The rain tapped against the kitchen window like impatient fingers. It was past eight, and the house was quiet. Sienna sat barefoot on the marble counter, swirling a half-finished glass of red wine between her fingers, the hem of her silk robe brushing the tops of her thighs. Her husband was somewhere in another country, pretending to care about deadlines more than her.

She didn’t even hear the knock at first.

Then came the voice. Deep. Familiar. “Sienna?”

Her stomach tightened. She set ...