Sienna sat alone in her apartment, wrapped in one of his silk robes she never meant to take home.
She didn't wear it out of sentiment.
She wore it because her skin still remembered him. And the robe smelled like cedar, leather, and sex. Like Luca's mouth on her throat. Like the sound of his voice when he growled good girl in her ear before making her come so hard she forgot her own name.
She hated how much she missed him.
Not just his body.
His eyes. His quiet.
The way he undressed her with reverence, then ruined her with precision.
The way he held her afterward like the world didn't exist beyond their sweat.
And then—just like that—he shut down.
Just like the others.
No—worse.
Because with Luca, she'd actually started to believe in something more.
She'd opened.
She'd given him her trust, her body, her fucking heart.
And when he pulled away, it wasn't indifference. It was fear.
And that cut deeper than any rejection.
It meant he felt something.
It meant he chose not to face it.
She tried to distract herself.
Her gallery was preparing for a new show. She buried herself in curating pieces that screamed of intimacy, tension, shadow and light.
But everything reminded her of him.
A sculpture shaped like a bound woman, her face serene with surrender.
A painting where black and crimson bled into each other—chaos and control.
Even the music she played while hanging canvas seemed to hum with low, pulsing bass that sounded too much like his voice in the dark.
And at night?
She couldn't sleep.
She'd reach between her legs and touch herself, slow and desperate, trying to re-create his mouth, his rhythm. But it wasn't the same.
Her fingers brought climax.
But not release.
He had ruined her for casual pleasure.
She didn't want just orgasm.
She wanted worship.
She wanted the man who had tied her up just to set her free.
Then the letter came.
No return address.
Just her name in that beautiful, sharp handwriting—like every word from his pen was meant to pierce.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
She read every word twice.
Then a third time.
Tears didn't fall.
Her breath did.
Because for the first time since she walked out of that penthouse, she heard his voice again.
Not the dominant.
Not the mask.
Just Luca.
The man.
The one who said he didn't trust softness—but still wanted hers.
The one who said he wouldn't flinch, if she gave him a second chance.
And suddenly… she didn't feel powerful. Or weak.
She just felt full.
Of ache. Of heat. Of unfinished wanting.
And a single, burning question:
Could she trust him to kneel beside her—not above her—this time?
Not just in bed.
But in truth.
And if she said yes?
She wouldn't be crawling back.
She'd be choosing him.
Again.
With her whole self.
Even the parts that still carried scars.