Sienna’s hands trembled as she unfolded the pages.

The paper felt heavier than it should have. Not because of weight, but because of what it carried.

Arthur Blackwood’s handwriting stared back at her. Uneven. Slightly shaky near the end. Like the man who wrote it had been breaking down, one line at a time.

Dante sat close beside her. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

Sienna swallowed and began to read.

“Sienna and Dante,” she said.

“If you’re reading this, I’m dead.”

She paused, the words sinking in before she continued.

“Good. I deserve to be.”

Her voice softened.

“For what I did. For what I became. For the lives I destroyed.”

Sienna’s...