Chapter 72: To shame a mistress
Sienna discarded the day’s original plan for something better suited to the confrontation she had decided to create.
What she reached for instead was a piece she had designed and never worn; a short purple gown cut close through the hips, the neckline low enough to show maximum cleavage, a sharp slit running up the thigh, and an exaggerated bow at the shoulder that run down to the arm like a statement no one was meant to ignore.
She had custom-made it for Stella then made another one and kept it inside her wardrobe, the main reason was not to wear but to have as a souvenir which said she made exactly that.
That fact sat in her mouth like the aftertaste of a sour, bitter cheap alcohol, as she stepped into it.
She watched the mirror return a version of herself that looked expensive, elegant yet intentionally ready for damage.
She styled her hair to fit the outfit then checked the time. It was still early, around 10:00AM. Early enough that Stella would almost certainly still be home. Two years of fittings and schedule coordination had taught her that much about Stella’s schedule.
"Let’s go teach a bitch a lesson." She smirked with mischief dancing in her eyes.
When she walked into the living room, Tom was there with a mug in his hand. Sienna did not greet him. She did not even pause. Her eyes moved over him once, coldly, and then she continued toward the door.
Tom’s brows drew together, but he said nothing. He already knew the shape of her silence. It belonged to the previous night.
~~~~~~~~~
Sienna drove herself to Stella’s penthouse and arrived after a few minutes later. When she got to her door, the housekeeper recognized her face on the entry system and opened the door at once. She greeted Sienna in a polite and unsurprised way knowing that designers come when they had new outfits to design and Stella loved that so much.
"Is she in?" Sienna asked.
"Yes, ma’am. She’s finishing her morning exercise."
"Fantastic. I’ll wait."
The housekeeper inclined her head and began to turn away. However, Sienna’s voice stopped her, sharper than courtesy required.
"Don’t bother serving me anything."
The housekeeper hesitated for a moment then she gave her a respectful nod. Afterwards, the woman withdrew, leaving Sienna alone in the living room.
Sienna refused to sit. She stood, her eyes fixed on where Stella was supposed to emerge from like a hawk waiting for her prey.
Stella appeared a few minutes later in a casual wear that somehow still looked composed; an oversized black shirt which sleeves covered Stella’s hands completely and the length stopped way above her knees.
Her hair was loosely arranged yet she exuded an effortless elegance, the kind that always forced Sienna into private comparison.
She reminded herself, almost irritably, that elegance was not ownership. She had dressed for impact. That would be enough.
As Stella saw her, her expression remained businesslike. Their relationship had never required warmth outside fittings and contracts.
"I wasn’t expecting you. Is something wrong with the collection?" she asked, straight to the point.
Sienna stared directly into Stella’s eyes for a second believing that should destabilize her but it was a futile endeavor. Stella held the intense gaze.
Sienna lifted her chin high as she finally opened her mouth;
"I know what you’ve been doing with my husband."
The words left her with more force than volume. They were meant to land, meant to open a crack.
But Stella did not provide one. She only raised her brows slightly then gave a light shrug. "Is that what you came all this way to say?" she asked calmly.
Sienna’s jaw tightened.
"So she is this shameless?" She wondered inwardly then she shot back, her voice rising slightly;
"No. I came to remind you that married men are supposed to be off-limits."
Stella’s gaze moved over her slowly, assessing rather than startled. When she answered, her voice remained gentle, almost courteous.
"That’s a rule for real couples, Sienna. Not for arrangements."
That hit Sienna like a physical blow. She refused to be shaken, nevertheless.
"That isn’t your business, bitch." she retorted.
"Right, exactly the same way your contractual husband’s private life isn’t yours either." Stella returned, still elegant, still unraised.
"Not in the way you’re trying to claim it, bitch." Stella added, purposely adding the last word in a dramatic way.
The sentence closed around Sienna’s throat like a hand. She had walked in prepared to shame a mistress. Instead she was being quietly sorted into the category she had spent weeks managing in public.
Before Sienna could recover a cleaner line of attack, Stella’s eyes dropped to the purple gown and at the recognition of the design, something cooler entered her expression, like a victory.
"And while we’re discussing boundaries, you should expect to hear from my lawyer." she stated.
Sienna blinked in confusion. "What?"
"That design..." Stella’s tone remained almost mild. "I paid for its exclusivity. You designed it under contract for me. Wearing it yourself, publicly or privately, is a breach. I’ll sue the brand for failing to honor the terms."
At that, the floor seemed to shift under Sienna’s feet.
She had not thought about the exclusivity clause. Not once. The anger that had carried her out of the house, into this building, and up to Stella’s door had burned straight through every professional instinct she possessed.
She had come to teach a lesson and had instead handed Stella a clean, contractual weapon.
Her mouth opened but nothing useful came out.
Stella watched the realization settle, then gave a small, final nod.
"Take your leave. And expect formal correspondence." she said firmly.
Then she turned and walked back into the house without waiting for a reply. And the casual elegance of her retreat was absolutely more hotter than a slammed door.
Sienna stayed rooted to the spot, the dress suddenly became too loud against her skin, the bow on her shoulder feeling less like a statement and more like evidence.
Embarrassment crawled up her neck. The speech she had rehearsed on the way over was gone. The moral high ground was gone.
What remained was the uncomfortable, unanswerable question rising behind her ribs as she finally turned toward the door:
’Why the fuck had she been so angry in the first place?’