The Delta jet touched down at O'Hare Airport just after 8:00 AM. Sienna Monroe pressed her handkerchief against the hem of her bright coral dress, which she'd traded for last night's test of patience. No more lace. No more veil. She found herself both relieved and strangely adrift. Grayson's handprint was still etched—faintly—on her hip, and she could still feel the hum of that near‐kiss, as though it had carved a groove in her nerves.
Lila Benne insisted on wheeling two oversized suitcases off the plane for her. Once they hit the arrivals level, Sienna removed her sunglasses and looked for the airport greeter Eleanor had dispatched. Instead, she saw Ivy Monroe stepping out of a black Acura SUV, hair damp from the Chicago drizzle. Ivy's trench coat was cinched at the waist; high‐heeled boots clicked down the walkway. Sienna folded her arms, trying not to let her surprise show.
"Ivy?" she called, but her voice caught. It had only been twelve hours since Martha's Vineyard, but Ivy looked older—wiser, furtive in her expression.
Ivy met her halfway and hugged her bluntly. "About time. Has anyone helped you carry your bags? Because I can't believe you'd let—" She cut off, brushing back her bangs. "Never mind."
Sienna stiffened. "I had help." She nodded toward Lila, who had rolled Sienna's suitcase onto the curb.
Ivy glanced at Lila and offered a polite nod before stepping closer to Sienna. "Your mother wants to see you at the office in two hours. You have that big Delacroix relaunch meeting." She lowered her voice. "But—Sienna—don't trust anyone at that board meeting. Morgan's people are already making moves. You need to—" She straightened, brushing raindrops from her collar. "Just…be careful."
Sienna blinked. "What did you see?"
Ivy hesitated, as though weighing how much to tell. "Grayson's father, Alexander Cole, is ramping up pressure on the board. I overheard him on the phone…last night. He called you a 'walking liability.'" She closed her eyes briefly, squeezed Sienna's arm. "He means it."
Sienna's chest tightened. She offered a curt nod before Ivy spun on her heel and returned to the waiting SUV. Sienna caught Lila's gaze. Her friend shrugged—equally baffled by Ivy's ominous warning. "Let's get you to the car," Lila said, tossing Sienna a toothy grin as if to say, You're not alone.
Outside, the wind clawed at Sienna's coral dress and threatened to uproot the airport's fluorescent signs. She slid into the back seat of a sleek black sedan that smelled faintly of vanilla and old leather. Lila squeezed in beside her, handing Sienna an iced latte. The driver merged into traffic.
"Your place or Mom's townhouse?" he asked.
Sienna tucked her feet under her. "Mom's. We'll need a quick change before the meeting."
She stared out the window at the grid of Chicago's skyline—tower cranes, El tracks, billboards for deep-dish pizza. The city felt like a jolt to her system after the wind-swept freedom of the Vineyard. Lila studied her from the corner of her eye. "You okay?" she asked.
Sienna sipped the latte, forcing her throat to swallow down the lump of tension. "Ivy says Alexander is already playing dirty. He thinks I'll cave." She shook her head. "I can't—" She paused, exhaling slowly. "I won't."
Lila patted her hand. "You'd better not. But hey, you bagged Grayson's heart—or at least the contract—for the next year. That's something. I've got your back. Promise."
Sienna offered a wan smile, watching rain droplets race each other on the tinted window. "Thanks, Li. I mean it."
The car turned off Lake Shore Drive onto a tree-lined street in Lincoln Park. Yellow leaves fluttered on the wet pavement. They pulled up in front of a grey-brick townhouse with sculpted boxwoods—"Mom's townhouse," Sienna realized. The driver helped Lila lug the suitcases up to the front steps. Sienna inhaled, steeling herself for Eleanor.
Through the ornate front door, the entryway was hushed—expensive Persian rug, anointing the echo of footsteps. Eleanor Monroe stood behind a dark wood reception desk, scrolling through her phone. She didn't look up for a beat.
Sienna walked in and cleared her throat. Eleanor's lips flattened. She lifted her chin, finally looking up.
"Good morning, Mother," Sienna said formally, setting her overnight bag on the desk.
Eleanor ran a manicured finger across her phone's screen, then tucked it into her clutch. She raised an eyebrow. "Morning. You slept, I assume?"
"Enough to survive." Sienna tried for a nonchalant smile, but felt the corners of her mouth pull tight. "Why am I here so early?"
Eleanor glanced at her watch: 9:05 AM. "The Delacroix relaunch meeting is at 11." She flipped open a leather portfolio and slid Sienna's printed presentation onto the desk. "You lead the meeting. Make sure you control the narrative. Don't let them steamroll you."
Sienna nodded, touching the đolphin gray conference binders. "Understood."
Eleanor set her purse on the desk and circled around. "After that, you have an interview with *Chic Style Weekly* at 1 PM." She tapped the portfolio again. "Then Brian Yates, our legal counsel, wants you in his office at 3. He'll go over the merger document."
Sienna bit her lower lip. The lineup made her head spin. "Do I at least get a moment to change? I want to change the gown before the interview—something less…island‐wedding." She slipped off her heels, revealing smudged coral nail polish.
Eleanor exhaled, barely concealing impatience. "Yes. Upstairs closet—blue sheath dress. And no lipstick this time. We can't have headlines running 'Monroe's Luscious Lips—Island Wedding to Office.' Understood?"
Sienna nodded, too tired to argue. "Of course."
Eleanor left the room, the click of her heels echoing behind her. Lila stepped forward. "You can use the powder room for a quick touch‐up. I'll find coffee." She guided Sienna to the second floor.
Inside the women's powder room—a small adjacent room with high mirrors—the overhead light glared against Sienna's reflection: dark circles, too‐bright makeup faintly smudged. She rinsed her face with cold water from the marble sink, dried it on her wrist, and then pulled on the navy sheath dress Lila held out. The material hugged her curves. She slipped out of her sandals into a pair of black kitten heels that resided in a corner.
Lila moved lipstick and eyeliner from a basket to a small vanity table. "I called the coffee shop across the street—Bean There, Done That. Their latte is solid. I'll drop mine in the living room."
Sienna leaned into the mirror, touching her cheekbones lightly. "Thanks, Li. I feel like a duct‐taped piano." She forced a crooked smile. "Ready for Act Two of the Day."
Lila chuckled. "This is why you have me—your personal glam squad slash emotional support." She batted her eyelashes, doing a quick lash check. "You got this. Later tonight, you and Grayson can—what? Drink something tropical? Commemorate your first day as a 'committee to save Delacroix'?"
Sienna's lips curved. "Maybe. If we survive today."
They descended to the first floor. The living room was hushed—ivory sofas, a grand piano in the corner, family portraits lining the wall. Used to be that this house brimmed with laughter. Now it felt like a gallery: cold, curated, waiting.
Lila pointed at a small latte steaming on the coffee table. "Fuel up. And remember: no awkward glances at Grayson anywhere today. Everyone's going to be watching."
Sienna lifted the mug and inhaled. The aroma was nutty, rich—exactly what she needed to get her head in the game. She took a small sip; it burned pleasantly in her chest.
"Speaking of Grayson…you saw Ivy. She said his father's already maneuvering." She set the latte down. "Do you think Grayson will show up for the meeting? Last I saw, he was supposed to be in Boston today."
Lila folded her arms and wagged a finger. "He'll be there. Trust me. He's not the kind to miss a chance to prove himself. He's going to walk into that boardroom and set a new gold standard for controlling a narrative. He's got that look in his eye—remember at the Vineyard, how you thought he was just going to glower at cameras?"
Sienna nodded. "Yeah, that look." She closed her eyes for a second, feeling a distant echo of sun and salt. She cracked her knuckles, then opened her eyes. "All right. Let's roll."
At precisely 10:50 AM, Sienna strode into the Delacroix Heritage boardroom—an expansive glass‐walled office overlooking the Chicago River. Polished oak conference table seated a dozen executives from top retail chains: Chicago's Marshall & Little, West Coast's Clairemont & Sons, plus two senior editors from *Chic Style Weekly*. The walls displayed large framed prints of Delacroix's signature sapphire necklaces—timeless pieces that Eleanor had vowed to protect.
At the far end of the table sat Franklin Hayes, Delacroix's interim CEO, nervously tapping his pen. He looked up and gave Sienna that "I'm glad you're here, kiddo" nod.
Sienna offered him a brief smile and kept moving to the head of the table. She lifted the blue binder and placed it in front of her.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, voice clear. "Thank you for adjusting your schedules on such short notice. As you know, we've undergone significant changes in the past week. Because of recent shifts in investment via Cole Industries, Delacroix Heritage's path forward rests on integrating seamlessly with Cole's distribution network. Today, I'd like to walk you through our Q3 strategy for leveraging both our brand heritage and their market channels—"
She paused, scanning the room. Several of the senior buyers exchanged glances. Sienna felt a familiar flutter in her stomach, but she straightened her shoulders.
"—starting with limited‐edition sapphire collections," she continued. "We have three flagship designs that will debut at the Luxury Fashion Expo in San Francisco next month. Each piece will be accompanied by a behind‐the‐scenes video, showcasing local artisans in our Lake Geneva workshop. Our goal is to emphasize authenticity and craftsmanship—elements we know our customers still value, despite our new corporate backing."
She clicked the remote. A slide of shimmering sapphires appeared on the 80‐inch screen behind her. Light gleamed as if the gems themselves were catching the glow of the room. She held the gaze of a buyer from Portland's Belcourt & Co., who inclined her head, eyes bright.
Sienna felt a bit of confidence bloom inside her chest. "Our preliminary pricing charts have already been sent to your inboxes," she said, shifting to the next slide. "We forecast a 20 percent increase in revenue from pre‐orders alone, thanks to targeted digital campaigns. By collaborating with Grayson Cole's Everspan network, we can expedite fulfillment to key cities—Los Angeles, Miami, and Dallas—within ten business days."
At that, Grayson entered the room on cue. He paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping the assembled execs, then stopped at Sienna's shoulder. He wore the same charcoal-gray suit she'd seen in Martha's Vineyard, but now it seemed different—fitted to his frame, slacks pressed to perfection. His dark eyes softened when they met Sienna's. She felt her pulse spike.
Grayson quietly stood behind Sienna's chair, offering subtle support. Sienna lifted her chin and continued.
"A short note on our digital platform: last week, Tyler Brooks leaked an unofficial behind‐the‐scenes photo of me editing the Sapphire Serendipity collection on my personal laptop. I believe most of you saw it—" Sienna paused to let the implication settle, then squared her shoulders. "I want to assure you, our intellectual property remains secure. We have updated all security protocols, and Tyler has been officially severed from our retainer effective immediately."
A ripple of murmurs floated around the room; someone coughed. Grayson still had his hand lightly resting on the back of Sienna's chair—a silent pledge of solidarity. She inhaled, proceeding to the next slide without missing a beat.
"Moving on," she said, cueing a chart of projected sales. "With the Everspan pipeline activated, our retail partners will receive shipments two weeks faster than before. This should minimize stockouts during peak holiday season. Let's open the floor for any questions."
A hand shot up—Margot Sterling, the longtime private assistant to Sienna's late great-grandmother, and one of the few board members who had voted against the original merger. Sienna caught Margot's steel-gray eyes glinting with expectation.
"Sienna, on slide five, you present a ten‐day fulfillment window. But what about local adjustments?" Margot's voice was soft but firm. "Are we incorporating any pop‐up events to sustain the local artisan story? Or are we shifting too much of our legacy to mass distribution?"
Sienna nodded. "Great question. We're balancing both. Next quarter, we'll pilot a pop‐up in Dallas's Highland Park Village, featuring in‐person artisan demonstrations and on‐site stone inspections. That way, we keep our face-to-face heritage while scaling through Everspan."
Margot leaned back, expression inscrutable. "I'll be interested to see how we measure success for those pop‐ups."
Sienna offered a polite nod. "We'll track foot traffic, conversion rates, and social media engagement in real time—my team will send a detailed report next Tuesday."
Margot lifted her pen, making a note. "Very well."
Over the next forty-five minutes, Sienna navigated questions about marketing budgets, influencer partnerships, and colorway expansions. Twice she sensed that some execs were skeptical—sighed when she suggested hiring local artisans, or raised eyebrows at the sapphire prices. But Grayson quietly stepped in once, sharing a bullet‐pointed financial projection that dovetailed with Sienna's brand vision. When he spoke, the room seemed to listen a little closer.
At 11:50 AM, Franklin Hayes—the interim CEO—gave an approving nod. "I think that covers our agenda. Thank you both for a comprehensive presentation." He tapped his pen. "Sienna, I'll need you to follow up with a finalized budget by this Friday. Grayson, perhaps we should coordinate to monitor Everspan's inventory status every morning."
Sienna exhaled, trying not to let relief show on her face. She offered the group a quick smile. "Absolutely. Thank you all."
As the execs gathered their things, Sienna gathered her binder. Grayson stepped to her side, walking with her toward the conference room exit. Outside, they stood in the hallway, a pale bruise of sunlight filtering through frosted glass.
"Nice job," Grayson said quietly, turning his gaze to her. "You held your own."
Sienna offered a weary half‐smile. "Not without you. I thought my heart was going to jam on a question about pricing."
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "You were brilliant. Don't be so hard on yourself."
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing toward the elevators. "Thanks. Let's get to my interview." She shook her head. "And then another meeting."
Grayson nodded. "I'll meet you after your *Chic Style Weekly* bit. I have a lunch with my father in Wilmette. He's dying to see how this is going."
Sienna's stomach knotted. "You sure he—"
"He's a bulldozer," Grayson said with a wry smile. "But he'll survive. We have tonight to—" He bit off his words, as if realizing what he was implying. "Tonight, we can regroup."
Sienna watched the elevator doors swallow him before she closed her eyes. She wanted to say she was tired of "tonight, we regroup." But she also recognized that, with Grayson by her side—even in this messy arrangement—she had a fighting chance. She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and headed to the building's lobby.
---
By 1:00 PM, Sienna was seated in a small glass‐walled studio on the fifteenth floor of the *Chic Style Weekly* building. The set was minimalist: two velvet armchairs, a round marble‐topped coffee table, and a backdrop of snow‐dusted Chicago rooftops visible through floor‐to‐ceiling windows. The interviewer, Martina Chen, a lively editor with jet‐black hair and bold red lipstick, adjusted her lapel mic.
"Miss Monroe," Martina began, offering an engaging smile, "thank you for joining us. Let's jump right in: how do you balance maintaining Delacroix's storied heritage while now being under the Cole Industries umbrella?"
Sienna settled into her chair, smoothing a crease in her navy sheath. She felt the current surge of protective energy—Lila's morning pep talk, Grayson's support in the boardroom—coursing through her veins. She nodded. "Great question. It's about respect for tradition and openness to evolution. My great‐grandmother founded Delacroix on Lake Geneva ten decades ago. Her philosophy was 'every gem has a story to tell,' and we're honoring that by ensuring our designs are handcrafted by local artisans. At the same time, Cole Industries brings broader resources and faster distribution. It's marrying the old‐world craftsmanship with new‐world efficiency."
Martina nodded, jotting something on her notepad. "And what about that rumor that your father and Alexander Cole have clashed over pricing models?"
Sienna stifled a laugh. "Rumor gets around fast." She paused, pressing her lips together. "I won't lie: there have been disagreements. My family has always positioned Delacroix as the pinnacle of handcrafted luxury, while Cole Industries looks at larger market trends. But ultimately, we share a common vision: keep the brand exclusive yet accessible at certain price points. We compromise by offering both ultra‐high‐end bespoke pieces and more attainable, ready‐to‐ship collections."
Martina smiled. "So, do you foresee a full merger at the end of the year?"
Sienna drew in a breath. "Possibly. It depends on performance metrics—sales, customer feedback, social engagement—things we can measure. If the collaboration is successful, a full merger might make sense. But if things go south…well, I'm prepared to stand my ground, even if it means preserving Delacroix's independence."
Martina's eyes flicked toward a clock. "All right, time for a quick break. We'll return for lighting shots and some b‐roll."
Sienna stood, shaking off her nerves. She headed for the lobby, where Grayson was waiting in a black blazer over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up. He glanced at a gold chronograph on his wrist.
"How'd it go?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
She exhaled, trying to hold a breath. "Fine. They asked about pricing. I didn't embarrass myself."
He nodded, relieved. "Good. I'm heading to my lunch now. My father's waiting at Bistro 100—apparently, he wants to see you, too."
Her brows rose. "He wants to see me?"
He shrugged. "For show's sake. Plus, he's genuinely curious." He looked away, voice low. "Look, Sienna, if he says anything…just stick to your talking points. I won't lie and say he's a sweetheart."
She smirked. "I can handle verbal thorns."
He offered a half‐smile, then placed a brief, lingering hand on her shoulder. "Right. One more push."
She nodded, then paused. "Tonight—dinner? Maybe we can finally…laugh about today."
Grayson's eyes softened. "I'll see you tonight. Good luck in Wilmette," he said, giving her a quick, arm‐squeezing hug before heading down the east‐facing corridor.
Sienna watched his retreating back, felt something catch in her chest. She wondered, not for the first time, whether the contract they'd signed would last a year—or whether she would find herself wanting more than "just" the pact they made on an island a few days earlier.
---
By 3:00 PM, Sienna found herself in a modest law office near Lincoln Park. Brian Yates, Delacroix's longtime legal counsel, sat behind a walnut desk, toppling a stack of paperwork. He looked up through thin‐rimmed glasses.
"Sienna," he greeted, then gave her a nod. "Grayson told me to expect you. Sit."
She perched on a leather guest chair. Her legs were tired; she flexed her calves beneath her dress.
Brian tapped a pen against a document. "First—congratulations on the board meeting. I looked over your numbers. Sound performance. Now, the new merger clauses: they include the clause that, if Delacroix's independent net profit margin falls below 15 percent, Cole Industries can buy out the remainder for a fixed value. That's a hedge. I know it's below your comfort threshold, but it's their inclusion for risk mitigation."
Sienna ran her fingers along the edge of the document. "So, if I underperform, they will force me out?"
Brian shrugged. "Essentially. Or you'd have to heavily restructure to meet the margin. That's how they protect their investment. Standard practice, honestly—though I know it's harsh."
Sienna closed her eyes for a second, then opened them with resolve. "I understand. But we'll meet the target. I'll make sure of it."
Brian nodded, folding his hands. "All right. Then sign here." He slid a final page across. "This binds the clause. If Grayson wants your input, he's upstairs. I expect he'll have more questions."
She picked up the pen, reading the fine print. When she signed, a sense of dread accompanied the scratch of ink. The contract was now sealed—her life tethered to Grayson's business empire, dependent on her own company's performance, which in turn hinged on her ex—her at-odds-with-the-world mother, and the whims of Alexander Cole. The pressure was a taut line between her lungs.
With a final flourish, she set the pen down. "Done."
Brian gave her a sympathetic look. "You should probably get some fresh air," he suggested. "Meet Grayson for dinner. Heaven knows you both need a break."
Sienna nodded, rising. "Thank you, Brian." She tucked the paperwork into a leather portfolio, then walked out of the office, each step echoing in her ears.
Outside, a biting wind whipped the last of autumn leaves across the sidewalk. She buttoned her coat and hailed a taxi, the yellow cab rattling to a stop. She slipped inside, wrapped her scarf more snugly, and slipped into the back seat.
As the cab pulled away, Sienna peered out at the murky gray sky over Lake Michigan, thinking of the Vineyard's blue waves. Her lips curved into a faint, wry smile. Tomorrow, she'd return to the townhouse for an evening she hoped would bring some semblance of peace—perhaps a dinner with Grayson, laughter over ridiculous mishaps, a chance to remember that, beneath these contracts and profit margins, they were still two people sharing a precarious arrangement.
She closed her eyes and let the taxi carry her downtown—past billboards advertising winter coats and hot apple cider—toward the unknown warmth of what might come *tonight.*