Sienna’s POV

The day had opened like a postcard.

A proper little bistro—dim, buttery light, music kept low enough to breathe through, and actual flowers on the tables instead of dusty plastic imitations.

Damien slides my chair out as if I’m fragile in the best way, as if I matter.

“You look incredible,” he had said when I sat.

“Thanks.” I smooth the skirt of my blue dress, suddenly hyperaware of every crease. ...