The first sign was the charger. Not Luca’s charger. Hers. Sienna noticed it plugged neatly beside Luca’s side of the bed on Thursday morning while she stood barefoot in one of his shirts staring sleepily at the skyline outside the penthouse windows.
“That’s suspicious,” she murmured as she walked out into the kitchen.
Luca glanced up from the espresso machine.
“What is?”
“My charger migrated.”
“You forgot it.”
“You plugged it in.”
“You looked annoyed when your phone died Tuesday.”
That answer came far too quickly. Sienna narrowed her eyes slightly while Luca continued making coffee with the calm composure of a man pretending he had not quietly started integrating her existence into his home like an emotionally repressed interior designer.
“You’re domesticating me without consent,”
