Bianca's apartment smelled like the same perfume she'd worn every day for six years — something expensive and deliberate, chosen because Tristan had once mentioned he liked it. He stood in her doorway now, rain still clinging to his shoulders, irritation sitting heavy in his jaw.
"You said we needed to talk," he said, the moment the door opened not bothering to remove his coat. "So talk."
"No hello?" Bianca stepped back to let him in, closing the door with a soft click. "After everything, I'd think you'd at least manage that much."
"Bianca."
"Fine." She crossed to the counter, poured two glasses of wine neither of them had asked for, and set one in front of him anyway. "I wanted to remind you of something. Since you've been acting like you've forgotten."
"Forgotten what?"
"That this—
