Three weeks underground.
Sienna healed in silence. No hospitals. No light.
Colson guarded her like a soldier—until she ordered him out.
She needed solitude. Not sympathy.
Every night, she stared at the flash drive. And every night, she saw Nico's face when he pulled the trigger.
Love didn't just hurt.
It betrayed.
Then the message came.
Encrypted. Anonymous. Just two words:
"Come alone."
Coordinates: Morocco. A cliffside villa overlooking the sea.
It reeked of a trap.
So she wore white—like a bride walking into war.
The villa was empty, save for candlelight and a bottle of wine breathing on the table.
She entered. No fear.
Then: "You came."
Nico stood in the doorway, no weapon, no smirk.
Just his eyes. Haunted.
"I didn't miss," he said quietly. "But I didn't kill you either."
Sienna poured a glass of wine. "That your version of an apology?"
He stepped forward. "I gave them something. I had to. They had my sister. You would've done the same."
"Don't pretend you know what I'd do anymore," she snapped.
He came closer.
Too close.
She slapped him.
Then kissed him.
Hard. Hungry. Like hate and history entwined.
But when they broke apart, Nico staggered.
Blinking. Shaking.
His lips parted in confusion. "What did you—?"
She held up a vial.
"Neurotoxin," she whispered. "Slow. Reversible. If I choose."
He fell to his knees.
And Sienna leaned down beside him.
"Next time," she whispered into his ear, "you won't get a second chance."
Then she vanished into the night, leaving the antidote—just out of reach.
Because love was war.
And she was done playing fair.