Page 9 of I'm sorry, Princess

And now he’s standing in front of us, radiating danger and heat, like the universe has a sick sense of humor.

“Ladies.”

His voice is low, cool, indifferent, but his eyes never leave Sienna.

Knox Hunter is the type of man who owns a room just by walking into it. He doesn’t have to smile. Doesn’t have to say much. His presence is loud even when he’s silent.

I don’t know him well, but I know the stories.

Every girl in our circle knows the stories.

Knox, the man who can have anyone he wants, and usually does. Except for Sienna. With her, it’s complicated. They’ve been something for years, but no one knows exactly what. Lovers? Enemies? A beautifully toxic mix of both.

Rumors swirl around him like cigarette smoke. They say he’s slept with half the modeling industry, but no one can prove it.

Yet Sienna stays. Maybe she’s hypnotized by his muscles. Or maybe it’s something deeper. Something more dangerous than lust.

Because, well, look at him.

He’s carved from sin.

Those biceps alone could silence a room, and trust me, they do.

He leans in, his hand sliding around Sienna’s waist like he owns her, and presses a slow kiss against her lips.

Not a real kiss. A performance. A promise.

Then his lips drift to her cheek, and he whispers something I can’t hear.

But I don’t have to.

I can see it in her eyes, the way they widen, the way her breath catches.

“I’ll see you at home, baby girl,” he murmurs loud enough for me to catch, just before giving me a slight nod.

A polite nod. Like I’m just a piece of furniture in the background.

Then he walks away.

In the opposite direction of where he came from.

Like he came here for no other reason but to rattle her, whisper something poisonous into her ear, and leave her drowning in the aftermath.

I watch his tall frame disappear down the street, leaving behind nothing but tension and the ghost of his cologne.

Sienna’s color drains. Her eyes glaze over for a second too long.

“Is everything okay?” I ask her, even though I already know the answer.

She forces a smile. The kind of smile that hurts to wear.

And she nods.

Another nod.

We drive home, both pretending the Knox moment didn’t happen.

That’s the thing about us. We’ve mastered the art of pretending. Pretending things are fine. Pretending heartbreak is normal. Pretending men like him don’t crawl under our skin and live there rent-free.