The morning after tasted like burnt coffee and secrets.
Sienna sat at the edge of the grand dining table, untouched toast on her plate, her thoughts still lost somewhere between Luciano’s confession and his kiss.
He hadn’t joined her for breakfast.
Not that she expected him to—he wasn’t the type to linger after letting his mask slip.
But something was different now.
Something had shifted in the way he looked at her, touched her, let her in.
She stirred her coffee without drinking it, eyes drifting to the oversized windows where golden light spilled through like liquid betrayal.
Too warm.
Too bright.
It clashed with the tension coiled in her chest.
The silence in the house wasn’t peaceful.
It was calculating.
Everyone was waiting.
Watching.
For the next move.
The next
