Page 56 of The Owner's Temptation

I did.

Her stomach growls again, and she shifts—just slightly—trying to muffle it with her movement. She folds her hands in her lap over and over, likely tensing before her stomach protests her hunger again.

It’s barely eleven. Another hour and a half before the recruits head down for lunch and afternoon training with Eve. She won’t make it that long. And I know she won’t ask.

So I type out a message to my assistant.

A tray arrives minutes later—set quietly on the table in front of her

Diced fruit, soft cheeses, fig and honey jam with crackers, mini strawberry danishes, a carafe of hot coffee, and two bottles of still water.

Sienna looks at it but doesn’t move toward the tray. Doesn’t reach for the food.

Good.

She knows to wait.

I stand, slipping my watch back onto my wrist.

“I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” I tell her, buttoning my jacket.

She blinks up at me.

“Stay here. Help yourself.”

And then I leave—closing the door behind me.

* * *

Ididn’t actually have anything that required me to leave the office.

No meetings. No calls that couldn’t wait. No urgent fire to put out.

So I take the elevator down to the fifteenth floor terrace, the one still scented faintly with perfume and cigar smoke from the recent night’s mixer. The space is empty now, but I can still hear the echoes of clinking glasses and forced laughter in my mind.

I pull my phone out of my pocket.

And for thirty minutes, I scroll through Sienna’s Instagram.

She doesn’t post often. A few shots of latte art, a blurry concert photo from last year, a carousel of fall leaves and cozy knits. But there’s a selfie tucked between them—her in oversized sunglasses, hair up in a claw clip, lips puckered around a boba straw. The caption says nothing but a bunny emoji.

Of course.

Looks like the little rabbit has a theme going on.

I tilt the phone and study the image a beat longer than necessary.

Then I lock the screen and head back upstairs.

When I return to the office, Sienna is exactly where I left her.

The tray’s been touched. At least half the food is gone—two crackers stacked on her plate, the fruit rearranged, the coffee carafe mostly full but one of the water bottles nearly empty. The other untouched.

She saved it for me.

I sit across from her and let my gaze linger on the plate.

“You didn’t wait to be served.”

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