Chapter 8 – Sienna #2
“I’ve already done that,” I reply calmly. “Since he arrived late, he can handle it.”
Her smile tightens. “As a couple, Sienna.”
I don’t argue. There’s no point.
Sebastian turns to me, a faint smile touching his lips, like he’s mocking me. He holds out his hand.
I take it.
The contact is immediate. Sharp. Unwanted and undeniable.
Electricity skates up my arm, sets my nerves alight in a way I refuse to acknowledge. His fingers close around mine, tightening for the briefest second. Not affection. Not possession.
Restraint.
As if he’s anchoring himself against something dangerous.
I lift my chin and step forward, pulling him along before he can decide otherwise.
If we’re going to play the perfect couple, then fine.
But I’ll lead.
To my shock, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t resist. He simply falls into step beside me, matching my pace like he’s done this a thousand times.
The evening unfolds like theater.
We move through the garden beneath strings of warm lights and chandeliers hung from trees. Laughter rises and falls. Champagne glasses clink. Deals are hinted at in half-sentences and knowing looks. Everywhere we go, heads turn. Smiles sharpen. Cameras lift.
Sebastian’s hand settles at my lower back.
When we finally stop for official photographs, his hand curves around my waist. Controlled. Measured. A touch designed to look effortless.
So I lean into him.
Just slightly.
Enough.
I almost laugh when his body betrays him, when his spine locks, when his breath catches for half a second. What did he expect? That I would pull away? Flinch?
No.
If he thinks I’ll play delicate, he’s already lost.
I place my hand on his chest, fingers splaying over the solid line of muscle beneath his suit. Then I drag them—slow, intentional—feeling the way his heartbeat stumbles under my palm.
He shudders.
The photographer grins. “That’s excellent. Let’s get another.”
I adjust my angle, turning just enough to press closer, my smile soft, almost affectionate. Provocative, but perfectly acceptable. Intimate enough to sell the illusion. Dangerous enough to mean something else entirely.
Another flash.
Sebastian looks down at me then—really looks. His eyes darken, something sharp slipping through the control he wears like armor.
I meet his gaze without blinking.
Behind us, someone laughs softly. “The chemistry,” they say. “You two are striking together.”
I hate how easy it is to lean into him when the cameras flash. Hate how my body remembers a past I’ve buried, how it responds like muscle memory I never consented to keep. I hate it even more that he notices—how his hand tightens at my waist, just slightly, as if he feels that memory too.
The last photograph is taken. Applause ripples. The spell breaks.
I step away from him immediately.
“I’ll be back,” I say, already turning.
I don’t wait for a response.
I move through the crowd and out onto the balcony, the city spread below me in glittering fragments. Cold air rushes into my lungs. Winter smells like rain and metal and something close to freedom—something I don’t have yet.
I inhale.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Footsteps.
My body tightens before my mind catches up. I don’t turn. I don’t need to.
Sebastian.
He stops behind me—not touching, not crowding. Close enough that I feel warmth brush my shoulder. Far enough to pretend he still respects boundaries.
The silence hums between us, taut and alive.
I say nothing.
Neither does he.
I can feel him watching me, the weight of it deliberate. I imagine what he’s seeing: calm posture, steady breath, a woman unmoved by sentiment. I imagine the thoughts ticking behind his eyes—that I hate him, that I want something, that I didn’t agree to this marriage by accident.
He’s right.
I feel the moment it clicks for him—not the details, not the plan, just the instinct. The shift. The suspicion settling into his bones.
I haven’t forgiven him.
I’m not here for love.
I’m here to collect a debt.
After a long stretch of silence, he speaks.
“Here.”
I turn.
He’s holding an open box. Inside, a diamond ring catches the light—cut sharp, expensive, flawless. A symbol. A trap dressed as devotion.
I don’t hesitate.
I pluck the ring from the box and slide it onto my finger, the weight settling perfectly into place.
No trembling.
No ceremony.
No pretense of romance.
I lift my hand, admire it briefly, then look up at him and smile. “It’s perfect.”
Something flickers across his face—confusion, maybe even alarm. “Sienna, I don’t understand. You—”
“We should return to the party,” I say smoothly.
I pat his shoulder, light and dismissive, then turn and walk back inside without waiting for him.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of polite smiles and rehearsed congratulations. By ten p.m., guests begin to thin out, laughter softening, music lowering into something intimate and tired. I excuse myself, lean close to my father, and tell him I need rest.
He kisses my cheek, pleased. Proud.
As I turn to leave, Sebastian appears at my side, fingers closing around my hand as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. I let him. We walk into the house together, aware of the eyes following us, the whispers stitching stories behind our backs.
The door shuts.
I yank my hand free.
The sound echoes louder than it should.
I don’t look at him. I don’t slow my pace. I move up the staircase, every step deliberate, every breath controlled. He follows—quiet, watchful—but doesn’t speak.
At my bedroom door, I stop.
“Thank you for walking me,” I say coolly. “Good night.”
The space between us feels charged, magnetic, unbearable. I can feel his gaze on me. When I finally meet his eyes, my expression is carved from calm, from distance, from nothing he can touch.
“Good night,” he says at last.
He turns and walks away.
I watch him go.
Let him sense the storm gathering.
Let him feel the edges of my intent sharpening with every step he takes away from me.
Let him understand—slowly, painfully—that this marriage will not save him.
Tonight is only the beginning.