TWELVE: 12 Signs. 12 Secrets. 12 Ways to Fall.

Sienna

By 8:47pm, the champagne tower was three centimetres off-centre, one of the lighting technicians had vanished, and a lifestyle journalist with six million followers had decided the carpet looked “too beige” on camera.

So, naturally, everything was going perfectly.

“Move the tower slightly left,” I told the waiter beside me.

He studied the pyramid of crystal coupes. “It’s centred.”

“It’s centred against the wall. It isn’t centred from the entrance, which is where every photographer is going to stand.”

He hesitated. I smiled. He moved it.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

My headset crackled before I could enjoy the victory. “Sienna, the projection wall is flickering again.”

“Switch to the backup feed.”

“We already did.”

“Then reboot the media server and tell Oliver from AV that if one pixel dies after doors open, I’m billing his company for my therapy.”

Someone laughed through the headset.

I wasn’t joking.

Three months had gone into tonight: the members-only launch of The Aurelia, one of London’s most anticipated new boutique hotels. Investors, press, actors and people who described themselves as tastemakers without irony would walk through the doors in nine minutes and assume every candle, flower and champagne glass had arranged itself.

That was my job. Make panic look expensive.

“Sienna.”

I turned. Priya stood beside the main bar in a black trouser suit, holding her phone against her chest. She had the expression she wore when she knew I was about to hate something.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re wearing your bad-news face.”

“This is my normal face.”

“Then fix it.”

Her mouth twitched. “The client has made a small adjustment.”

There were no small adjustments nine minutes before doors.

“What adjustment?”

“They’re merging the presentations.”

I stared at her. “Whose?”

“Ours and Moretti House.”

The room carried on around me—glasses clinking, staff crossing the floor, music humming beneath the rooftop chatter—but one name cut cleanly through it.

Moretti.

“No.”

“Sienna—”

“No.”

“The client thinks your creative concept and Moretti’s hospitality pitch complement each other. They want one presentation, not two.”

“I designed this launch.”

“And his company is operating the hotel.”

“I’m aware of what boutique-hotel entrepreneurs do, Priya.”

She gave me a look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being professional.”

“You threatened AV with therapy bills thirty seconds ago.”

“That was professional.”

Her gaze shifted past my shoulder and softened into something dangerously close to amusement.

A man’s voice behind me said, “Still terrorising suppliers, Cross?”

Eight years, and my body recognised Luca Moretti before my pride could interfere.

I turned slowly.

He stood near the entrance in a charcoal suit, one hand in his pocket, looking irritatingly composed. Eight years had sharpened his face and replaced some of his university carelessness with control, but too much remained familiar: dark hair, unreadable brown eyes, that infuriating stillness that made everyone else seem unnecessarily frantic.

“Moretti.”

His gaze moved over me once. “You look well.”

“I am.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And you still mistake bluntness for charm.”

“I’ve monetised it.”

“That explains the hotels.”

Priya exhaled beside me. “Excellent. Fourteen seconds and I already regret knowing both of you.”

Luca glanced around the rooftop, taking in the amber lighting, smoked glass and skyline beyond the windows. His attention stopped on the champagne tower.

“You moved it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You noticed?”

“The sightline from the entrance was wrong.”

I hated him immediately.

Again.

“Glad we agree on something.”

His gaze returned to mine. “We used to.”

The words were quiet, meant only for me.

For one second I remembered rain behind our university arts building, my back against cold brick and Luca’s mouth on mine after our final showcase.

Then morning.

Then nothing.

I smiled before the memory could reach my face. “That was before your ego became commercially viable.”

His mouth curved. “Before yours required a payroll.”

Priya stepped between us. “You’re presenting together in six minutes. Please save the homicide until after the photographers leave.”

“I’m not presenting his pitch.”

“And I’m not presenting hers,” Luca said at the same time.

Priya closed her eyes. “Perfect. You already sound married.”

“Priya.”

“I’m going.”

“Coward.”

“Survivor.”

She disappeared toward the stage.

Luca looked at me. “You still call people cowards when they don’t do what you want?”

“Only when it works.”

Someone called my name from across the room. I straightened my jacket. “Try to keep up, Moretti.”

His reply followed me. “You first.”

The truly irritating part was that we were excellent together.

I sold the room atmosphere, seduction and discovery. Luca sold privacy, service and memory. Whenever I pushed too hard, he grounded the pitch; whenever he became too polished, I interrupted just enough to make the audience listen again.

By the final slide, the client was smiling like he had personally invented collaboration.

Applause filled the rooftop. Luca leaned closer while we smiled at the front row. “Still hate sharing a stage?”

“I don’t share.”

“No. You conquer.”

“Careful.”

“Threat?”

“Promise.”

Priya met us with three glasses of champagne. “That was disgusting.”

I took one. “Excuse me?”

“You were brilliant together.”

“I was brilliant.”

Luca accepted his glass. “Collaboration remains emotionally difficult for her.”

I turned toward him. “Would you like to test that theory?”

Priya immediately said, “No.”

“I dare you to admit my presentation was better than yours.”

Luca took a slow sip. “No.”

“You have to.”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“Scared?”

Something tiny shifted in his jaw.

“All right. If we’re playing, we need rules.”

Priya stared between us. “You are not playing anything.”

“What rules?” I asked.

“Until sunrise, neither of us refuses a dare.”

Priya nearly inhaled her champagne.

I laughed. “You wouldn’t last an hour.”

“I’ve survived eight years.”

The words landed harder than I wanted them to, so I hid it behind a smile. “Fine.”

“Sienna, this is the kind of decision that ends with somebody barefoot beside the Thames.”

“Dramatic.”

“You once flew to Barcelona because someone told you that you wouldn’t.”

“And I had an excellent weekend.”

Luca lifted his glass. “No illegal dares. Nothing involving anyone who isn’t playing. Nothing that harms either business.”

“And no complaining.”

“I don’t complain.”

“That’s because you repress.”

“And you perform.”

My smile tightened.

Priya groaned. “I formally withdraw from whatever psychological experiment this is.”

Luca held my gaze. “Until sunrise?”

I touched my glass to his. “Until sunrise.”

His first dare was offensive.

“Give me your phone.”

We were alone in the private lift descending from the rooftop.

I pulled it against my chest. “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrow rose, and I muttered something impolite before handing it over.

“One hour,” he said, slipping it into his jacket.

“You’re aware theft is illegal?”

“You checked your email twelve times during the presentation.”

“You counted?”

“You haven’t changed that much.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

His gaze lingered. “You’ve changed plenty. You’ve just kept the armour.”

I ignored that.

When the lift opened, I stepped into the lobby. “My turn. Tell the bartender exactly what you think of his signature cocktail.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Scared?”

“No.”

“Then prove it.”

Ten minutes later, Luca tasted a rosemary-and-orange cocktail while the bartender waited hopefully.

“It’s too sweet, and the smoke overwhelms everything.”

The bartender’s face fell.

“But the bitters are excellent,” Luca added. “The drink underneath the theatre is good. I’d simplify it.”

The bartender considered that, then nodded.

I waited until we walked away before laughing. “You softened it.”

“You asked for honesty, not cruelty.”

“The cruelty was implied.”

“That’s one of your problems.”

“One?”

“I’ve had eight years to compile data.”

The laughter faded from my mouth.

He kept saying eight years as though the time had happened to him too.

Outside, rain glossed the pavement.

“My dare. We leave.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere that belongs to neither of us. No Moretti hotel, no event I organised, no client. Somewhere neither of us controls.”

He studied me. “Interesting.”

“Try not to sound surprised.”

We climbed into a taxi. The driver looked at us in the mirror and asked where we were going.

“South Bank,” I said.

“Too obvious,” Luca replied.

“You don’t get veto power.”

“I dare you to let me choose.”

“That is abuse of the rules.”

“Still a dare.”

I sank into the seat. “Fine.”

“Shoreditch.”

I groaned. “Of course.”

“What?”

“You have Shoreditch energy.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Expensive shoes pretending not to be expensive.”

His laugh was low and real, and for one dangerous second I forgot I was supposed to find him insufferable.

Outside, London slid past in wet reflections.

“My turn. Tell me one truth you can’t hide inside a joke.”

“I rarely joke.”

“Then it should be easy.”

He watched the city before answering. “I nearly didn’t come tonight.”

Something shifted inside me.

“Why?”

“That wasn’t part of the dare.”

“Convenient.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Your problem, Cross, is that you’d rather provoke an answer than ask for one.”

“And yours is believing you understand me.”

His eyes moved to mine. “I used to.”

The taxi suddenly felt smaller.

I looked away. “Your dare.”

“Stop performing.”

I laughed automatically. “I’m not performing.”

“You are now.”

“Define performing.”

“The jokes. The scorekeeping. Turning every conversation into something you can win.”

I folded my arms. “What am I meant to do instead?”

“Nothing. Five minutes.”

“Five minutes of nothing?”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?”

So I sat there.

At first, I counted seconds. Then streetlights. Eventually I noticed his leg close to mine, the cedar scent of his jacket, the reflection of his profile in the glass.

Then the memory returned.

University. The final showcase. Losing by two points. Luca finding me outside in the rain. The argument that somehow became a kiss neither of us had planned.

His hand at my neck.

His mouth on mine.

And the next morning, nothing.

No Luca. No explanation. No goodbye.

When the hour finally ended, he handed my phone back. Priya had sent six messages. The latest was a screenshot with the caption:

This is aggressively you and I refuse to elaborate.

The image was black with cream lettering.

THE TWELFTH HOUSE

CONFESSION

I make everything a competition so I never have to ask if someone chooses me.

A laugh escaped me too quickly.

Luca glanced over. “What?”

“Nothing. Priya being annoying.”

I locked the screen.

Several minutes later, while Luca paid the taxi, I opened the message again and saved the image.

We ended up in the closed kitchen of a restaurant because Luca knew the owner.

“That violates the spirit of the rules,” I said as one of the night staff left a plate of tiramisu between us.

“It isn’t my restaurant.”

“You know everyone.”

“I know useful people.”

“Deeply unattractive.”

“You’re staring at my mouth.”

“I’m looking past you.”

“There’s a fridge behind me.”

“A fascinating fridge.”

His smile was infuriating. He picked up a fork. “My dare. Take the first bite.”

I frowned. “That’s it?”

“You hate sharing dessert.”

“I hate people stealing the best part.”

“So take it first.”

I did, suspiciously. “No trick?”

“No.”

“That was disappointingly normal.”

“I’m broadening my range.”

I leaned forward. “My turn.”

His gaze flicked to my mouth.

I should have chosen something harmless.

Instead, I said, “Kiss me.”

His expression went still.

“No.”

The rejection came so cleanly that I felt twenty-one again. I laughed because that was what I did when something hurt.

“You lose.”

“I’m refusing that dare, yes.”

“Congratulations.”

I reached for my bag.

“Sienna.”

“Relax. I’m not throwing myself into the Thames because Luca Moretti declined to kiss me.”

He came around the table but stopped before touching me. “I didn’t say I don’t want to.”

I looked at him.

“I’m not kissing you because you dared me.”

“How noble.”

“You’re using the game as cover.”

My chest tightened.

His voice softened. “If I kiss you, I don’t want you waking up tomorrow and deciding it happened because of a dare. Tell me what you actually want.”

I swallowed.

There was no smirk, no challenge, no easy exit. Just a choice.

Mine.

“I want you to kiss me.”

“Without the dare?”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not.”

I held his gaze. “I want you, Luca.”

Only then did he touch me.

His hand settled against my jaw and he kissed me slowly, giving me time to change my mind. I didn’t. I gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, and the control he wore so effortlessly finally cracked at the edges.

His other hand moved to my waist, drawing me against him.

He broke the kiss just enough to look at me. “Still yes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“For God’s sake, Luca.”

His smile brushed my mouth. “There she is.”

I kissed him again.

By the time we left the restaurant, the game had changed. The streets were quieter now, rain shining beneath the streetlights as we walked toward the river with our shoulders almost touching.

Luca reached for my hand.

I looked down at our fingers. “Is that a dare?”

“No.”

I let him take it anyway.

His suite was in a private residence near the river rather than one of his hotels. I checked twice.

He laughed the second time. “Trust issues?”

“You own half of London.”

“That’s wildly inaccurate.”

“Rich men always say that right before buying another postcode.”

The door closed behind us and the teasing faded.

Luca kissed me again, slower this time. When his fingers found the zip at the back of my dress, he paused.

“Can I?”

The simple question hit harder than arrogance ever could.

“Yes.”

He drew the zip down, his knuckles brushing my back as the dress slipped from my shoulders.

His gaze moved over me without hurry.

“You’re staring.”

“I’ve waited eight years. I’m taking my time.”

My breath caught despite myself. I reached for his shirt and began undoing the buttons.

“You’re not the only one who remembers.”

His eyes sharpened. “I wondered.”

“Don’t look pleased with yourself.”

“Too late.”

I kissed him before he could say anything else.

We moved through the suite in pieces—another kiss, his mouth at my throat, my palms against the warmth of his chest. Every time urgency threatened to take over, he slowed enough to make me answer.

“Still want this?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if that changes.”

“It won’t.”

Nothing assumed. Nothing taken.

That was what undid me.

I was used to moving first, staying half a step ahead so nobody could ever be the person who wanted more. Luca gave me nowhere to hide inside performance. If I wanted him, I had to say it.

By the time we reached the bedroom, the dare had disappeared completely.

There was only Luca, warm skin and dark eyes, and the frightening intimacy of being wanted without having to earn it.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The old instinct rose—the joke, the deflection, the challenge.

I let it go.

“You.”

His expression changed.

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

The kiss that followed was deeper, less careful, the last of the distance between us finally giving way. The night blurred into heat, tangled sheets and whispered questions, but what stayed with me wasn’t who had won or who had wanted whom first.

It was that I had asked.

And he had stayed.

Later, with my cheek against his chest, I managed almost a full minute before vulnerability became unbearable.

“So,” I said, “that was adequate.”

His laugh vibrated beneath me. “Please leave.”

“Five out of ten.”

“Generous.”

I lifted my head. His smile faded when our eyes met.

Maybe eight years had made us older without making me any less readable to him.

“You disappeared.”

Luca went still.

“After the showcase,” I continued, “you kissed me and vanished. No message. No explanation. Then six months later I saw an article about you in Milan and realised apparently I’d imagined the whole thing meaning anything.”

“Sienna.”

“Don’t say my name like you’re about to explain something that should have been explained eight years ago.”

His expression changed. “My father had a heart attack that night.”

The anger inside me stopped moving.

“What?”

“My mother called after four. He collapsed at home. I took the first flight to Milan. He survived, barely, but I stayed because the company was in trouble and my mother was dealing with everything alone.”

“You never told me.”

“I tried.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I emailed you, and I asked Daniel to explain because I didn’t know when I’d be back.”

I stared at him. “Daniel? You trusted Daniel?”

“He said he’d tell you.”

“Daniel once forgot his own dissertation presentation.”

Luca rubbed a hand over his face. “That explains a lot.”

“And the email?”

“Your university address, I think.”

“I lost access to it the week after graduation.”

His eyes closed briefly.

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Then I fell back against the pillows. “We are absolute idiots.”

“Agreed.”

I turned my head. “You could have found me.”

“Yes.”

The immediate answer surprised me.

“I should have tried harder,” he said. “I thought the silence meant you weren’t interested.”

“So you decided that?”

“And you decided I’d used you and left.”

“When you say it like that, I sound unreasonable.”

“You were twenty-one.”

“So were you.”

“Exactly.”

That was the whole tragedy. No betrayal, no secret girlfriend, no calculated cruelty. Just pride, bad timing, one missed email and two people too afraid to ask the obvious question.

“We wasted eight years.”

His hand found mine. “Only if we waste the next eight too.”

We stood on the balcony just before sunrise, coffee warming our hands while London faded from black to grey-blue.

I checked my phone. “Seven minutes.”

“Until?”

“Sunrise. The dare ends.”

“You checked the exact time?”

“Obviously.”

His mouth curved. “So who won?”

There it was—the safest question in the world.

I reached for it automatically. “Well, you refused my kissing dare, so technically—”

“No.”

I looked at him. “No?”

“We’re not scoring this.”

“Everything has a score.”

“Not everything.”

“That sounds like something a losing person would say.”

He turned toward me. “The game ends at sunrise. Fine. But I want dinner with you tomorrow.”

The words caught me off guard.

“No dare?”

“No.”

“No bet?”

“No.”

“No client meeting disguised as dinner?”

“Definitely no.”

“That sounds dangerously ordinary.”

“That’s the idea.”

This was the part I usually avoided: the moment where excitement ended and somebody had to admit they wanted something to continue.

“What if I say no?”

“Then I accept it.”

No challenge. No manipulation.

Just another choice.

Mine.

“Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“One date.”

“An ordinary one.”

“No dares?”

“No dares.”

I grimaced. “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“No scorekeeping either.”

“Now you’re being unreasonable.”

“And you can’t pretend you hate me.”

“I can’t agree to impossible conditions.”

He smiled, and something tight inside my chest loosened.

“Dinner,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

Luca lifted his coffee in a small salute, the corner of his mouth curving. “Good.”

The first sunlight edged between the buildings.

The dare was officially over, and I was still there.

By midday, Priya had sent me seventeen messages.

The latest read:

YOU ARE ALIVE???

I replied:

Unfortunately.

Three dots appeared immediately.

AND???

Before I could answer, an email notification appeared above her message.

LAUNCH PARTNERSHIP — APPROVED

The client wanted both companies retained for the international rollout—my agency on creative direction, Moretti House on hospitality and operations.

Together.

I stared at the email, then laughed.

Of course.

My phone rang.

“You’re going to scream,” Priya said before I could say hello.

“I saw the email.”

“No. Not that. Luca Moretti is downstairs.”

I looked toward the glass wall of my office. “Why?”

“He says you’re having lunch.”

“We’re having dinner tomorrow.”

“Apparently tomorrow is too far away.”

A smile tugged at my mouth.

Priya went quiet. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You like him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I smile all the time.”

“You smile when clients approve budgets. This is different.”

“Goodbye, Priya.”

I hung up.

As I reached for my coat, I noticed the screenshot still sitting in my camera roll.

THE TWELFTH HOUSE

I make everything a competition so I never have to ask if someone chooses me.

I stared at it longer than I wanted to admit.

Then I deleted it.

I made it as far as the lift before stopping.

With a muttered curse, I opened Recently Deleted and restored the image.

Whatever that said about me could become tomorrow’s problem.

Through the glass doors of the lobby below, Luca waited with two coffees.

No challenge attached.

No rule.

No prize.

Just Luca, standing there because he wanted to see me again.

I stepped into the lift and pressed the ground-floor button.

For once, winning looked exactly like staying.