Turbulence

Desmond’s POV

I didn’t sleep after that message.

I lay there listening to the house breathe—air vents humming, distant traffic, the soft rhythm of Sienna’s breaths beside me—and catalogued every risk I’d ever underestimated. Sylvia wasn’t reckless. She was precise. Messages like that weren’t threats; they were timers.

By morning, the city felt different. Quieter. Like it was holding its breath.

At breakfast, the kids were their usual whirlwind—cereal spills, arguments over cartoons—but Sienna barely touched her coffee. I watched her from across the table, the way her fingers stayed curled around the mug, knuckles pale.

“You’re cancelling the charity luncheon?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

She nodded. “And the interview. And the board dinner.”

“That’s three appearances in forty-eight hours.”

“Good,” she said. “Let it look sudden.”

The housekeeper hovered nearby, pretending not to listen. I made a mental note. Everyone was a variable now.

After the kids left with security, Sienna