Page 102 of Unlock My Heart

22. I love how perfectly we fit together in every way.

Seriously, past tense.

23. I even love your cold feet on me. (Are your feet still cold? Never mind, I’ll find out for myself).

24. I love how creative you are.

25. I love your fierce spirit.

This one has me blinking back the tears. How can Fabien not see that my spirit’s broken?

Attorney/client time is over, so I’ll have to pause my ode to you. By the way, Shakespeare got it wrong. Parting isn’t sweet sorrow. It’s torture.

Speaking of, how long do you plan on torturing me?

Forever your loving husband,

Fabien

There’s an annoying burning sensation behind my eyes, and to fight it, I lie down and focus on the ceiling. Blinking doesn’t help, so I set my bleary gaze on the light fixture. Not caring for the industrial vibe, I decide I’m going to replace it.

A huge dog head appears, blocking my view. Lacey whines softly, and I tell her, “I’m okay. Just taking a little rest. In the middle of the floor.” Like I always do, I pick myself up and dust myself off.

Lacey plops down on her princess bed, which I had ordered for her, and I get to work pricking holes for my bobbin pattern. Happy with the design, I pin the piece of cardboard to the lace pillow. Now, the real work begins.

“Miss Sienna⁠—”

I look up to find a frozen Jermaine, watching an on guard Lacey growling in warning.

“Lacey, sit. This is Jermaine. He’s going to help me out around here.”

She sits but is clearly unhappy about it, watching him closely.

“Jermaine, welcome. You’ve met my guard dog, Lacey.”

“Hope this is as up close and personal as we’re gonna meet,” he says nervously, reaching inside his jacket.

“What’s that?” I nod to the small package.

“This was addressed to you at the hotel. Found it when I was cleaning out my things.”

He tentatively walks over and hands me the package, and I rummage through my desk until I find scissors and cut it open.

My eyes go wide when I see what’s inside. “Jermaine, would you mind grabbing me an espresso from upstairs?”

“Yes, Miss Sienna.” He disappears, and I move briskly to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door.

Retrieving the relic of a flip phone from the package, I also find a note, but in unfamiliar handwriting.

Are you ready to stick it to the Calvani family? Press one and hit call.

Maybe I’ve always been too curious for my own good, but I do as instructed and bring the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, and just as I’m going to end the call, a gruff Southern voice comes on the line. “Sienna.”

“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” My tone’s light, but I already dislike this man for having an advantage.

“Let’s just say someone who could be an ally.”

“An ally in what, exactly?”