Major stepped down from his grey Aston Martin, draping his suit jacket over his elbow, the other hand gripping a suitcase.
The doorman hurried over to help him, and Major handed his car keys to the valet. He stared up at the towering apartment building, hoping to see Sienna by the window—where she usually sat with her laptop, staring wistfully at the green Venice skyline, the scenery often inspiring her poems or songs.
Sometimes, he would just watch her: the sun kissing her pretty face, the smile tugging at her lips when an idea sparked, the subtle bobs of her head as she listened to music.
She usually waited for him to return. But today—
She wasn't there.
That was odd.
He wanted to see the way her face lit up with eagerness the moment his car swerved into view.
He owned the penthouse, but he often thought about buying a house just for the view of the carport. And he did. He bought it.
He called his bodyguard as he rode the elevator up. "Sylvester. Give me updates on Sienna's location."
"Uh, sir, I'm not at home."
Rage flared in Major's veins. "What the fuck? Why? Why would you leave Sienna alone in the house?" he hollered.
"Because you asked us to… You said we could all go on vacation."
What? How? When?
"And you didn't call to confirm directly from me?"
"But we did, sir. You told us—loud and clear—that we could all leave."
"Shit. Shit. Shit," Major swore under his breath. "Get yourself back to my home. Now. Security protocol was breached. Communication lines were probably intercepted. Sienna was likely targeted."
Ding. The elevator door opened. The penthouse door slid open automatically. Major froze. His jaw slackened. The house was in complete upheaval.
"Even the housekeeper too? I asked her to leave?"
There was a worried urgency in Sylvester's voice. "We've called the AI engineers who wired the house. They're tracking Sienna's movements."
"They better give me a feasible answer in the next 30 minutes."
The door closed behind him with a hiss. He stepped further inside—and his eyes widened like saucers.
His house was never this untidy. Clothes were strewn across the center table. His precious books were turned upside down, scattered on the floor. Puzzle pieces and a dismantled chessboard were everywhere.
It didn't feel like a break-in. No, it felt deliberate. Like someone had made a mess just to piss him off. To leave a statement.
And yes, he was very pissed.
Probably Sienna, he thought, retrieving his golden leather jacket from the floor.
Maybe she was going through some emotional thing. Maybe she was making a statement. He smirked. So she was getting her boldness back, huh?
He checked the laundry. Same thing. It was unfolded and Unkept and he didn't like it one bit.
Sienna always folded his clothes. She once told the housekeeper to stop touching them because she wanted to be the one to do it.
Every day he came home, his clothes were folded, pressed with love, wrapped in the scent of cucumber and dew. He never noticed how much it mattered—until now. And now, the absence stood out.
He called the housekeeper. "Come back. This place needs to be arranged. I have a remote meeting by 5 PM."
But where was Sienna?
He walked into the bedroom they grudgingly shared, hoping to see some memory of her—The origami she always folded. Shapes Of different Flowers according to her mood, mostly Animals. Seldom times of seasonal things.
But the origami was gone. His table had never felt so empty. So bland. So lifeless.
He sat on the bed, dejected. What was this feeling? This…loneliness?
His phone buzzed. He picked it up instantly—it was his bodyguard. "Tell me she's okay. Tell me she's fine."
He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. But it still slipped in.
"She's eating at a café in Sownsbury."
What did I tell her about leaving the house?
Chill. She's your wife, not your slave. You leave the house whenever you want—why try to limit her movement?
His mind chided at him. He huffed, chest heaving. He wanted to drive to her right now and bring her back into the house. But, I'll let it slide. Just this one time.
He turned towards her side of the room that they both shared, pulling off his shirt. As he moved to toss it into the laundry bin, something caught his eye—Colorful, crushed paper by the bed.
Her origami. He grabbed a fistful and carefully unfolded one.
> He doesn't appreciate me. This. All of this. Whatever I do to make this house feel alive. Maybe I should stop.
A low pang tightened his stomach.
He stuffed some of the origami into his pocket. He would straighten them out tomorrow at work. Maybe set one on his table—the T-Rex one was his favorite.
> "I am never appreciated." The words clawed their way back into his head.
Yeah, maybe he enjoyed tearing her down. Maybe it thrilled him to watch her quake with fear whenever he raised his voice. He liked taming the pride and arrogance out of the first daughter of Ricci. But maybe—just maybe—she'd grown tired of trying to please him.
And he liked it when she tried. When she failed, again and again, just to impress him. Her efforts to please him... pleased him. What if she stopped trying?
No more origami on his work desk.
No fresh flowers in the dining room.
No new candles.
No experimental Italian dishes.
No folded clothes smelling like her.
Funny how he never noticed those things before. And now that they were gone—He felt starved.
He stepped into the shower. The steam billowed up and away from his skin, and he imagined his problems rising with it, evaporating into nothing.
When he stepped out, he made up his mind.
He wasn't going to miss some daughter of Ricci.
He would find Aria.
And she would fuck whatever guilt or empathy he was feeling right out of him.
Crisp top clung to his sculpted torso.
Tailored slacks on his long, muscular legs.
He looked devastatingly handsome, He thought as he checked himself in the mirror. Aria would drool at the sight of him, beg him to stop and thank him for not stopping.
Yeah, right. He smirked to himself. Girls should be the ones chasing him and missing him, not the other way around.