Alessandro's wedding had been perfect.
That's what everyone said, anyway. Three hundred guests at The Plaza. Vanessa in custom Vera Wang. A seven-tier cake that probably cost more than most people's cars. The Times had run a feature: "Manhattan Royalty Unites: Castellano-Whitmore Wedding Marks Historic Merger of Two Real Estate Empires."
Historic merger. That's exactly what it was. Nothing more, nothing less.
He stared at the ring on his finger—platinum, engraved with their wedding date—and felt absolutely nothing. Six months married, and he'd felt more looking at Sienna's empty coffee cup on his kitchen counter than he'd felt saying "I do" to the woman who now shared his last name.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Alessandro looked up from his desk. Vanessa stood in the doorway of his home office—no, their home office, he had to remember that now—wearing tennis whites and an expression of cool irritation that seemed to be her default setting these days.
"Sorry," he said, not meaning it. "What were you saying?"
"The Hendersons' dinner party. Saturday night. Seven o'clock." She crossed her arms, tennis bracelet catching the light. "I need you actually present this time, Alessandro. Last week at the Vanderbilt gala, you spent half the evening staring at your phone like a teenager. It's embarrassing."
"I was handling a business emergency."
"You were texting someone who never texts back." Her smile was sharp as glass. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
Alessandro's hand tightened on his pen. Vanessa wasn't stupid—that had never been the problem. She'd known about Sienna from the beginning, had tolerated the arrangement the same way she tolerated his preference for scotch over wine or his tendency to work late. As long as he was discreet, as long as he showed up when required, as long as the affair didn't interfere with their public image.
Except Sienna wasn't his affair anymore. Hadn't been for six months. And the texts Vanessa had noticed weren't replies—they were drafts. Hundreds of them, typed and deleted, typed and deleted, an endless cycle of words he could never quite make himself send.
I was wrong.
I miss you.
Please call me.
I made a mistake.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
"I'll be there Saturday," Alessandro said. "Seven o'clock. I'll even smile for the cameras."
"How generous of you." Vanessa turned to leave, paused in the doorway. "Oh, and your mother called. Again. She wants to know when we're coming for Sunday dinner. I told her we were busy."
"We should go. She's been asking for weeks."
"Your mother doesn't like me, Alessandro. She barely tolerates me. I don't see why we should subject ourselves to her passive-aggressive comments about grandchildren and 'marrying for love.'" Vanessa's voice dripped with disdain on those last words. "We both know this marriage is a business arrangement. I don't need to pretend otherwise over pot roast."
She left before he could respond, her tennis shoes silent on the hardwood floors of the penthouse they shared. Different penthouse from the one he'd kept Sienna in—Vanessa had insisted they start fresh, find a place that was "theirs." As if buying new furniture could somehow make this feel like a real marriage instead of a very expensive roommate situation.
Alessandro pulled out his phone. Opened his messages. Scrolled to the name he'd never been able to delete: Sienna Morales.
The last text in their thread was from him, sent three weeks after she'd left:
I know you need space. I'm giving it to you. But I want you to know that what we had was real. You were real. I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you needed, but that doesn't mean I didn't love you. I still do.
She'd never responded.
He'd checked her social media obsessively at first. Instagram, LinkedIn, Facebook—anywhere he might catch a glimpse of her life without him. But Sienna had gone dark. Private accounts, no updates, like she'd simply vanished from the digital world the same way she'd vanished from his physical one.
He'd driven past her old apartment in Brooklyn twice. Okay, six times. The lights were always off.
He'd called Jade once, from a burner phone like some kind of stalker. She'd picked up, listened to his breathing for exactly three seconds, then said, "She doesn't want to talk to you, Alessandro. Stop calling." Click.
His finger hovered over the message box. He could text her right now. Just something simple. Casual.
How are you?
Pathetic.
I hope you're doing well.
Even worse.
I can't stop thinking about you and this marriage is slowly killing me and I was an idiot and please, please tell me there's still a chance.
He typed it out. Stared at it. Deleted it word by word.
A knock on his office door saved him from his own spiral. Marcus, his assistant, poked his head in.
"Sorry to interrupt, but you wanted the briefing on the Moretti Industries situation?"
Alessandro set his phone down face-down. Forced his brain back to business—the one thing he could still control. "Come in. What's the latest?"
Marcus settled into the chair across from him, tablet in hand. "Moretti's still pushing for the Brooklyn development. He's got community support now, which is new. Someone's been helping him with his PR strategy—it's actually pretty brilliant. Instead of positioning it as gentrification, they're framing it as 'sustainable urban renewal with community input.' He's holding town halls, partnering with local businesses. The narrative's completely shifted."
Alessandro felt his jaw tighten. Dante Moretti. The tech-bro wannabe who thought he could revolutionize real estate with apps and algorithms. Five years ago, Alessandro had sabotaged one of Moretti's major deals—nothing illegal, just strategic information shared with the right investors at the right time. Moretti had lost millions.
Apparently he'd recovered.
"Who's running his PR?" Alessandro asked.
"That's the interesting part." Marcus swiped through his tablet. "He's brought in outside consulting. Sterling & Cross is handling the overall strategy, but there's one consultant in particular who's been spearheading the community engagement piece. She's good, Boss. Really good. I actually saw her at the Hartwell Foundation event last month and—"
"Just tell me who it is."
"Sienna Morales."
The name hit him like a physical blow. Alessandro's hand froze halfway to his coffee cup.
"What?"
"Sienna Morales. She's a senior strategist at Sterling & Cross now. Got promoted a few months ago." Marcus was still looking at his tablet, oblivious to the fact that Alessandro had stopped breathing. "She's the one who turned around the Hartwell Foundation campaign. Increased their donor base by forty percent. Everyone in the industry is talking about her. She's—"
"I know who she is." Alessandro's voice came out rougher than he'd intended.
Marcus looked up, finally caught the expression on Alessandro's face. "Oh. Oh. Is she—was she—"
"Continue with the briefing."
"Right. Um." Marcus cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in his tablet screen. "So Moretti's been working with her for about three weeks now. The results are already showing. Community board approval ratings are up, local press coverage is overwhelmingly positive. If this keeps up, he'll get the permits we've been blocking for two years."
Alessandro's mind was spinning. Sienna was working with Dante Moretti. His rival. The man he'd spent five years trying to undermine. She was helping him succeed where Alessandro had tried to make him fail.
"Are they..." He couldn't finish the question.
"Are they what?"
"Nothing. What else?"
Marcus hesitated. "There's one more thing. I saw them at the event. Moretti and Morales. They seemed... close."
"Define close."
"I mean, it could've been just professional. But he had his hand on her back when he introduced her to people. They were laughing together. She looked happy, Boss. Really happy."
Happy. Sienna looked happy.
With Dante Moretti.
Alessandro stood up abruptly, walked to the window, stared out at the Manhattan skyline without seeing it. Six months. She'd been gone six months, and in that time she'd built a career, earned a promotion, started working with his biggest rival. Maybe started dating his biggest rival, if Marcus's observations were accurate.
While he'd been what? Married to a woman he didn't love. Living in a penthouse that felt like a mausoleum. Drafting texts he never sent.
"Get me everything you can on their working relationship," Alessandro said. "I want to know how they met, how long they've been collaborating, what other projects she's involved with. Everything."
"Boss, I'm not sure that's—"
"Everything, Marcus."
A long pause. Then: "Yes, sir."
Marcus left, closing the door softly behind him.
Alessandro pulled out his phone again. Opened LinkedIn, searched for Sienna's profile. There she was—professional headshot, confident smile, updated job title. Senior Marketing Strategist at Sterling & Cross. Her profile picture was new. She'd cut her hair. It looked good. She looked good.
She looked nothing like the woman who used to wait for him in his penthouse, reading books on his couch, existing in the margins of his life.
This Sienna looked like she had her own life. A full one. A successful one.
One that didn't include him.
His phone rang. Vanessa.
"What?"
"Lovely greeting for your wife." Her voice was acid. "I'm at the club. I'll be home around six. Try not to brood in your office all day. It's unbecoming."
She hung up before he could respond.
Alessandro looked at his reflection in the window—expensive suit, platinum wedding ring, penthouse office in a building he owned. He had everything he was supposed to want. Everything his father had told him to prioritize. Legacy. Empire. Strategic alliances through marriage.
Everything except the one thing that had actually mattered.
He pulled up Sienna's contact again. His thumb hovered over the message box.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he typed:
I heard you're working with Moretti Industries. Congratulations on the success. You were always brilliant at what you do. I hope you're well.
Sent it before he could delete it.
Watched the message turn from "Delivered" to "Read."
Watched the typing bubble appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Disappear.
Then nothing.
She'd read it and chosen not to respond.
Alessandro laughed, bitter and sharp in the empty office. He'd thought he'd had everything figured out six months ago. Marry Vanessa, keep the family happy, build the empire. Sienna would understand eventually. Come back eventually. Forgive him eventually.
He'd been so certain she'd come back.
But she hadn't. She'd built a life instead. A better life, apparently. One where she worked with his enemies and looked happy in LinkedIn photos and didn't waste time responding to texts from men who'd kept her as a secret.
His phone buzzed.
Not Sienna. Marcus.
"Boss, you're not going to like this. Just confirmed—Moretti and Morales were seen having dinner together last Tuesday. Not business. Looked personal. My source says he's been pursuing her for weeks. Thought you should know."
Alessandro's hand tightened on his phone until his knuckles went white.
Dante Moretti. Of course it was Dante Moretti. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
He'd lost her. Really, truly lost her. Not to time or distance or her anger, but to another man. His rival. The one person in Manhattan who had as much reason to hate Alessandro as Sienna did.
He should let her go. Should delete her number, stop checking her LinkedIn, accept that he'd made his choice and now he had to live with it.
Instead, he picked up his office phone and dialed his lawyer.
"Richard? It's Alessandro Castellano. I need you to look into something for me. Dante Moretti—I want to know everything about his current projects, his financial situation, any vulnerabilities I can exploit. And find out everything you can about his relationship with a woman named Sienna Morales. Yes, I know how that sounds. I don't care. Just do it."
He hung up, stared at his wedding ring again.
Vanessa was right. Their marriage was a business arrangement. Nothing more, nothing less.
Which meant he was free to do whatever it took to get Sienna back.
Even if it meant destroying Dante Moretti in the process.
His phone buzzed one more time.
This time it was from Sienna.
"Thank you. I am well. I hope you and your wife are very happy together."
The message was polite. Professional. Cold.
It was the period at the end of their sentence.
Alessandro read it three times, then threw his phone across the room.
It shattered against the wall, screen spiderwebbing into a thousand pieces.
Much like his certainty that he could fix this. That she'd forgive him. That she'd ever be his again.
From the doorway, Vanessa's voice: "That's the second phone this month. Should I be worried?"
Alessandro didn't turn around. Didn't answer.
Just stared at the broken phone and wondered when exactly he'd become the kind of man who destroyed everything he touched.