41

Louis’s POV

The war against Alexander Vance was a different beast. It wasn't fought in shadows or with silenced pistols. It was waged on stock tickers, in boardrooms, and across the glowing screens of every financial news network. It was public, and it was vicious. And for the first time, I was fighting with one hand tied behind my back—by my own choice, and by Sierra’s cold, clear mandate. *Fight him in the light.*

Adrienne Cole was in her element. She crafted a narrative not of a defensive dinosaur, but of a visionary patriarch protecting his legacy and his family’s future from a opportunistic “tech vulture.” She leaked selective financials showing the robust, sustainable growth of the Pacific Rim resorts. She arranged profiles of the long-term employees whose livelihoods Vance’s hostile bid threatened. She made it a story of heart versus algorithm.

My weapon, as Sierra had implicitly suggested, was her. Not her directly, but her story. Savarina’s explosive success was a perfect, shining counterpoint to Vance’s narrative of my “stagnation.” We positioned it as the human-centered future of the Trevane empire—a blend of legacy capital and genuine, grassroots connection. We made Sierra the symbol of progressive, compassionate growth. The media ate it up. The “Baker Baroness” headlines wrote themselves.

I watched her from a distance through this campaign. She did every interview, hosted every curated press visit to the bakery with a serene grace that hid the winter in her eyes. She was magnificent. And she was utterly closed off to me. Our interactions were briefings, not conversations. She was my most valuable asset in this war, and the distance between us was a strategic liability I didn’t know how to breach.

The pivotal moment came not from a boardroom vote, but from a charity auction Adrienne orchestrated. A gala for children’s health, with Sierra as the honorary chair. Vance, confident and smirking, was in attendance, no doubt to scout his perceived weakness.

The live auction item was a “weekend for ten” at the crown jewel of the contested resorts in Bali, coupled with a private, seven-course tasting menu by Sierra Savalini-Trevane herself. It was a brazen display of unity and value.

Bidding was fierce. Vance, wanting to assert dominance, jumped in, driving the price into the absurd. I watched, my blood a low simmer, as the numbers climbed. He was buying a weekend he intended to own anyway, and trying to humiliate us in the process.

Sierra stood on the podium, a faint, polite smile on her face. Then, as Vance’s latest bid hung in the air, she leaned into the microphone.

“Thank you for such generous bidding for these wonderful children,” she said, her voice warm and clear. “And since we’re all here in the spirit of giving, Trevane Holdings will match the final bid—dollar for dollar—with a donation to the new Katherine Hope family wellness wing.”

The room erupted in applause. It was a masterstroke. She had just framed any further bidding by Vance not as competition, but as a direct donation to my charity. To my family’s legacy. To refuse to bid further would look cheap. To continue would be funneling millions into my foundation.

Vance’s smirk vanished. He was trapped by his own performative wealth. He gave one more half-hearted raise. I immediately topped it. The auctioneer’s gavel fell. The package was mine. And Vance had just publicly donated a staggering sum to the very empire he was trying to gut.

The optics were a nuclear strike. The next day’s headlines were brutal for him: **VANCE’S EGO FUNDS TREVANE’S CHARITY**, **BAKER QUEEN OUTMANEUVERS TECH TITAN.** His stock dipped on the perception of poor strategic judgment. My board’s confidence solidified.

That night, I found Sierra in her test kitchen, not the one at Savarina, but the private one in the mansion. She was furiously kneading dough, her hands covered in flour, her shoulders tight with a tension that had nothing to do with gluten.

“That was brilliantly done today,” I said from the doorway.

She didn’t look up. “It was basic PR. He was being a bully. I redirected him.”

“You destroyed him.”

“The market will decide that.” She slammed the dough onto the marble counter. “Is that all? I’m busy.”

The dismissal was a blade. This was the woman who had stood beside me, who had strategized with me, who had just won a major battle for our shared cause. And she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with me for more than thirty seconds.

“What do I have to do, Sierra?” The question left me before I could stop it, raw and stripped of all my armor. “I’m fighting the way you asked. I’m not using the old tools. What more do you want?”

She finally stopped kneading. She stared at the dough as if it held answers. “I want you to undo it,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I want you to bring that woman back. I want you to not be the man who gave that order. I want to look at you and not see a ghost standing behind you. You can’t give me any of that. So there’s nothing to be done, Louis. We manage. We coexist. We win our wars. That’s the life we have.”

The finality in her tone was a death knell. She had accepted our hell, but she would never forgive me for building it.

“I love you,” I said, the words feeling futile and essential.

A single tear tracked through the fine dusting of flour on her cheek. “I know,” she said. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? If you were just a monster, this would be easy. But you’re a man who loves me monstrously. And I can’t… I can’t live inside that love anymore. It’s a tomb.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a white streak. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish this. The Savarina in Tokyo opens next month. There’s planning to do.”

She had built her own empire within mine. A sanctuary made of sugar and flour, where the rules were clear, and the only thing that died was a soufflé if you opened the oven too soon.

I left her there, surrounded by the ingredients of a life I couldn’t taste.

The official victory over Vance came a week later. His board, spooked by the bad press and my aggressive counter-maneuvers, forced him to withdraw the hostile bid. It was a clear, public win. I should have felt triumph. I felt nothing.

I stood in my study, the congratulatory calls pouring in, and all I could see was Sierra’s flour-streaked face, the absolute desolation in her eyes when she said the word “tomb.”

I had won every battle. Victor, exiled. Claudia Rossi, silenced. Vance, humiliated. The empire was secure, larger than ever.

And I was the king of ashes.

I looked at the one photo on my desk—Katie, laughing, held in Sierra’s arms on the opening day of Savarina. Sierra was smiling in the picture, but I knew now it was the public smile. The real one, the one that used to light up her eyes just for me, was gone.

I had protected my treasure. And in doing so, I had shattered the vessel that made it precious.

The door opened. It was Sierra, still dressed in a sleek business suit from a meeting. She held a tablet. “The Tokyo numbers are ahead of projection. The Japanese press is very positive.”

“Good,” I said, my voice hollow.

She hesitated, then stepped fully into the room. “Louis… what you did with Vance. It was the right way. You should know that.”

It was the first flicker of anything resembling approval in months. It was about my tactics, not my soul, but I clung to it like a drowning man.

“It doesn’t fix anything, does it?” I asked.

She met my gaze, and for a moment, the icy fortress wavered, showing the endless, weary pain within. “No,” she said softly. “It doesn’t.”

She turned to leave.

“Sierra.” She paused. “Will it ever?”

She didn’t look back. Her shoulders, so strong under the silk of her blouse, slumped almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know,” she said to the empty hallway. “I really don’t know.”

Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my victory, my empire, and the echoing silence of the tomb I had built with my own two hands.