33

**Chapter 33 – Sierra’s POV**

The quiet in the house had a new texture. It wasn't the peaceful quiet after a storm. It was the held breath before a landslide. Louis moved through the days with a focused intensity, but his eyes kept drifting to unseen horizons. He spent more time in his study with the door locked, the low murmur of his voice through the wood more frequent.

He thought he was protecting me by keeping me in the dark. But darkness was where I learned to see now.

While Katie was at her afternoon play therapy session, a new routine to help her adjust to her "big life changes," I sat in the library with my laptop. I typed a single word into a private browser window.

Monaco.

The results were a flood of glittering travelogues and yacht races. I added a year. 2012. The images shifted to parties, paparazzi shots of a younger, harder Louis, his eyes glassy with a boredom that looked like contempt. I scrolled past images of celebrities and socialites.

Then I found a grainy, archived news item from a local French paper. The English translation was clunky. "Hospital Release After Yacht Fall." The article was three paragraphs, vague on details, mentioning a "young female guest" who suffered a "serious accident" and was released after a week. No name. No charges. A quote from a "spokesman for the Trevane family" expressing concern and covering all medical expenses.

My stomach turned. A young woman. A fall. Covered up by money and power.

I dug deeper, using the skills I had learned from watching Marcus and Louis, the way they traced digital footprints. I found a forgotten forum thread from years ago, a gossip hole where the rich and famous were dissected. A user with an anonymous handle claimed to know the girl. "She was never the same," the post read. "Brain injury. Family got a villa in Sicily and a fat bank account to keep quiet. Name's Mariella. Or was."

Mariella. A name. A life altered.

I sat back, the words blurring on the screen. This was the "incident." This was the skeleton. Not just a scandal, but a broken person. Louis's money had placed a tombstone over her story.

The sound of the front door startled me. Katie was home, her laughter bouncing off the marble as Ben carried her in, a new stuffed animal in her arms. I slammed the laptop shut, a guilty flush on my cheeks, as if I had been caught looking at something obscene.

Maybe I had.

That evening, the "family strategy dinner" loomed. It was Nia's term. She arrived with Diamond, both dressed with an elegance that felt like battle armor. The dining room, usually just for us three, was set formally. Candles flickered, casting long shadows.

Katie, blessedly, was having a special "movie night" in the media room with her favorite nanny.

We sat. The first course was served. The silence was deafening.

Nia took a delicate sip of her wine. "The gala is in four days. The guest list is final. I've had Adrienne vet every plus-one. No surprises."

"Good," Louis said, his voice flat.

Diamond, usually the one to lighten the mood, played with her fork. "There's a weird vibe in the air. I got asked three times today at the club if we were 'coping' with the 'recent tragedies.' Like we're in mourning."

"People are morbid," Nia stated. "They see a beautiful facade and hope to find cracks. We must not give them any."

Her eyes shifted to me. "Sierra, your speech for the gala. It must be perfect. Not a word about the past, or family trials. It must be forward-looking. Hopeful. You are the face of our new beginning."

I felt like a soldier being briefed before a parade through hostile territory. "I understand."

Louis reached under the table and found my hand. His grip was firm, an anchor. But I felt the tension thrumming through him.

"The real issue," Nia continued, setting her glass down with a precise click, "is not the gossip. It is the digging. I have heard from my contacts in media that a certain journalist, a man named Alistair Finch, has been making inquiries. Not about Victor. About older things. European things."

Louis's hand tightened around mine. "Finch is a pest. He has no sources."

"He has a reputation for finding sources where none exist," Nia countered coolly. "He is the type who considers a denied comment a confirmation. We need to preempt him."

"How?" Diamond asked, leaning forward.

"We give him a story," I heard myself say. The words came out before I could stop them. All three Trevane heads turned to me.

Louis's gaze was intense, questioning.

"Not the real story," I clarified, my heart pounding. "A better one. We know he's looking at Monaco. So we... redirect. We give him a different narrative about that time. Something salacious but harmless. A affair with a married countess. A reckless bet that lost a million. Something that fits the image of a wild young heir, not..." I trailed off, not saying *not a girl with a brain injury.*

Louis was staring at me with something akin to awe. Nia's lips curved into the faintest smile of approval.

"It's a classic misdirection," Louis said slowly, a new light in his eyes. "Flood the zone with noise. Let him chase a ghost story while the real body stays buried."

"Exactly," I said, feeling a strange, cold power surge through me. I was helping to weave a lie to cover up a crime. And it felt like the only move on the board.

The rest of the dinner was a blur of tactical discussion. Which countess? What bet? Who would be our "anonymous source" to feed Finch? I contributed ideas, my mind splitting in two. One part was the strategist, cool and calculating. The other part was the baker from months ago, horrified at the person she was becoming.

Later, when we were alone in our bedroom, Louis didn't speak. He simply came to me and started unbuttoning my blouse with a focused reverence. His kisses were not gentle. They were consuming, as if he could taste the duality in me and sought to claim both parts.

"I saw you today," he murmured against my skin, his hands pushing the fabric from my shoulders. "On your laptop. You were searching."

I froze. "Louis, I..."

"I'm not angry." He looked up, his eyes dark pools in the low light. "You have a right to know what you're defending. What I am."

He lifted me onto the edge of the dresser, his body slotting between my thighs. "Do you know what you are to me?" he asked, his voice rough. "You are my redemption. And my damnation. And I will burn in any hell as long as you are there with me."

There was no tenderness in our coupling this time. It was a collision, a confession in the language of skin and sweat and desperate, clutching hands. He was exorcising his guilt, and I was baptizing myself in his sin. When I cried out, it was a sound torn from a place of profound contradiction—ecstasy and despair twisted into one.

After, as we lay tangled in the wreckage of the sheets, my phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzed. Not a text. A call. From an unknown number with a New York area code.

A cold premonition slithered down my spine. Louis, attuned to every shift in my energy, went still beside me.

"Don't answer it," he said.

But I was already reaching for it. A perverse need to face the next wave head on had taken root in me.

I swiped to answer. "Hello?"

"Ms. Savalini? Sierra Trevane?" A man's voice, polite, professional. "My name is Alist

The dining room felt like a council of war. Silver gleamed under the low crystal chandeliers, but the atmosphere was thick with unspoken strategies. Nia’s gaze was a scalpel, dissecting every silence.

“We give him a story,” I’d said. The words hung in the air, colder than the chilled soup.

Louis looked at me, his eyes dark with something that wasn’t surprise, but a grim acknowledgment. He’d seen this shift in me—from sheltered secret to strategic partner. Nia’s faint smile was approval. Diamond just watched, wide-eyed, learning the family business in real time.

“A better story,” I continued, forcing my voice steady. “We know he’s looking at Monaco. So we redirect. We give him a different narrative from that time. Something salacious but legally harmless. A scandal of passion, not of…” I hesitated, the image of the anonymous forum post about the girl named Mariella flashing in my mind. “…not of consequence.”

“A mistress,” Nia stated, not a question. “A married one. It’s classic. It fits the profile of a reckless young heir. It sells papers. And it has the benefit of being impossible to definitively prove or disprove after so many years.”

“Elena Conti,” Louis said, the name dropping into the room like a stone. “The Contessa. She was there that season. Widowed now, reclusive in Portofino. She loathes the press. She would never confirm or deny.”

“Perfect,” Nia murmured. “A source who cannot be sourced. We leak it through a peripheral channel. A disgruntled former staffer from the yacht. A washed-up socialite who needs money.” She turned her razor-sharp focus to me. “This is how it’s done, Sierra. You don’t hide from the storm. You create a bigger, more attractive storm for them to chase.”

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. This was no longer theory. This was the blueprint. I was learning to weaponize gossip, to sacrifice another woman’s reputation—however faded—as a decoy for my family’s protection. The math was horrifying, and I was doing the calculation without stumbling.

“Adrienne can craft the narrative,” Louis said, his voice all business now. The decision was made. “Marcus can find the leak. We need it in motion before the gala. We want Finch chasing ghosts while we stand in the spotlight, untouchable.”

The conversation moved to logistics, to timelines, to the specific, damning details of a fictional affair. I contributed when asked, my mind splitting. One part was chillingly adept, understanding the mechanics of the lie. The other part floated somewhere near the ceiling, watching the baker from the struggling shop help plot a character assassination.

Later, after Nia and Diamond had left with their assignments, Louis and I were alone in the silent, opulent cave of the dining room. He came to stand behind my chair, his hands resting on my shoulders.

“You were brilliant,” he said, his thumbs kneading the tense muscles.

“Was I?” I whispered, staring at the ruins of dessert on my plate. “It feels… monstrous.”

He turned the chair gently, forcing me to look up at him. His face was etched with the same conflict I felt. “It is. But it’s the monstrous thing that keeps the real monster away. The one that wants to take our life apart.” He crouched down, his eyes level with mine. “I need you with me in this, Sierra. Not just beside me. *With* me. In the dark, where the decisions are ugly. Can you do that?”

I saw the fear in his eyes—not of the journalist, but of losing me to the moral high ground. He needed a partner, not a conscience he had to manage. And the terrible, undeniable truth was that I wanted our life. I wanted the safety, the love, the future. If the price was wading into the murk with him, then so be it.

I reached out and touched his cheek. “I’m already in the dark with you, Louis. I have been since the moment I walked back into this house.”

He captured my hand, kissing my palm with a fervor that felt like a sacrament. It was a seal on our pact.

That night, as we lay in bed, the plan already set in motion by Adrienne and Marcus in some unseen, digital battlefield, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Not a text. A call. From an unknown number with a New York area code.

A cold, slick certainty washed over me. Louis, attuned to every shift in my energy, went still beside me.

“Don’t answer it,” he said, his voice a low command in the dark.

But a strange, defiant clarity had taken hold. I had chosen the dark. I would face its messengers.

I swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. Savalini? Sierra Trevane?” A man’s voice, polite, professional, devoid of the greasy unease of Shaw. This was a different kind of predator. “My name is Alistair Finch. I’m a journalist with the *Global Review*. I’m sorry to call so late. I’m working on a piece about the transformative power of new wealth, focusing on philanthropic initiatives like the Katherine Hope project. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your inspiration. And perhaps about how past experiences shape present motivations.”

His words were velvet wrapped around a steel blade. He wasn’t calling about a charity. He was calling about Monaco. He was calling to see if I’d flinch.

Louis was staring at me, his body coiled, ready to snatch the phone away.

“I’m afraid now isn’t a good time, Mr. Finch,” I said, my voice miraculously steady, echoing the cool tone I’d practiced under Nia’s watchful eye.

“Of course, of course. I understand. Perhaps we could schedule a brief chat tomorrow? I’m particularly interested in how you and Mr. Trevane manage to focus so positively on the future, given the… complexities of the past. It’s truly inspiring.”

Every word was a carefully placed needle, probing for the crack.

“I’ll have my assistant contact you to see about my availability,” I said, the lie smooth and effortless. It was the first lie I’d told him directly. It wouldn’t be the last. “Goodnight, Mr. Finch.”

I hung up before he could respond. My hand trembled only after I placed the phone back on the nightstand.

Louis was already out of bed, a shadow moving with controlled fury. “He called you. He’s moving faster than we thought.”

“The Contessa story,” I said, my voice hollow in the grand bedroom. “It has to be perfect. And it has to be now.”

He looked at me, standing there in the dim light, and the fury in his eyes melted into something more complex—a profound, aching pride. He saw that I wasn’t breaking. I was adapting. I was becoming what our war required.

“We will,” he said, crossing the room to take my face in his hands. “Together.”

But as he left to mobilize the night, I stayed wrapped in the sheets, the echo of Finch’s polite, menacing voice in my ears.

The journalist was at the gate. And the only weapon we had was a beautifully crafted, ruinous lie.

I had just helped design it. The baker was gone. In her place stood a queen of shadows, ready to defend her kingdom.

And the taste of it was bitter, and dark, and mine.