44

Sierra’s POV

The ghost of the almost-kiss lingered in the air for days, a phantom touch that made my skin prickle whenever Louis and I were in the same room. It had been a test—of his control, of my resolve, of the fragile fiction we were living. We had both, barely, passed. The tension morphed from icy silence into something more charged and watchful, like two rival generals who had acknowledged a mutual, grudging respect across a battlefield.

The legal war with Alexander Vance concluded with a decisive, quiet thud. A settlement. He paid a staggering sum in damages, publicly apologized for the “overzealous actions of a rogue IT contractor,” and withdrew completely from any bids on Trevane assets for five years. It was a surrender. We had won. The empire was secure. My bakery was safe.

The victory party was a subdued affair at the house. Louis’s inner circle—Marcus, Adrienne, a few key board members. It was all handshakes and measured congratulations. Louis stood by the fireplace, holding a glass of whiskey he didn’t drink, accepting the accolades with a nod. His eyes found mine across the room. There was no triumph in them. Only a weary question: *Is this enough?*

It wasn’t. But it was something. It was a foundation made of something sturdier than fear or guilt. It was built on competent, ruthless victory. It was a foundation I could stand on.

The next morning, Nia Trevane summoned me. Not to the mansion, but to the newly opened Savarina in Beverly Hills. She was waiting at a corner table, a single espresso before her, looking utterly out of place amidst the rustic chic and the scent of warm brioche.

“Sit,” she said, not unkindly. “The almond croissant is acceptable.”

I sat, ordering a tea. We made polite, strained conversation about Katie’s school, about the settlement. Then she set her cup down with its characteristic precise click.

“You have done remarkably well,” she stated. “You have weathered storms that would have shattered people born into this world. You have secured your own foothold. You have even… managed my son.”

“Managed” was a generous term. “We’ve reached an understanding,” I said carefully.

“An understanding.” She repeated the word as if tasting it. “It is a start. But it is not a life. Not for you.” She leaned forward slightly. “I am proposing a change to the understanding.”

I sipped my tea, waiting.

“The family’s European holdings need oversight. The art foundations in Milan and Paris, the vineyard in Provence. They have been managed by committees, but they lack a personal touch. A vision. They are assets, not a legacy.” Her steel-grey eyes held mine. “I want you to take them over.”

The offer was so unexpected it took my breath away. “Me? I’m a baker, Nia. Not an art curator or a vintner.”

“You are a brand-builder. You understand narrative. You understand creating something desirable from raw materials. And you have the one thing no committee or hired director has: the Trevane name. My grandson’s blood.” She said it not as a emotional appeal, but as a tactical advantage. “It would require you to be in Europe for several months a year. You would have an apartment in Paris, a villa in Tuscany at your disposal. A significant budget and full autonomy.”

It was an empire within the empire. A kingdom of my own, far from the Los Angeles mansion and the ghost that haunted it. It was escape dressed as promotion.

“And Louis?” I asked, my throat tight.

“Louis would remain here, running the core of the business. This would be your domain. Separate. Sovereign.” She paused, letting the implication hang. “It would provide a structure for your… understanding. Defined roles. Clear geography. A life for you that is not merely an annex to his.”

She was offering me a gilded exit. A way to be his wife in name and legal reality, to secure Katie’s place in the dynasty, without having to live in the chilling shadow of his presence. We would be co-monarchs of different continents.

My mind raced. Paris. Katie learning French. Building something beautiful that had nothing to do with blood or threats. The distance was a palpable, aching诱惑.

“Why?” I asked. “Why give this to me?”

Nia’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Because I, too, once had to learn to build walls within a palace to survive. Because my son has done irreparable damage. And because that little girl deserves a mother who is not a ghost in her own home. This is a way to give you back your life, Sierra. On your terms. Within the family, but not consumed by it.”

It was the most compassionate thing she had ever said to me. It was also a brutally strategic move to solidify the family’s holdings by giving its most unpredictable asset a productive, faraway outlet.

“I need to think about it,” I said.

“Of course.” She stood, smoothing her immaculate skirt. “The offer has no expiration. But do not think too long. Stagnation is its own kind of death.”

After she left, I sat in the buzzing bakery, surrounded by the life I had built with my own hands. I could feel the fork in the road materializing before me. One path led deeper into the frozen, functional partnership in Los Angeles. The other led to a sparkling, independent future across an ocean, tethered to Louis only by law and a shared child.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to Katie’s room. She was asleep, one arm flung over her favorite stuffed bunny. In the nightlight’s glow, her face was peaceful, untouched by the complicated loyalties that tore at me. Whatever I chose, it had to be best for her. Was it better to have her parents under one roof, even a cold one? Or to have a vibrant, happy mother half the year, and a distant, powerful father?

I felt him before I saw him. Louis stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered.

“She is.” I didn’t turn.

He came into the room and stood beside me, both of us looking down at our sleeping daughter. The shared view, the shared love for her, was the most real thing between us.

“My mother made you an offer,” he said, his voice low.

“She did.”

“I told her to.”

I turned to look at him then, shocked.

His profile was sharp in the dim light. “I know what she proposed. The European holdings. The distance. I approved it. I instructed the lawyers to draw up the governance structures giving you full control.”

The breath left my body. “You’re… letting me go?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” he corrected, finally looking at me. His eyes were full of a pain so profound it mirrored my own. “A real one. Not a trap, not a manipulation. You can stay here, and we will continue as we are. We will be… colleagues who share a child. Or you can go, and build something extraordinary. You can breathe. Katie would split her time. She would be safe, loved, and she would see her mother alive, not just surviving.”

Tears welled, hot and sudden. This was the cruelest kindness. The most selfless act of possession. He was willing to gut himself, to endure the physical absence of his child for half the year, to give me a chance at a life without the constant reminder of his sins.

“Why?” My voice was a broken thing.

“Because I love you,” he said simply, as if it explained everything. And in his twisted, monstrous calculus, it did. “And I finally understand that loving you sometimes means not being near you.”

He reached out then, not to touch me, but to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind Katie’s ear. A father’s gesture. “Think about it. There’s no wrong answer. Just… choose the one that lets you live.”

He turned and left, leaving me alone with my sleeping daughter and the two futures he had just laid at my feet.

One was a beautiful cage an ocean away.

The other was a frozen wasteland with him at the center.

And for the first time since Claudia Rossi died, I felt not like a prisoner, but like a queen being offered the keys to a different wing of the palace. The choice was terrifying.

And it was finally, truly, my own.