Chapter 39
Sienna's POV
I stood near the entrance, rooted in place. I'd just watched Hayes dismantle a potential PR crisis in under five minutes with the precision of a sniper. No panic. No hesitation. Just cold, calculated resource deployment.
This was the version of Hayes I'd never seen in high school—the one who'd learned exactly how power worked in this world, and how to wield it without flinching.
And he'd just used all of it to protect me.
To protect us.
Hayes tossed his phone onto the couch with a dull thud.
The living room suddenly felt very quiet—just the low hum of the air conditioning, our breathing, and the cold light from the streetlamps outside casting blurred shadows on the floor.
I stood there, suddenly aware of an awkward reality.
I was wearing pajamas and slippers, and I'd just barged into Hayes's private space.
Worse, I had no idea what to say, what to do, or even whether I should leave.
I reflexively tightened my cardigan around me, trying to mask my inner panic with the gesture.
Hayes slowly turned around, his back to the windows, standing in silhouette. Because of the dim lighting, I couldn't see his expression clearly—just the outline of his form.
The silence lasted about ten seconds, but it felt like ten minutes to us.
"Are you worried the photos going public will affect our working relationship?" His voice was low, carrying some suppressed emotion.
I answered defensively, "Yes."
Hayes took two steps forward, closing the distance to less than two meters.
"Is that really all?"
His tone wasn't questioning—it was a statement. He'd already read the answer from my reaction.
He took another step forward. The shift in lighting finally let me see his expression—his gaze sharp as a scalpel, peeling away my disguise layer by layer.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice, but a tremor still escaped. "You're not an ordinary person now. These things... they're trouble for both you and me."
Hayes listened, then suddenly smiled.
Not a mocking smile.
He leaned against the kitchen counter, hands braced on the surface, head slightly lowered, his voice soft but every word clear.
"What if we hadn't broken up?"
My breathing stopped for a visible moment.
Hayes lifted his head, looking directly into my eyes. "If we were still what we used to be..."
He paused for three seconds, as if giving me time to prepare.
"Would you mind going public?"
The devastation of this question lay in the fact that—it wasn't discussing reality, but constructing a hypothetical parallel universe. In that universe, we hadn't broken up, there was no six-year gap, we were still the most important people in each other's lives.
It forced me to face a truth I'd been avoiding: What I minded was never "going public" itself, but "not being able to stand beside him anymore."
He was using a hypothetical to tell me: if he could, he'd be willing to go public, he didn't care about outside opinions, he only cared about my attitude.
I stood there, my lips moved, but no words came out.
My brain was racing, trying to find a "safe" answer. But every answer felt like a landmine.
Hayes watched me, his gaze shifting from probing to confirmation, finally settling on something complex.
I instinctively took half a step back.
Hayes didn't press closer.
His voice took on a professional distance again. "Don't worry. They'll handle it."
A pause.
"See you at the facility tomorrow."
The cruelty of this sentence was that—he used the coldest professional tone to end the emotional confrontation that had nearly spiraled out of control.
He was telling me: We still have to maintain the surface relationship. Everything that just happened didn't happen.
I nodded, my voice dry. "...Okay."
I turned toward the door, my movements stiff, as if afraid that moving too slowly would make me fall apart.
The moment my hand touched the doorknob, I instinctively looked back—
Hayes was still standing in the same spot, unmoved.
In the backlighting, I couldn't see his expression clearly, but I could feel he'd been watching me—that gaze so heavy I could barely breathe.
I pulled the door open hard, walked out, then closed it gently.
The door clicked shut.
Only I remained in the hallway.
I leaned against my own apartment door.
Hayes's words echoed in my mind: "If we were still what we used to be, would you mind going public?"
I didn't know the answer.
Or rather, I knew the answer, but I couldn't say it out loud.
---
When I returned to K&C over the weekend and pushed open the door, the familiar cacophony hit me before I'd fully crossed the threshold. The grinding whine of the rotary tool, the sharp hiss of the heat gun, laughter bouncing off the exposed brick walls. It felt like stepping into a different world—one where I wasn't constantly bracing for emotional landmines.
"Holy shit!" Reina's voice cut through the noise. She looked up from her laptop, eyes widening in mock horror. "She lives! Guys, our leader actually remembered she owns a business!"
A chorus of jeers rose from the workbenches. José spun around on his stool with a grin. "We were about to file a missing persons report. Thought some big shot had kidnapped you."
Heat crept up my neck. I dropped my bag by the door and raised both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, okay? I know I've been MIA. Thank you for holding down the fort."
The teasing faded into something warmer. Reina stood, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "We've actually been killing it. Come see."
I followed her deeper into the studio, and the transformation was immediate. The space felt alive in a way it hadn't in months. Gone was the anxious, desperate energy that had clung to these walls when every unpaid invoice felt like a death sentence. Now there was focus. Purpose. Two brand-new machines gleamed in the corner.
"You upgraded the equipment," I said, running my fingers along the heat press's control panel.
"Had to," Reina replied, pulling up a spreadsheet on her tablet. "With the cash flow from those orders, I figured we should actually invest in not killing ourselves. The old heat press was held together by prayers and duct tape." She swiped through rows of numbers. "I also pushed through those employee benefits you kept putting off. Nothing crazy—health stipends, performance bonuses, paid sick days. But it's made a difference. Morale's way up."
I scanned the workshop. She was right. The apprentices weren't moving with that defeated shuffle anymore. Even the messy corner where we tested prototypes looked organized, purposeful. Someone had mounted a new pegboard and labeled all the tools.
Guilt twisted in my chest. "You did all this while I was gone."
"That's literally my job, Sienna." Reina's tone was matter-of-fact, but her smile was genuine. "You focus on the big-picture stuff—the designs, the impossible deadlines. I keep the machine running. Division of labor."
"Still," I insisted, meeting her eyes. "I dumped a lot on you. These past two weeks couldn't have been easy."
She shrugged, closing the tablet. "Honestly? It was easier than the months before. Having actual money in the account, real orders coming in, suppliers not hanging up on us—that's a fucking game-changer. You did the hard part. I just kept the lights on." She paused, her expression softening. "But you need to take care of yourself too, alright? You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." The word was gentle, almost affectionate. "But I'll let it slide. Just promise me you'll actually rest when you get the chance."
I nodded. Before I could say anything else, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting another supplier confirmation or a question from Byron about training schedules.
Instead, the screen showed an unknown number.