Sienna did not scream. That was the most terrifying part of her own reaction—the silence of it. While the rain outside beat a frantic rhythm against the bedroom glass, she stood frozen in the honeyed glow of the lamps, holding a slip of thermal paper as if it were a live wire.

The evening air was crisp and damp, smelling of rain and asphalt. Le Jardin was bustling, its warm amber lights casting a welcoming glow over the cobblestone courtyard. The restaurant was famous for its exclusivity—a playground for the city’s elite, where politicians, corporate executives, and high-society socialites gathered to dine on truffles and vintage Bordeaux.

Derek pushed open the heavy oak doors at 8:15 p.m. He looked disheveled. His tie was loose, his suit jacket was wrinkled from being clutched in a cardboard box, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He had spent the afternoon wandering the streets, rejected by his friends, ignored by his family, and blocked by Chloe, whose doorman had refused to let her building elevator take him up to her penthouse.

Desperate, humiliated, and running on pure adrenaline, Derek had decided to come here. He remembered Chloe mentioning once that she loved dining at Le Jardin on Thursday nights with her girlfriends. Maybe—just maybe—he could catch her before she went inside, beg for forgiveness, and salvage at least one piece of his shattered life.

He walked past the host stand, hoping to slip into the lounge, but the maître d’—a sharp-eyed man with a silver mustache named Jean-Luc—stepped smoothly into his path.

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?" Jean-Luc asked, his tone polite but dripping with subtle judgment as he took in Derek’s rumpled appearance.

"I’m meeting someone," Derek muttered, trying to peer past the man into the dining room. "A party of two. Table 4."

Jean-Luc’s eyebrows arched. He consulted his tablet. "Table 4? Ah, yes. The private booth in the corner. But the reservation is under the name Hayes. And your party is already seated."

Derek froze. Hayes? Sienna didn't come to places like Le Jardin. She hated fancy, overpriced restaurants. She preferred quiet dinners at home. But then a terrifying thought struck him—could Chloe have booked a table under a pseudonym? Or... could it be someone else?

"Right," Derek swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. "That’s... that’s my wife. Let me just go surprise her."

Before Jean-Luc could object, Derek pushed past him and hurried toward the back of the dining room. The ambient murmur of clinking crystal and muffled laughter washed over him. He wove through the tables, his eyes locked on the plush red velvet booth in the far corner—Table 4.

As he got closer, his footsteps slowed.

Sitting alone in the booth was a woman in a stunning, backless emerald-green dress. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and she was swirling a glass of deep red wine with slow, deliberate grace.

Derek stopped dead in his tracks. His breath caught in his throat.