Sienna Monroe woke to the hum of the building's heating system—it sounded like a distant freight train, rolling along unseen tracks. She opened her eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling. The overhead light was off; sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting striped shadows across a pale beige duvet.
For a moment, she stared, disoriented. She sat up slowly, heart fluttering with the memory of last night's events: signing the final merger clause, leaving Brian Yates's office with the weight of a contract that bound her more tightly than handcuffs. She glanced to her right—empty sheets. The other side of the bed was made up neatly; a pair of black socks lay on the dark‐wood floor where Grayson must have kicked them off.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet on the plush carpet. The suitcases they'd hauled up last night still stood by the doorway, half-unzipped. She took a shaky breath, trying to ground herself. The bathroom door creaked as she opened it. A quiet drip—just a small leak in the gold‐rimmed faucet. She shook her head, smirking. Even the sink was malfunctioning. Sienna splashed cold water on her face, then stared at her reflection. Under her eyes were shadows deeper than nightly stress should allow. She picked up a hair tie and yanked her damp hair into a loose ponytail.
Back in the bedroom, she found a bottle of filtered water and a glass on the nightstand. She drank thirstily, then padded toward the adjacent living room. The apartment was a modern two‐bedroom loft in a Gold Coast high-rise—floor‐to‐ceiling windows revealing a panorama of Lake Michigan. Crisp autumn air drifted in through a slightly cracked window. The smell of coffee lingered, though the pot was empty.
Sienna spotted Grayson in the kitchenette, dropping coffee grounds into a French press and pouring hot water from a kettle. He moved fluidly, as though this routine wasn't new to him. He wore a plain charcoal t‐shirt and dark gray lounge pants. His hair was still damp at the sides. When he noticed her, he gave a lopsided half‐smile.
"Morning," he greeted, setting the lid on the French press. He pointed to the couch. "There's coffee if you want it. I got some oat milk, too."
Sienna crossed the room, wrapping her arms around herself. "Thanks." She sank onto the couch and rubbed her palms together. His casual ease unsettled her—half the time she still felt like she was in a hostage situation rather than a marriage. She stared at the French press, watching the rich amber color swirl.
Grayson poured coffee into two porcelain mugs and carried one over. "Here." He handed it to her gently. "I added a dash of cinnamon."
She blinked at the mug. "You remembered I like cinnamon." Surprised, she raised one eyebrow.
He shrugged, settling on the stool at the kitchen island. "You said something about it after the board meeting. Thought it might help." He took a sip, closing his eyes briefly. "Yours's better," he admitted.
Sienna offered a small, vulnerable smile. "Thanks." She lifted the mug to her lips. The warmth spread through her, seeping into her bones. It felt good—not "widely comforting," but reasonable.
A beat passed as they sipped coffee in companionable silence. The city beyond the windows shifted: morning rush‐hour traffic, the occasional tugboat churning vegetables of gray foam into the lake. The apartment was otherwise still—save for the faint hum of the HVAC.
She took a deep breath. "I have a conference call at nine with a London marketing team. I need my laptop." Her voice came out clipped, as though urgency overshadowed courtesy.
Grayson set his mug on the island. "Coming right up." He stood, his feet silent on the carpet, and moved toward a gleaming silver laptop perched on a white desk in the corner. She watched his silhouette—broad shoulders, narrow hips—bend over the machine. He typed a few keys, then straightened.
"Okay," he said. "Password's reset to—" He leaned in, whispering a string of characters she barely caught, "—but send me a text if it doesn't work. Sam from IT flagged a potential breach, so I locked down the network overnight." He stepped back. "Should do the trick."
Sienna nodded, setting her coffee on the low table. "Thank you." She stood and moved to the desk, typing in the new password. The screen flickered, then accepted her code. The desktop appeared, icons scattered: "Delacroix Global," "Merge Agreement 2024," "Tyler\_B\_Leaked.mp4." She clicked on the last one, setting it aside for later.
The clock on the taskbar read 8:48 AM—eleven minutes until her London call. She tapped open the Zoom meeting link. The window whirred, prompting for a password. She entered it and waited; the London "marketing wizards" joined on cue—lively young men and women in offices decorated with Big Ben posters and red telephone‐booth figurines. One of them waved, "Good morning, Sienna!"
She winced. "Just London things," she thought. She activated her mic. "Morning. Sorry for the slight delay. Let's get started."
For the next forty‐five minutes, Sienna presented her revised collection proposals, spoke in carefully measured tones about production timelines, and fielded rapid‐fire questions about fabric sourcing. Twice, a thunderous rumble passed beneath her feet—an L‐train rattling overhead. She kept her composure, but each vibration reminded her that she was far from the calm shoreline of Martha's Vineyard. Her pulse hammered behind her sternum.
When the meeting ended, she sat back and exhaled. Grayson rose from the stool and crossed to her side. "They loved it," he said with a half‐smirk. "Sienna Monroe—the only person who can juggle sapphire lines and jet lag."
She smiled wearily. "I'm not sure I can handle both." She closed the laptop. "Thank you for the password." She locked the screen and rose.
He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to stick around?"
She shook her head. "I have an internal Delacroix briefing at eleven. I need to prep." She winked. "Don't worry, I got this."
He nodded, though his expression hinted at concern. "All right. I'm off to the Evermore board meeting at ten." He patted her shoulder. "Break a leg."
She watched him leave the room—smooth, quiet steps—then pressed her palm to her chest, letting the frantic beats slow. She rubbed her forehead and inhaled, letting that cinnamon‐laced coffee do its slow magic.
By 10:30 AM, Sienna had logged off a rapid internal Zoom call with her Delacroix design team, then jogged up to the study to reassemble her notes. She tapped a text to Lila: *"Meeting in 30. Join me for lunch on the 27th floor sky lounge? Need a friendly face."* Almost immediately, Lila replied: *"On my way—dropping bag back at my place. I got you, boss."*
Sienna exhaled and touched up her makeup with a small compact mirror—just a dash of concealer under her eyes, a swipe of neutral lip balm. She threw on a trench coat and grabbed her Delacroix portfolio. She exited the apartment, pausing to lock the door behind her. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. She descended in silence, tapping her foot on the elevator floor until the door dinged open on the fifth floor.
In the lobby, she noticed the concierge, Mr. Cheng, sitting behind his desk. He nodded politely. "Good morning, Ms. Monroe."
She offered a tired but genuine smile. "Morning, Mr. Cheng. Thank you." Behind him, sunlight spilled through floor‐to‐ceiling windows, brightening the wide lobby.
She turned to the elevator bank. The doors slid closed with a soft "whoosh," sending her downward. In moments, she was on the 27th floor, where the glass‐walled sky lounge overlooked the city: Lake Michigan glimmering in the autumn haze, boats crisscrossing beneath. Lila waved her over to a corner table by the window. A round of applause rose from a nearby co‐ed brainstorming session; someone was pitching a new line of "smart faucets" for the Delacroix beachfront properties.
Lila poured two cups of black coffee from a communal station. "You look like you've had a solid encounter with a tornado," she observed, handing one mug to Sienna. "Drink up."
Sienna took a grateful gulp. "If by tornado you mean the contract clause, then yes." She tapped the edge of her mug. "Brian added that buy‐out clause."
Lila pursed her lips. "That's rough. So, if Delacroix underperforms by winter, Grayson's dad can seize control?"
Sienna nodded, curling her fingers around the mug. "Essentially. He's hedging his bet." She rubbed her wrist where her sapphire necklace lay beneath her sleeve. "I don't love it, but I signed."
Lila exhaled. "Well, at least you still have a year. And hey, he hugged you this morning, right? It's something."
Sienna took another sip and eyed the glass of dry martini Lila set on the table. "A martini at 11?" she teased.
Lila shrugged. "Friend support, remember? I get to put my life in order after lunch." She swirled the glass and took a slow sip. "So, what's the plan for tonight?"
Sienna stared out at the skyline. "Dinner with Grayson. Alexander insisted on seeing me after his lunch with Grayson. We have never interacted directly—I have no desire to show my face there. But…tonight's the first chance I have to actually talk to Grayson without a room full of people watching."
Lila nodded. "Right—face‐to‐face, minus the glare. Where are you going?"
Sienna tapped on her phone. "Downtown, at 7. I made reservations at The Cascade. We'll have that table by the waterfall wall. I wanted somewhere calming after this madhouse."
Lila offered a supportive grin. "Good idea. If he can pick a table overlooking rushing water, he cares. Let's hope it's a sign."
Sienna smiled and drained her coffee. "Let's brace ourselves." She stood, slipping her portfolio into her bag. "Time to go crush that Delacroix internal meeting."
Lila rose with her. "Go get 'em, Tiger." She squeezed Sienna's bicep. "I'll meet you back here at 12:30? We can check out that Lucerne deal while you finish up."
Sienna nodded. "See you then." She offered one more deep breath, then walked through the glass doors into the boardroom corridor.
---
By 3:00 PM, Sienna sat in a modest corner office at the Cole Industries Chicago building—Caramel brown leather chairs, dark walnut desk, floor-to-ceiling windows. Grayson was seated on a sofa in the corner, his legs stretched out, tapping a patterned silk tie that lay in his lap. A meeting flier reading "Delacroix‐Everspan Merger Debrief" lay on a side table.
Sienna closed her notebook—her internal Delacroix meeting had run long. She barely felt her thighs against the leather couch. She offered a tired smile. "Hey. Ready?"
Grayson set down his tie and rose. "Ready." He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch was gentle, but it sent a ripple of warmth through her. She swallowed. "Thanks for waiting."
He folded his arms, watching her closely. "Always." He guided her to the desk, offering her a chair. She settled in, crossing her legs.
Brian Yates's final email—pinned to the monitor—glared at her: "Please confirm the final merger key deliverables." She pressed "Open" and scanned the text, nodding.
She turned to Grayson. "They want a consolidated rollout schedule by next Friday. I sent you the template."
He nodded. "Got it. We'll work on that tonight, after dinner."
Sienna looked away, out the window at the clouds gathering over the river. "About dinner…" She hesitated, glancing at him. "Are you sure you want me to join your father?"
Grayson opened his mouth, then closed it. He breathed in. "You don't have to if you don't want to. It's just…he's curious. He'll ask a lot of questions—some of them blunt. But he's not a monster." He offered an apologetic smile. "He's…he's a tough guy. But easier once he sees you speak."
Sienna nodded, though the knot in her stomach remained. She leaned back. "Okay. If you think it's better. But tonight, I want a normal dinner. No business talk—just…food and water." She gave an ironic shrug.
Grayson let out a short laugh. "Food, water, and no contracts. Deal."
She smiled, feeling a flicker of relief. "Good."
They sat there in companionable silence for a few more moments, eyes on the mid‐afternoon Chicago skyline. Eventually, Grayson checked his watch. "I'll take my tie next. You want to grab a coffee before heading back downtown?"
Sienna stood, brushing a crease from her skirt. "I think I need to freshen up first. See you at seven?"
Grayson nodded, stepping into the hallway. "Seven." He paused at the door and looked back. "Sienna?"
She turned.
He offered a half‐sincere, half‐teasing grin. "Promise you'll laugh at my dad's jokes tonight? He's got a form of…dad‐humor. Bad"
Sienna laughed, despite herself. "I promise."
He melted into that grin—for the first time, she wondered if that was what people meant by "the real him."
As Grayson strode down the hallway, Sienna inhaled deeply and turned to her phone. She typed a quick text to Lila: *"Meeting is done. See you for lunch at 12:30."* The office was quiet, filled with the echo of her own breath.
She exhaled and straightened her posture. Today had been a marathon—a wedding on an island, a boardroom battle, a legal signing, and a merger debrief. Now, the real test loomed: navigating her role as "Mrs. Cole" in front of Alexander Cole himself, while somehow keeping Delacroix's spirit alive.
She let the city's hum outside the window ground her. She was Sienna Monroe: wife‐for‐business, reluctant heiress, and—tonight—unexpected partner to Grayson. For better or worse, she would take that step when the clock hit seven, into the heated glare of an unforeseen family dinner.