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"Not particularly."

Levi shifts the garment bag higher on his shoulder. "Who is it?"

"Sienna."

That gets a look from both of them.

Not Archer. Archer just takes the box and waits.

I slide the phone into my pocket.

Sienna knew about the clause. She knew enough to understand why I married Aria. She wanted to talk before all of this blew up.

And if anyone outside the family had both motive and access, it was her.

Except that doesn't hold exactly.

If Sienna went to the board, and handed them the thread that unraveled everything, she's risk blowing up one of her firm's biggest clients in the process.

That isn't ambition. That's arson. And Sienna is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them.

Would she really do that just to end my marriage?

Levi is still watching me.

"You think she knows something?"

"I think," I say, taking the box back from Archer, "that tomorrow is either going to answer a few questions or I’m going to leave with more questions than I came in with."

Damien picks up the last duffel. "Excellent. I love when a mystery also threatens to ruin your life."

I don't answer.

I just head for the SUV with the invitation still in my briefcase and Sienna's name still sitting in my chest like something I can't swallow.

If Sienna is the reason I just lost Aria… this meeting won’t end well.

Chapter Thirty-Three

ARIA

By the next morning, heartbreak feels less like an emotion and more like a flu.

Everything aches.

My eyes are swollen. My stomach feels empty and vaguely wrong at the same time. I'm tired in that deep, useless way where sleep doesn't seem to have touched any of the parts that actually needed it.

I tell myself that makes sense. People get their hearts broken every day. Presumably their bodies retaliate.

By the time I get to Brookhaven, I've had half a piece of toast, three sips of tea, and exactly one thought looping in my head: If Everett wanted out that badly, why does none of this feel finished? I spend the hour with my father pretending I'm better at pretending than I am.

He's having a decent day. Not perfect. Not effortless. But decent. He asks if I slept, and I lie. He asks if I've been painting, and that answer at least is true. He asks if I've seen Everett, and something in my chest pulls so tight I have to look away under the excuse of adjusting the blanket over his legs.

So I keep the conversation on him.

On physical therapy. On whether Dr. Patel is pushing him too hard this week. On whether the crossword in the paper is getting any easier. On whether Matteo really did bring him lemon cookies the other day or if he dreamed that part.

He smiles at that, and for a few minutes I can almost believe I'm just tired, not cracked open.