Precision and Power

SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW

Two years.

It felt like a blink, but at the same time, it felt like a lifetime ago. That scared, broken, unsure version of me? I don’t even recognize her anymore.

A recommendation turned into a contract, and that contract turned into five. Soon enough, companies were emailing me, begging me to design their websites. I was no longer just "Sierra Morgan." I was Sierra Morgan, the girl whose name was now on Forbes’ list of top ten youngest female billionaires in America.

Who was I kidding?

I wasn’t just rich. I was powerful. I was respected. I was living the exact life I once thought I could never have.

The office was filled with quiet clacks of designer heels and faint clicks of keyboards. I sat in my personal workspace—clean, minimalistic, but screaming wealth. A Prada bag sat effortlessly on my marble desk. My laptop glowed beside it. Everything in here was tailored, intentional, and dripping with taste.

I took a sip from my latte and leaned back in my chair, watching the city from my glass wall window. My name was printed in silver on the wall behind me. Sierra Morgan Designs.

“Sierra,” my assistant poked her head in. “The car’s ready. Also, your lunch meeting with CollinsTech got shifted to next week.”

“Thanks, Lara,” I said, standing up and adjusting my coat.

As I walked out, my bodyguard—Drew—was already holding the car door open for me. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor as I stepped into the backseat of my bulletproof black SUV.

The car pulled out of the driveway and into the flow of the city. Everything looked different now. Not just because I was rich—but because I had changed.

When we pulled up at the mansion, the gate slowly opened, revealing the sleek three-story white building I called home. Huge windows. Water fountain. Palm trees. My mansion. Mine.

Drew helped me out, and I walked in like I belonged there—because I did.

Still… no matter how much I had now, I never forgot who was by my side when I had nothing. Becca.

She was still my girl. My sister. My person. The one who saw me crying in oversized shirts with my hair tied in a messy bun and no clue what tomorrow held. Now, she was thriving in her own lane too—running her restaurant chain, glowing and growing.

We still had wine nights. Still texted memes. Still talked about life like we were in our tiny apartment again.

But me? I didn’t have time for love. I wasn’t even checking for it.

Men? Please. I had meetings. Clients. Staff. Deadlines. Investments. Expansion plans. I didn’t need romance to validate me. Not anymore.

Now, I had myself.

And that was more than enough. 

Rich. Powerful. Unstoppable.

That was me now. And no, I wasn’t being cocky—I was just being honest.

Everything I once prayed for, cried over, begged God for… I had it now. I built it. I worked for it. I bled for it. And I deserved every single piece of this life.

My house—nah, my mansion—wasn’t just a building. It was art. It was silence and elegance and power all wrapped up in one. The floors were marble. The furniture was minimal, yet expensive. Everything screamed "luxury" without trying too hard. My style was quiet, dim, moody, and expensive. Nothing flashy. Just taste. Just class.

Anna walked in carrying the tea tray, and I gave her my usual order. “Earl Grey. Two spoons of sugar. Just a dash of milk. Not too much.”

She smiled nervously and said, “Yes, ma’am. Earl Grey with two sugars and plenty of milk.”

I raised my brow. “Anna, I said a dash of milk. Not ‘plenty.’ Please listen.”

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am. Dash of milk. Got it.”

She left and came back with the tea, and I took a careful sip. Better.

“Now, have the living room curtains drawn back by noon. I want the sunlight flooding in, not blocked.”

“Draw curtains back, not closed. Understood,” she said, nodding.

I kept watching her like a hawk. “Good. After that, prepare my wardrobe for next weeks event. The emerald gown with the silver embroidery. Iron it carefully. And the matching heels need polishing.”

“Yes, ma’am. Emerald gown, heels polished,” Anna repeated.

“And the clutch. The one with the mother-of-pearl detail. Make sure it’s clean.”

She hesitated but nodded. “Clean clutch with pearl detail. Ready.”

I wasn’t joking when I said, “Be meticulous, Anna. Everything must be perfect.”

She smiled weakly. “Perfect.”

A few minutes later, she came back holding a clutch, but it was wrong.

“Anna… this one has gold detailing. I said mother-of-pearl.”

She looked embarrassed. “I must have mixed them up, sorry.”

I sighed but kept my voice steady. “Bring me the right one. Now.”

She hurried off and returned with the correct clutch. Finally.

“Better. Now, the guest bathroom. Fresh towels, lavender soap. And the floor has to be spotless. No water spots.”

“Yes, ma’am. Towels, soap, spotless floor,” she said quickly.

“Also, when you tidy my study, organize the books by size. Novels on the left, non-fiction on the right.”

Anna took notes. “Novels left, non-fiction right. Got it.”

“And clear my desk except for the laptop and notepad. Nothing else.”

She nodded. “Only laptop and notepad on the desk.”

“Good. Tomorrow morning, breakfast tray at 7 a.m.—avocado toast, poached eggs, black coffee. No milk.”

“Black coffee, no milk. I will remember,” Anna said, but I could tell she was still unsure.

I gave her a soft look. “If you’re unsure, just ask. I’m not asking for miracles, just accuracy.”

She exhaled, “I’ll be more careful. Sorry about earlier.”

I smiled faintly, “Thank you, Anna. Precision matters.” with that she left.

The lights were soft, like candlelight glowing from invisible corners. The scent of lavender and vanilla floated in the air, subtle but calming. My heels tapped gently as I walked in, and the lights followed my footsteps, sensors tracking my every move. The living room had floor-to-ceiling windows that gave me the perfect view of the city lights at night.

Even my silence was expensive.

And me? I wasn’t just amazing. I was untouchable. I didn’t have time for gossip or noise. I was booked. I was busy. I was blessed.

I threw my bag on the suede couch and loosened my coat, sighing as I stretched my arms. My neck cracked from sitting too long at the office, and my eyes burned from staring at screens. But the tiredness felt good… like a reminder that I had made it.

This life wasn’t handed to me. I didn’t inherit it. I fought tooth and nail for it.

My assistant had already dropped off tomorrow’s schedule—meetings with clients in Italy, a Zoom call with a tech brand in Japan, and the launch of the app I was secretly working on with a partner. Everything was moving fast. But I liked it that way.

I lived for the rush. For the fire. For the constant chase to be better.

I had a chef, but sometimes I still made my own meals—just to remind myself I was human. I walked to my wine shelf, picked out a bottle, and poured myself a glass. The drink was rich and smooth, like the woman I’d become.

I walked up to my office upstairs. It was just as clean and stunning as the rest of the house. Three wide monitors. A designer glass table. A black velvet chair. Sticky notes stuck neatly to one side. My personal goals written in my own handwriting.

Focus.

No distractions.

Keep building.

No matter how rich I got, I didn’t slow down. Because now I was in a league where people were watching. Expecting. Competing.

But they didn’t know I wasn’t the girl to lose. I already lost once, and that was more than enough. 

I'm not here to waste time or engage in small talk. I'm here for one reason: business. I've lost [something/someone/something important], and I'm focused on finding a solution. "Time

is of the essence, and I'm here to get down to business."

There was more to life and that life didn't have to do with a man hitting me with every little mistake I made. I was going to change my story.

This version of Sierra Morgan?

She didn’t play.

She owned.