Salvatore DiMarco / Diego Rossi
I exited through the kitchen, and when I rounded the corner, I saw him. Frederick Devereux stood at her door, holding a bouquet of expensive flowers.
I chuckled. My Sienna never cared for expensive things; she cared for fragrant and unique things. The single bouquet I got to give her when we were married was a mix of lilies, margaritas, sunflowers, and greenery. Nothing exotic, and she loved them.
He has no idea, he doesn't know her as I do. For him, she is a replacement; for me, she is my entire universe.
She opened the door. As soon as she saw who it was, her face dropped. Her smile erased, and her body tightened protectively.
“What are you doing here?” she said, not as a greeting but as a woman trying to fight a battle that she has fought one t
