CHAPTER 12 — THE PIERRE

At 5:58 AM, my alarm rang.

I didn't snooze.

In London, I woke up at 6 AM every day for three years because Leo woke up at 6 AM every day. In New York, Leo was still asleep in Rhys's loft, his small hand curled around his toy car.

I was already dressed.

Black. Not mourning black. Power black. A wool coat from Atelier S Archive — the first coat I ever made on that cracked floor in Shoreditch. Sharp shoulders. No diamonds. No softness.

Rhys stood in the doorway holding coffee. He didn't say anything at first.

"You don't have to do this," he finally said.

"I do," I said. "If I stay here, I'm still the girl who ran."

I zipped my suitcase. Same cheap suitcase. I kept it on purpose.

"Blackwood booked you The Pierre," he said. "Top floor. They think S is a man who likes penthouses. They don't know it's you."

"Good," I said. "Let them wait for a man. Let them meet a queen instead."

Leo stirred in the small bed. He opened his grey eyes.

"Mama?" His voice was sleepy.

I knelt down. "Mama has to go work, baby."

"Is that man there?" he asked. "The loud man with my eyes?"

My chest tightened.

"Yes," I whispered. "But you don't have to see him if you don't want to."

Leo thought for a second, very serious for almost three. "Is he sad because he lost something?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he said, and put his head back down. "Tell him I fixed my car."

I kissed his forehead and left before I could cry.

At 6:17 AM, I walked out of Rhys's loft in SoHo and got into a black car. Not Lorenzo's car. Mine. Atelier S paid for it.

The Pierre Hotel at 6:43 AM is different. No paparazzi. No tourists. Just old money having quiet breakfast.

The manager himself was waiting in the lobby. Mr. Dubois, French, sixty, knows every CEO in Manhattan.

"Mr. S, we have been expecting—" He stopped.

Because I took off my sunglasses.

Aria Sinclair. Not Blackwood anymore. Sinclair. My own name. The one I had before I became a wife.

His eyes widened. He knew me. Everyone in fashion knew the rumor. The ghost wife of Blackwood who became S.

"Mrs.— I mean Ms. Sinclair," he recovered fast. "Your suite is ready. Presidential. As requested."

"Thank you," I said. My voice was cold. Not rude. Cold is more expensive than rude.

He led me to the elevator. Private elevator. No one else.

The suite was all cream and gold. Too soft for me. I opened all the curtains. New York at 7 AM, cold light.

I put my suitcase on the bed. I took out three things.

One: Leo's small drawing. Mama as queen with crown.

Two: The velvet box. The ultrasound from four weeks.

Three: The Hohenegg paper. The proof.

I placed them on the desk like weapons.

My phone buzzed. Lorenzo.

I didn't answer.

It buzzed again. A text.

*Lorenzo: You checked out of SoHo. Where are you? The board is waiting at 9 AM. Aria.*

I typed one line.

*Me: Atelier S will be there at 9 AM. S doesn't do SoHo. S does The Pierre. If Blackwood wants saving, come to me.*

I hit send and turned off my phone.

At 7:30 AM, room service knocked. I didn't order.

"Ms. Sinclair, flowers from Mr. Blackwood."

Twenty-four white roses. Same as he sent when he proposed three years ago.

I looked at the card.

_We need to talk about Leo. Please._

I told the waiter, "Give them to housekeeping. I am allergic to white roses now."

At 8:00 AM, Rhys texted from Leo's tablet.

*Rhys: He ate. He asked if you are queen today. I said yes.*

I smiled for the first time today. A real smile.

*Me: Tell my king I am working. I will be home at 8 PM. Tell him mama is not hiding anymore.*

At 8:45 AM, I walked down to the lobby.

I didn't take the private elevator. I took the main one.

Every head turned. Because in The Pierre at 8:45 AM, everyone is someone. And they all knew who I was now. Not Mrs. Blackwood. Not the girl who signed with shaking hands.

S.

The CEO who could save or bury Blackwood Global with one collection.

The doorman opened the car door.

"Where to, Ms. Sinclair?"

"Blackwood Tower," I said. "And wait. I won't be long. I am just there to collect my empire."

At 8:59 AM, I walked into Blackwood Tower.

Same building where I cried on the cold floor at JFK three years ago.

Same lobby where Marcus once held my cheap suitcase with red eyes.

Now the receptionist stood up when she saw me.

"Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Blackwood is—"

"I know where the boardroom is," I said. "I used to live here."

I pressed 40.

When the doors opened, twelve men were standing. And one man at the head of the table.

Lorenzo.

He looked like he hadn't slept.

His eyes went to my coat. My coat. Atelier S. He recognized the stitching. Because three years ago, I sketched that stitching on his kitchen island while he was on calls.

"You came," he said.

"No," I said, walking in, taking off my coat, placing it on the back of the chair that used to be mine. "S came. Aria is dead. You divorced her three years ago, remember?"

The room was silent.

I sat down.

"Let's start," I said, cold, powerful, untouchable. "You have one hour to convince me why I should save Blackwood Global."

And for the first time in three years, Lorenzo Blackwood looked at me like I was the one who could leave him with nothing.