Chapter 113 Senior Partner Quinn
Sierra Quinn crossed the marble-floored lobby of Aetherium Tower, which housed Sterling, Quinn & Spencer along with a variety of high-end accounting, legal, and architectural firms, with the practiced grace of someone who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of poise.
Her navy patent leather stilettos clicked against the polished floor, each step a metronome to the heartbeat of her anxiety. The custom-made Tom Ford blazer hugged her frame like a second skin, its sharp tailoring a testament to her ascension. The ivory silk blouse, delicate yet defiant, peeked from beneath the blazer’s lapels, a contrast to the gold-tone buttons that glinted like quiet challenges. Her Bottega Veneta satchel, a deep burgundy leather against her side, felt grounded in its weight, as if anchoring her to the reality of the day. The pearl studs in her ears caught the office’s natural light, subtle as her tears threatened to be.
She had spent the night piecing together fragments of herself, from her grief, her guilt over Julian’s death, and her longing for Ryder, into a persona that could withstand today’s spectacle. But beneath the structured shoulders of her blazer, her ribs tightened like a corset. Breathe, she reminded herself. You’ve earned this.
The elevator doors slid open to receive her. In the calm moment of the car’s ascent to the 22nd floor, she leveled her breathing and took control of her thoughts and emotions. When the doors opened, all self-control dissipated.
“Welcome Home, Senior Partner Quinn!” The banner above the glass entrance to the office’s heart throbbed in bold gold letters. The receptionist, Claire, leapt from her desk, clapping so vigorously her bangles jingled. One by one, the cubicles emptied as associates, analysts, and account managers spilled into the main corridor of the bullpen area, their faces alight with genuine joy.
“Sierra Quinn!” someone shouted.
“Give the woman space!” barked a jovial voice, Gary from Digital Marketing, cradling a noisemaker like a toddler’s toy. He shook it until it screeched.
A laugh slipped from Sierra’s lips, unexpected and light. For a moment, the weight in her chest lifted.
Chloe stood outside the door of her own office with her assistant at her side, her floral blouse and blazer exuding an effortless professionalism that had only grown since her promotion last year. She caught Sierra’s gaze and beamed, her presence a familiar anchor. Further along, William Fitzgerald Sterling, silver-hairedand striking in spite of his recent stroke, opened his arms for a bear hug. His breath smelled of English breakfast tea and peppermints.
“You’ve made me so very proud,” he murmured into her hair, his voice gravelly with emotion. When he pulled back, his lips cheek brushed her cheek, a father’s touch.
She nodded, smiling and blinking back tears.
Then he turned her, both hands on her shoulders, to face the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, using all of the energy he could muster, “your newest Senior Partner, Sierra Quinn!”
The applause erupted like a hurricane.
“Speech, Sierra, speech!” someone yelled.
“Something profound, please!” added another, grinning.
She started to speak. “I… Wow…” The swell of emotion was too much for her to speak.
Her eyes swept the crowd as Chloe slipped in beside her. Feeling her trembling, she whispered in her ear. “You’ve got this.”
“Thank you,” she began, her voice steady, though her throat burned. “I’m… honored.” The words felt paper-thin. She cleared her throat. “I’ll keep this simple. I’m honored and humbled to lead this incredible team into a new chapter… it’s a privilege I don’t take lightly.” Her gaze flicked to William, then to Chloe, then to the faces of people who had become her second family. “Sterling, Quinn & Spencer isn’t just a marketing firm. It’s a legacy. I believe our unwritten story will be better than ever with such an incredible foundation and the talent to continue to grow and thrive.”
A sniffle escaped her. She wiped her cheeks, cursing her weakness.
Chloe hugged her tight and then pulled back, beaming. “Look at you. You’re something else.”
The room erupted again, this time lighter, with conversations and laughter as each of the team members filed by with congratulations as unique as each individual. As the group was breaking up, the receptionist announced a catered luncheon in the conference room at lunchtime, and colleagues drifted back to their desks, buzzing with pride.
Sierra lingered until everyone had passed by, her chest tight, until the crowd thinned and she was able to slip into her office, the door clicking shut behind her. The walls were the same honey-toned oak, the same skyline view of Manhattan, but now the space felt foreign and weighty. It was nearly too much for her.
She dropped into the leather chair behind her desk, resting her forehead in her hands as she fought for control over her raging emotions. As she was working to regain her composure, her phone buzzed on the desk. A text.
Unknown Number: Congratulations. Why didn’t you return to the ranch?
Her breath hitched.
The screen reflected her face: impeccably made up, eyes red-rimmed from hidden tears. She stared at the message, her pulse a frantic drumbeat. The words slithered through her, coiling around the ache she had buried.
The word ranch caused her heart to skip a beat as the image of Ryder slipped into her mind. Along with his face, the scent of leather and sage, she heard his voice, “You belong here.” She had left it all behind, his love, the land, the life she had once called home, for the city, for Sterling, Quinn & Spencer, for the career that had swallowed her whole.
The message had a more sinister tone, making her skin prickle. She rose abruptly, crossing the room to pace between the windows. The city stretched below, a grid of glass and ambition.
She thought of the text she received on Julian’s private jet before it went down:
If you survive this, return to the ranch. I’ll come to you there.
She hadn’t gone back to the ranch. She’d come to Manhattan. She had disobeyed the message, probably from The Scotsman. How would her disobedience be dealt with? The Scotsman had seemed to be her ally, but was it an alliance predicated on conforming to his orders? That had been implied during their first meeting in the dark corner of a London pub.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Sierra?” Chloe’s voice was hesitant. “You okay?”
She swiped the text away, dropping the phone back onto her desk. “Come in,” she called, smoothing her blazer. “I’m fine. A little overwhelmed, maybe.”
Chloe entered, her expression toggling between concern and amusement. “William says we’re having ‘a full-service luncheon with all of your favorites,’ whatever that means. Are you good?”
Sierra exhaled, sinking onto the corner of her desk. “Just… tired.”
Chloe shut the door behind her and perched on the arm of the chair. “After last night, after everything, I get it. You don’t have to pretend, you know. We’re all in this with you.”
Sierra studied her protégé, so earnest, so uncomplicated. She envied Chloe’s ability to exist in the present. “I’m fine,” she lied.
“Sierra?”
The name hung in the air, sharp and fragile. The city outside seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower chimed noon.
And somewhere deeper, a storm gathered.