA
By the time I get back to my room, I’m too tired to think straight.
That should help. It doesn’t.
I change slowly, wash my face, pin my hair back again because it’s falling out everywhere, and sit on the edge of the bed for a minute staring at nothing.
The house is quieter now, but not peaceful.
Every sound feels loaded. A door shutting somewhere down the hall.
Footsteps overhead. Plumbing in the walls.
The kind of noises that make an old place feel like it’s listening.
I keep thinking about Viktor.
That is also not helping.
At some point I lie down without really deciding to, one hand over my eyes, and tell myself I’m not moving again tonight unless the building catches fire.
Then there’s a knock.
I sit up at once.
It comes again, soft but deliberate.
For one stupid second I assume it’s him. Viktor, back with whatever he didn’t want to say earlier. Viktor, ignoring common sense and propriety because apparently both of those are optional when he wants something.
I cross the room and open the door.
It isn’t him.
It’s Camille.
She stands there in a pale silk robe with her hair brushed smooth over one shoulder, looking composed in that brittle way women do when they’re angry enough to skip sleep. There’s a phone in her hand.
For a second I just stare at her.
Then I say, “What do you want?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She steps into the room like she’s been invited, and before I can stop her she holds the phone up between us.
On the screen is a photo.
Viktor carrying me upstairs.
My stomach drops.
The image is grainy, clearly taken from a distance, probably from the far end of the hall or the staircase landing. But it’s clear enough. His face in profile. My arms around his shoulders. The angle of my body against his chest.
There is no innocent version of it.
I look at Camille.
She lowers the phone slowly and smiles without warmth. “So.”
I don’t say anything. Because there’s nothing useful to say.
Not that isn’t what it looks like when it is exactly what it looks like.
Not where did you get that when the answer is obviously someone who shouldn’t have been taking pictures in the hallway.
Not delete it when I can already tell she won’t.
Camille walks farther into the room and turns to face me properly. “I knew something was off,” she says. “At dinner. This morning. The way he kept stepping in. The way you kept pretending you weren’t involved in whatever this is.”
I keep my voice even. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s adorable.”
I fold my arms. “If you came here to insult me, you’re late. It’s been a very crowded day.”
Her eyes flick over me, pleased that I’m trying to spar instead of deny. “No,” she says. “I came because now I know exactly what you are.”
That would have stung more six months ago. Now it just makes me tired.
“And what is that?”
“Opportunistic.” She tilts her head slightly. “Desperate. The kind of woman who gets embarrassed by one man and crawls into the bed of another to feel like she’s won.”
The words are nasty, but not surprising. What surprises me is how calm I feel.
Maybe I’ve just had enough for one day. Or maybe when someone has already shoved you in a hallway, publicly humiliated you, and turned a wedding into a war zone, they stop being able to surprise you.
“You should leave,” I say.
Camille laughs softly. “You really think you’re in a position to dismiss me?”
I don’t answer.
She lifts the phone again and taps the screen with one manicured nail. “Do you know what this does if it gets out?”
I do.
Not because I care what her guests think. Because I know exactly what it would do to Viktor. To Ethan. To the whole house. And if Ethan already suspects too much, this would push him the rest of the way.
Camille watches me realize that and smiles wider. “There it is,” she says. “You do understand.”
I hate that she’s enjoying this.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Now we’re having the correct conversation.”
She lowers the phone and walks to the window, glancing out into the dark as if she’s discussing flower placement instead of blackmail.
“I know you and Ethan were involved,” she says. “That part was obvious from the start. Too much history. Too much weird tension. Too much of you looking at him like you wanted to kill him.”
I say nothing.
She turns back to me. “And now, apparently, you’ve decided his father is the better target.”
The sheer vulgarity of the accusation almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
“You think I’m targeting Viktor?”
“I think,” she says, “that women like you always need a way in.”
I look at her for a moment and then say, “You really don’t know anything.”
“No,” she says. “I know exactly enough.”
She steps closer again, phone loose in her hand.
“Here’s what happens next,” she says. “You stay away from Viktor. Completely. No private conversations. No dramatic little rescues. No more scenes where he carries you around like some wounded heroine. And you keep whatever history you have with Ethan buried so deeply it never sees daylight again.”
I feel something cold and hard settle into place inside me. “And if I don’t?”
Her smile returns. “Then this photo goes to Ethan first.” She lifts one shoulder. “After that, who knows? Alina. The guests. Maybe the whole family breakfast table tomorrow if I’m feeling generous.”
I stare at her.
She really would. Not because she’s evil in some grand dramatic way. Because she’s spoiled and frightened and can’t stand not controlling the story.
“And what exactly do you think happens then?” I ask.
Camille’s eyes narrow slightly. “Don’t.”
“No, really.” I take a step toward her. “What do you think happens if you start throwing this around? You embarrass me? Fine. You embarrass Ethan? Also fine. But do you really want to embarrass Viktor?”
That gives her pause.
Good.
Only a small hesitation, but I see it.
She covers it quickly. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?”
For the first time since she walked in, she looks less certain. Not afraid, exactly. Just aware that she may be playing with something bigger than her own wedding drama now.
Still, she recovers quickly. “I don’t need to do anything dramatic,” she says. “I just need to ruin your position here.”
“My position here is already ruined.”
That stops her too.
Because it’s true. There is no good ending for me in this house.
I take another slow breath and ask, “Why are you really here?”
She blinks.
“Because this isn’t about me,” I say. “Not really. This is about the fact that he paid attention to me in front of you, and you can’t stand not being the center of the room.”
Her face changes immediately. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No,” I say. “I think I do.”
She steps closer so fast I almost think she’ll shove me again. Instead she stops just short of it and says through her teeth, “Stay away from both of them.”
Ethan and Viktor.
The son she’s marrying and the father she can’t control.
I wonder suddenly if she even hears herself anymore.
I meet her gaze and say, very quietly, “You should leave before you make this worse.”
She holds my eyes for a second longer, then lifts her phone, gives the screen one last deliberate tap, and slips it back into her pocket. “This was your warning,” she says. “You won’t get another one.”
Then she turns and walks out.
This time I lock the door the second she’s gone. I stand there for a moment with my hand still on the knob, breathing too hard for someone who barely moved. Then I lean my forehead against the wood and close my eyes.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
There’s another knock, and I freeze. For one stupid second I think Camille has come back.
The knock comes a second time, quieter now, but more certain.
I don’t move at first. I just stand there with my hand still on the lock, heart thudding too hard, listening.
Then his voice comes through the door. “Sienna.”
Everything in me pulls toward it.
That’s the problem.
Raw and immediate and humiliating in how strong it is.
My whole body still knows him. My mouth still remembers him.
My skin still feels too tight from the last time he touched me.
If I open this door, I know exactly what will happen.
He’ll step inside, look at me once, and whatever shaky resolve I’ve managed to scrape together in the last five minutes will be gone.
I want him. That’s the truth.
I want his hands on me. His mouth. His weight. I want to crawl back into the bed I just left and let him ruin my ability to think all over again.
And that is exactly why I can’t let him in.
He tries the handle. The lock holds.
“Sienna.”
His voice is lower this time, closer. He must have stepped right up to the door. I can picture him there too easily. One hand braced against the frame, jaw tight, that look on his face when he’s already decided patience is a courtesy and not a limit.
“Open the door.”
I close my eyes. “No.”
Silence.
Not much of it. Just enough to tell me he heard something in my voice.
Then, very calmly, “Why?”
Because I’m weak where you’re concerned.
Because I can still taste you.
Because if I let you in, I’ll end up in your bed again with your hands all over me and your mouth saying things I’m not strong enough to resist.
Because there’s a baby inside me, and whatever this is, however much I want it, it is not safe.
I lean my forehead against the wood. “Please go away.”
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
“I’m not leaving while you sound like that.”
A laugh almost comes out of me, but it dies before it becomes anything real. “That’s not your choice.”
His hand lands flat against the other side of the door. I can hear it more than feel it. A dull touch of skin to painted wood.
“I want to make sure you’re okay,” he says.