Twenty-One
Dinner starts fine.
The food is good. Better than most of the overpriced bullshit I get at investor dinners. The conversation is easy, fueled mainly by Jeremy, who’s got a knack for keeping things light.
Across from me, Grace is relaying some chaotic wedding-planning disaster, complete with herding groomsmen like feral cats, venue mishaps, and how Jeremy almost accidentally booked a live band that exclusively does heavy metal covers of Disney songs.
Sienna snorts, eyes bright with amusement. “That sounds kind of amazing.”
Jeremy groans, taking a sip of his beer. “That’s what I said! But Under the Sea loses its charm when it sounds like Satan himself is growling it at you.”
Grace rolls her eyes. “You also wanted a DJ with a customizable setlist.”
Jeremy shrugs. “I just think the Avengers theme would slap for our first dance.”
The energy at the table is good. Comfortable. But then, the conversation lurches into territory that makes Sienna’s shoulders stiffen.
It starts small. Jeremy jokes about how Sienna is probably working from the dinner table. Her mother picks up on it, lamenting how Sienna hasn’t been home in ages, how she’s always so busy, honey. The teasing edges into mild scolding, implying Sienna’s missing out on “real life.”
My hand tenses on the fork as I watch her eyes flick downward.
They love her. That much is clear. But they also don’t see how their casual remarks box her in. The more they talk about her “never settling,”
the quieter she gets.
Finally, her mother sighs, swirling her wine. “You know, sweetheart, I did worry when you left. You had a stable relationship, and then, poof, you were gone.”
“Mom,”
Sienna says in warning, setting down her fork. I see the flicker in her eyes, that forced, polite composure.
Her mother shrugs. I’m just saying, it’s great that you finally have a boyfriend. Maybe you can think about coming back, settling down, giving me grandbabies.”
Sienna’s cheeks warm, but she offers only a noncommittal hum, swirling her glass of water. I feel annoyance spark in my chest. It reminds me of my own mother’s criticisms, though she was less loving and more manipulative, but the effect was the same. Diminishing me, acting like I was never enough. Sienna’s mother means well, but she’s still poking at her daughter’s choices like they’re flawed.
Daniel, who’s been mostly silent, decides to chime in. “That’s always been her thing,”
he says, leaning back. “Sienna never knew how to relax. I used to have to drag her out of her apartment just to do something fun.”
Lauren smiles like it’s no big deal, and it’s normal for her future husband to reminisce about his ex at a dinner table.
He laughs, and the others join him, but the tightness in Sienna’s posture grows. I hate the way he’s acting like he knows her better than anyone. I hate how her mother seems to accept it. And, in a sick twist, I recognize that the same forced acceptance used to live in my own living room, with a mother who’d let a boyfriend pick me apart to keep the peace.
Sienna smiles politely, not meeting his eyes. We can move on, folks. Nothing to see here. She’s doing what I did for years—enduring, ignoring, letting them think it doesn’t bother her. My jaw flexes.
I’m a man who excels in negotiations, but this is different. I want to defend her, want to shut them all down, but something in her gaze warns me off. Under the table, her foot nudges my leg, a silent don’t. She’s telling me she’d rather vanish from the conversation than cause a scene.
I blow out a slow breath, forcing the tension from my grip on the fork. None of this is my business—this family’s dynamic, her ex, her insecurities. It shouldn’t matter more than fulfilling our contract. Then why does it feel like it matters? Why is a knot forming in my chest, equal parts anger and protectiveness that I can’t fully explain?
I do the only thing I can without making it worse. I slide my hand beneath the table, find hers, and squeeze. She jerks in surprise. The conversation rumbles around us, but she turns her head just enough to catch my gaze. I see frustration, gratitude, and maybe relief in her eyes.
I lift her hand and press a slow kiss to her palm, letting the gesture linger because this is a charade, after all.
Her breath hitches. The tension in her shoulders ebbs just a fraction as she withdraws her hand. A moment later, she stands, smoothing her dress. “Excuse me for a second,”
she says, her voice steadier than she looks. “Bathroom.”
She walks off, her head high and her spine stiff. Nobody else comments, which tells me this happens often—Sienna leaving the room when they push her too far. I grit my teeth, glancing around the table. Daniel’s flipping a knife in his hand, barely hiding his smirk. Her mother’s chattering about marinade. Jeremy’s phone buzzes, capturing his attention.
My family was never big on love or acceptance, but seeing how Sienna’s warm, well-meaning clan can still slice her open with these little digs hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. I want to go after her, to make sure she’s okay, and quickly remind myself it’s not my job, not my place.
Feeling my jaw clenching, I force myself to stay put as I tap my fingers against the table. I try to focus on the conversation, but nothing sinks in.
Fuck it.
Two minutes.
I’ll give her two minutes.
And if she’s not back, I’m going after her.