Sienna told Dante the next morning.
Not because she wanted to. Not because it felt right or clean or like the kind of decision that would lead to anything good. She told him because lying felt worse. Because she'd spent three years living in a relationship built on secrecy, and she'd promised herself — promised herself — that she'd never do that again.
Even if the truth was going to hurt.
They were in his kitchen. Saturday morning. Dante was making eggs, humming something under his breath, wearing the soft gray t-shirt she'd bought him for his birthday. Everything about the moment was normal. Domestic. Safe. The kind of Saturday morning that people dream about when they talk about building a life with someone. Sunlight streaming through the windows. Coffee brewing. The quiet comfort of routine.
And Sienna was about to blow it apart.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
