Chapter 4

I stared at Elena's text for a long time.

Mama's promise.

The words were a silver bullet, aimed right at my heart.

My mother died when I was fifteen.

Elena knew that. She always sent me white orchids—my mother's favorite flower—on my birthday. She held me when I cried. She treated me like her own daughter.

And now, she was using it against me.

I deleted the text and turned off my phone.

No reply.

The next afternoon, I was at the gallery with a major collector from New York.

He was about to sign the contract to purchase a Picasso.

My assistant's voice came through the intercom. "Ms. Sienna, you have an important guest waiting."

"I'm busy right now—"

"She says she's Mr. Dominic's mother."

My blood ran cold.

The collector noticed my expression. "Is it an emergency? We can do this another time."

"No, it's fine," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Please, give me just a few minutes."

My legs felt weak as I walked to the reception area.

Elena was sitting elegantly on a leather sofa.

A beautiful thermal lunch box sat on the table in front of her, smelling delicious.

Two bodyguards in black suits stood silently nearby.

She smiled warmly when she saw me. "Sienna, my dear."

In a French café nearby, Elena opened the containers.

Risotto, truffle pasta, and tiramisu. All my favorites.

She served me with that familiar, motherly grace. "You're too thin, tesoro," she murmured.

"Elena—"

"Call me Mama," she said, taking my hand. "You'll always be my daughter."

My eyes welled up. Damn her. She knew all my weak spots.

"Sienna, I know my son is a fool," she said, her voice laced with regret. "He made a terrible mistake."

"Vivienne is his past. You are the future of this family."

I looked at the woman who had been a mother to me.

For three years, the entire Carvalho family had been kind.

Dominic's father taught me about wine and family history.

His sister took me shopping, sharing secrets.

Even their butler treated me like family.

But all that kindness was built on a lie.

I took out my phone and pulled up screenshots from Vivienne's Instagram. The bed photo, the provocative captions.

"Elena, look at this." I slid the phone toward her.

Her face turned to stone. Anger flashed in her eyes.

"When were these taken?" I asked.

"I don't know—"

"The four days Dominic was missing. Did you know where he was?"

Elena was silent.

"You knew," I said with a cold laugh. "Your whole family knew. While I was the fool, losing sleep, thinking he was dead."

"Sienna, it's complicated—"

"No, it's not," I said, standing up. "He chose her. I accept it."

"Child, listen to me—"

"Elena, thank you for everything these past three years," I said, looking her in the eye. "But Dominic and I are really over."

I walked out of the café.

I could hear her calling my name, but I didn't look back.

Back at the gallery, I buried myself in work.

Signing contracts, planning exhibits, contacting artists.

Being busy was the only thing that helped.

My assistant, Chloe, took one look at my face and rushed over. "Sienna? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. How's the Picasso exhibit coming along?"

"Amazingly! Pre-sale tickets are already thirty percent over our projection," Chloe said, excited. "The New York Times wants to do a feature."

I forced a small smile. "Good."

Chloe's phone lit up. She glanced at it and gasped.

"Oh my god! She's pregnant!"

"Who?"

"This fashion blogger I follow," Chloe said, showing me her phone. "She's gorgeous, I've followed her since college. She just got a new boyfriend who treats her like gold."

I glanced casually at the screen.

My blood turned to ice.

Vivienne.

She'd posted a photo of a pregnancy test. Two clear pink lines.

The caption: "The best surprise of my life. "

My world started spinning.

Pregnant?

With Dominic's child?

His pleas echoed in my head. Begging me to come back.

Then, a different image burned behind my eyes.

Him, screwing another woman. Getting her pregnant.

A bitter laugh broke from my lips. Tears stung my eyes.

Enough. I was done.

Three hours later, I made a decision. I was closing the gallery.

I emailed Anselm Kiefer’s studio in Paris.

Three years ago, they offered me a position.

Is it still open? I typed. I want it.

Chloe stared, shocked, as I packed up my office. "Sienna, are you really leaving?"

"Yeah." I put the last of my things in a box. "Wrap it all up for me."

"But the exhibition—"

"Cancel it."

I dragged my suitcase to the door.

Everything here reminded me of Dominic.

I had to get away.

O'Hare International Airport. The gate.

I sat in the waiting area. An email had just come in.

Paris wanted me.

Anselm's studio had an assistant position open. They'd kept it for me.

I closed my eyes. For the first time in years, I could breathe.

My phone buzzed. Chloe’s number.

"Hello?"

"Sienna."

It was Dominic's voice.

My blood ran cold.

"Where are you?" His voice was desperate, frantic. "I know you closed the gallery. I know you're leaving."

"I handled the Vivienne thing. I can explain everything—"

"Explain?" My laugh was a shard of ice. "Explain that you got her pregnant?"

"It's not my kid!" he roared. "Sienna, please, you have to believe me. It's not mine!"

I looked at the departures screen.

"Now boarding."

"You're at the airport?" Panic filled his voice. "Sienna, you can't go! Wait for me, let me explain—"

"Dominic." I stood up, grabbing my suitcase and walking to the gate. "You know something?"

"What?"

"I finally get it."

I handed my boarding pass to the flight attendant, not looking back.

"The worst part of love isn't the betrayal. It's not the lies. It's the waiting. The stupid, hopeful waiting for an explanation."

"And I'm done."

"Sienna!" he screamed into the phone. "Don't hang up! Please—"

I stabbed the 'end call' button.

And powered my phone down.