27

Sierra’s POV

The wire was a tiny, cold disc against my skin, just below my collarbone. The panic button was a smooth, flat pea in my bra strap. They felt like foreign objects, like tumors of fear grafted onto my body. Claudette had chosen my outfit—cream-colored trousers, a simple silk shell, a lightweight trench coat. “Elegant, unthreatening, easy to move in,” she’d said with chilling practicality.

Louis hadn’t slept. He’d spent the night in his study with Marcus and a team of security specialists, mapping the botanical gardens inch by inch, programming earpieces, running scenarios. I’d finally crawled into bed at 3 AM, finding the sheets cold on his side.

Now, in the grey afternoon light, he stood before me in the foyer, adjusting the lapel of my coat. His hands were steady, but his eyes were a turbulent sea of fear and fury.

“Remember,” he said, his voice rough. “You are not alone. I will be in your ear every second. Marcus will be thirty feet away, dressed as a gardener. There are twelve others you will never see. You walk the path we mapped. You stop at the bench facing the purple Vanda orchids. You do not approach him. You let him come to you.”

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

“The message,” he prompted, his gaze boring into mine.

I took a shaky breath. “I am here as a courtesy. To look you in the eye and tell you that your business with us is concluded. Any further contact will be considered an act of aggression, and you will be removed.”

He nodded, a sharp, satisfied jerk of his chin. “Good. He will threaten. He will try to intimidate. Do not react. You are a stone. You are a Trevane.”

He pulled me into a crushing embrace, his lips against my ear. “Come back to me,” he whispered, the command laced with a desperation that broke my heart.

“I will.”

The drive was silent. A female security agent, Anna, drove. She looked like a friend, not a guard. “We’re with you, Sierra,” she said softly. “Every step.”

The botanical gardens were nearly empty on a weekday afternoon. Mist from the humidity systems hung in the air, making the lush greenery seem like a dream. Or a nightmare. I followed the gravel path toward the orchid greenhouse, my heart a frantic drum against the wire.

Louis’s voice came through the nearly invisible earpiece, calm and clear. “I have you on visual. Path is clear. Proceed to the greenhouse entrance.”

I pushed through the glass door. The air was warmer, thicker, heavy with the sweet, cloying scent of a thousand blooms. It was a jungle under glass. The sound of trickling water echoed. I walked slowly, following the winding path past displays of vibrant, alien-looking flowers.

“Bench at your eleven o’clock, twenty paces,” Louis murmured.

I saw it. A simple iron bench, positioned before a stunning display of cascading purple orchids. The Vanda. I sat, placing my purse beside me, folding my hands in my lap. I stared at the flowers, trying to slow my breathing.

A minute passed. Two.

Then, from behind a towering stand of bamboo, he appeared.

Elias Crowe.

He looked exactly like his photo—unremarkable. He wore khakis and a blue button-down, like a tourist or a off-duty professor. He moved silently, stopping about ten feet away. He didn’t smile.

“Sierra Savalini,” he said. His voice was as average as his face, pleasant, almost gentle. “Or should I say, Trevane? The papers are still debating it.”

I said nothing. I just looked at him, keeping my face as still as the orchids.

He took a step closer. “You came alone. Brave. Or foolish.”

“I came to deliver a message,” I said, my voice thankfully steady, carrying the cool tone I’d practiced. “Your business with us is concluded. Any further contact will be considered an act of aggression.”

He chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Aggression. Such a strong word. I’m just a businessman, Sierra. I had a contract. Your… partner… voided that contract without settling the bill. A man has to make a living.”

“Your bill is with Victor Hale, not with us.”

“Victor Hale is a broken man on a beach somewhere, drinking himself to death. His assets are frozen or seized. There is no bill to collect from him.” He took another casual step. He was now eight feet away. “So I look to the new source of wealth. The happy family. The fairy tale.”

Louis’s voice was a tense growl in my ear. “He’s probing. Hold your line.”

“We have nothing for you,” I said.

“Oh, I disagree.” His eyes, a flat, muddy brown, finally showed a spark of something cold. “You have peace. You have a future. You have a beautiful little girl with a very famous last name now. That is currency. I’m offering a simple transaction. A one-time f*e. For my silence, my discretion, and my permanent absence.”

“A bribe.”

“A consulting retainer,” he corrected smoothly. “Five million dollars. A small price for the guarantee that no tragic accidents befall your child’s school, that no embarrassing private moments find their way to the press, that your friend Jasmine doesn’t have a sudden… break-in.”

Rage, hot and pure, shot through me, burning away the last of my fear. He had said Katie’s name. He had threatened my child and my best friend.

I stood up. The movement made him pause. I didn’t step toward him. I just stood my ground.

“Let me make this very clear,” I said, my voice dropping, taking on an edge I didn’t know I possessed. It was Louis’s edge. It was a mother’s edge. “You will not get a cent from us. You will leave this city today. You will never look at my daughter, my friend, or my husband again. If you do, the man you call ‘the king’ will not send lawyers or police. He will come for you himself. And you will learn what aggression really means.”

His pleasant mask slipped. Annoyance flickered across his face. “You’re making a mistake. I’m not a thug you can scare. I’m a professional. And professionals always have insurance.”

“What insurance?” Louis’s voice snapped in my ear. “Ask him.”

“What insurance?” I repeated.

A slow, nasty smile touched his lips. “Let’s just say I have copies of everything Victor had on your beloved Louis. The old dirt. The things that could make that shiny new charity of yours look very… hypocritical. And I have something new. A recording. Of a very interesting conversation between Louis Trevane and a certain disgraced ex-partutor, discussing certain ‘quiet’ solutions.”

My blood ran cold. He was talking about the call with Victor. The exile deal.

“It would be a shame,” Crowe continued, “if that recording found its way to a federal investigator. Conspiracy, coercion… even if he walks, the stink never leaves. Your fairy tale becomes a scandal. Your daughter’s name is mud.”

He had a weapon. A real one.

“The offer stands, Sierra. Five million. Wire transfer. By 5 PM today. Or the first piece drops at 6.” He turned to leave. “Enjoy the orchids.”

He melted back into the greenery.

I stood there, trembling, the sickly sweet air choking me.

Louis’s voice was granite. “Come home, Sierra. Now. We have work to do.”

I walked out of the greenhouse on numb legs. Anna materialized beside me, guiding me to the car.

I had gone to deliver a message.

But Elias Crowe had just declared war.