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"If I hadn’t tried to make him jealous," she says softly, "that would be on my finger instead."

She doesn’t wait for a response. She checks her reflection one final time, smooths her hair, and walks out.

The door clicks shut.

I stand there with my hands gripping the marble and Sienna’s words still ringing in my ears.

And the worst part, the part that makes my throat tight and my eyes burn, is that technically, she’s right. Twelve months. That’s what I signed. That’s all this is.

I splash water on my wrists. Breathe. Fix my face.

Then I walk out.

Sienna is already back at the table, smiling like she just freshened up her lipstick and nothing more. She catches my eye and gives me a look that’s almost warm. Almost as if she believes that she and I have an understanding. She gets my husband in a year when he files for divorce.

That’s somehow worse than if she’d been cruel.

The gala is winding down. Waiters are clearing tables. The harpist has packed up and someone has switched to ambient music that signals the end of the night.

"We should get drinks," Sienna says brightly, addressing the table. "There’s a wine bar on the next block that stays open until two."

Pierre tilts his head, considering. "That could be—"

But Margaux is looking at me. Reading my face the way only another woman can.

"I think," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel, "that I’m actually wiped out. It’s been a long night." I touch Everett’s arm. "You should go, though. Really."

Everett looks at me. Studies me the way he studies everything—thoroughly, too closely, seeing things I wish he wouldn’t.

"No," he says. "I’ll take you home."

It’s not a negotiation. It’s not a question.

Margaux stands and takes Pierre’s arm. "I think we will also call it a night." She gives me a look that says everything—that she wouldn’t have stayed either, that she came tonight for her husband but stayed for me, that the evening ended the moment I said I was leaving.

She kisses both my cheeks. "You must come to Lyon," she says. "I insist."

Pierre shakes Everett’s hand. "We’ll talk Monday." Then he turns to me and says something that makes Sienna’s smile falter for the first time all evening: "Your fiancée is the reason this deal will close. I hope you know that."

Sienna says nothing.

Everett’s hand finds the small of my back—low, warm, deliberate. He guides me through the thinning crowd toward the exit. Past the champagne tables, past the lingering conversations, past Sienna standing near the bar with her phone in her hand and her certainty still intact.

Outside, the night air hits my bare shoulders like cold water.

The town car is waiting at the curb. The driver moves to open the door.

Everett waves him off.

He walks me to the passenger side, opens the door himself, and holds it while I slide in.

He shuts the door. Walks around. Gets in beside me.

The car pulls away from the curb, and Seattle blurs past through tinted glass.

Neither of us speaks.

Sienna’s voice loops through my head on a track I can’t shut off.