Page 192 of The Owner's Temptation

I’ve barely moved from the couch.

The throw blanket is still half-folded from when I tried to sit up and talk myself into going The Ledger this morning.

Didn’t happen.

Didn’t even get to the part where I put on real clothes.

The air feels heavy. The silence, heavier.

I’m not crying anymore. That stopped sometime around midnight.

Now I’m just... quiet.

Waiting for the ache to dull, even though I know it won’t.

Not yet.

The buzzer comes three times in a row. Not the impatient kind, not the angry kind—just the kind that saysI know you’re in there, and I’m not leaving.

I debate ignoring it. But then I hear her voice.

“Sienna, if you don’t let me up, I swear I’ll call the fire department and tell them you’re stuck in the tub with your foot wedged in the drain. Again.”

A groan escapes before I can stop it.

I shuffle to the door, buzzing her in and leave the door open a crack before plopping back down on the couch.

The door creaks open a few seconds later, and Harper breezes in like she owns the place—which, emotionally speaking, she kind of does.

“God, it smells like heartbreak and microwave popcorn in here,” she says, toeing off her heels and kicking the door shut behind her. “And not the good kind of heartbreak either. Theno one even died and you’re still this dramatickind.”

I don’t even lift my head from the couch. “You’re welcome for the ambiance.”

She walks straight to the window and throws open the curtains, bathing the room in sunlight I didn’t ask for and definitely didn’t want. “Jesus, Sienna. This isn’t mourning. This is light depression with a splash of refusal to shampoo.”

“I showered last night,” I mumble.

“Not hard to tell. Fuzzy hair, sad eyes, cozy robe. You’re one sad playlist away from becoming a Pinterest cautionary tale.”

She walks over, leans down, and squints at me. “Have you eaten anything that wasn’t a granola bar or your feelings?”

“I had toast.”

Her brow rises. “Dry?”

I hesitate. “…Maybe.”

Harper sighs and disappears into my kitchen without another word. A cabinet slams. A fridge opens. Something clinks.

“I’m not in the mood for a pep talk,” I mumble, curling deeper into the couch like a feral house cat.

“Oh good,” She pops her head back around the corner. “Because I didn’t bring one. Youlovegrilled cheese and I come bearing brie and reckless opinions. Maybe a sprinkling of rage.”

Despite myself, I almost smile.

She reappears with a pan in one hand and cheese in the other, tossing both onto the stovetop like she’s about to perform a culinary intervention. “So. Tell me what happened. And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because that look on your face sayseverything.”

I exhale, staring down at my hands like they might offer some kind of answer. “He let me go.”

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