Sienna Rivera didn't expect the silence to be so loud.
She clutched the handles of her suitcase as the black town car rolled to a smooth stop in front of Blackthorn Tower. It was the kind of place that didn't need to boast—its presence loomed over the city, sleek and intimidating. Just like its owner.
Damien Blackthorn.
Her heart skipped.
The last time she had seen him, his hands had been on her waist, his lips on her neck, and her body melting under his. But that was over a year ago—before her world flipped upside down.
Before the baby.
The chauffeur opened the door with a quiet nod, and she stepped out, heels clicking against the marbled entrance. As she entered the grand lobby, the receptionist stood the moment she saw Sienna.
"Miss Rivera. Mr. Blackthorn is expecting you. Please take the private elevator."
Of course. Damien didn't do public.
The elevator ride was smooth and silent, her stomach coiling tighter with every floor they passed. By the time it opened directly into his penthouse, her palms were damp.
"Sienna."
His voice was deeper than she remembered. It sent a tremor down her spine.
He stood across the vast living room, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed him in city light. Black suit. No tie. Unreadable gaze.
She straightened. "Damien."
"I assume everything went smoothly?"
"Depends on your definition of smooth."
His eyes flicked to the suitcase in her hand. "You packed light."
"I don't plan on staying longer than I have to."
He didn't respond. Instead, he turned and walked toward the hallway. "Guest room's this way."
She followed, taking in the immaculate design of the space—dark woods, cool marble, minimal art. Cold and elegant. Just like him.
"You'll stay here," he said, opening the door to a luxurious suite that looked more like a hotel than a home. "Closet's stocked. Staff comes every morning. Keep the door locked if you want privacy."
"Generous of you."
"This isn't about generosity, Sienna," he said, stepping closer. "This is about control."
She met his gaze, chin high. "You always did crave control."
"And you always hated giving it up."
A beat passed, the tension between them thick and humming.
"Do we need to rehearse anything for tomorrow?" she asked, needing to break it.
"The gala?" He shrugged. "Just smile. Hold my arm. Pretend we're in love."
"And the ring?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat a flawless diamond, cushion-cut and brilliant.
Her breath caught. "You bought this?"
"My assistant did."
Of course.
She slipped the ring onto her finger. It felt heavy. Real.
Damien studied her. "You still have that fire in you."
She gave a cold smile. "You still think you can play with it."
Their eyes locked, and for a brief second, the walls cracked. She saw the man he used to be—before boardrooms, revenge, and betrayal.
Before she walked away.
And before she carried his child alone.
She broke eye contact and moved past him into the suite, closing the door softly behind her.
Only when she was alone did she allow her hand to settle on her flat stomach. The baby wasn't visible yet, but the weight of her secret grew heavier by the day.
Damien couldn't know. Not yet.
Because this wasn't just a marriage of convenience.
It was a ticking bomb.