Chapter 59
Sienna's POV
Silver Pine Valley materialized beyond the city limits—rolling hills dotted with estates set far back from private roads. Hayes turned onto a tree-lined drive that wound upward.
His house appeared around a curve. Modern architecture in black steel and glass, angular lines softened by landscaping. Not ostentatious but deliberate. A house designed for privacy over display.
Two staff members waited on the front steps—an older woman in a maid's uniform and a middle-aged man in groundskeeper attire.
Hayes parked, came around to open my door. "This is Cindy and David."
They smiled with professional warmth. Hayes picked up my duffel, then turned to them. "From now on, I'll need you both to look after Sienna."
Something flickered across Cindy's face before she simply nodded.
I watched them step back. "Who are they?"
"Cindy is from the family estate. From elementary through high school, she took care of me."
His tone was matter-of-fact, but I'd noticed the softness in her eyes when she looked at him—the kind of gaze that came from raising a child.
"And David. He used to be my bodyguard, worked with me for over three years. Now—" He paused. "Now he handles security here, and..." His voice lowered. "Ensures your safety."
I froze. "I don't need a bodyguard."
"Not a bodyguard," Hayes corrected, his tone still calm. "Security personnel. This house needs someone responsible."
"I need to know the people taking care of you are ones I can completely trust."
The weight in that statement left me without a rebuttal.
He gestured toward the entrance. "Come on."
I followed him inside.
The interior matched the exterior—clean lines, neutral tones, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the space with light. Expensive but functional minimalist furniture. No family photos, no personal touches. Just empty elegance that felt more like a showroom than a residence.
We climbed a floating staircase to the third floor. Hayes led me to the leftmost room and pushed the door open.
I stepped inside and stopped.
This wasn't a guest room. Misty blue bedding in exactly the shade I used to favor. A reading chair positioned to catch afternoon light. Even the desk lamp was the adjustable kind I'd always preferred.
I opened the closet. Casual clothes in my size, tags still attached. Hoodies, sweatpants, soft cotton shirts. House slippers at the bottom.
"When did you..." I couldn't finish.
Hayes leaned against the doorframe. "Yesterday. After you agreed."
"The workspace will arrive next week," he continued. "Once your hand heals enough to use it."
I turned to face him. "This isn't temporary housing."
"It is if you want it to be." But something in his eyes contradicted the words. "Your choice."
I should have drawn the line clearly. Should have said no.
Instead I heard myself say, "Thank you."
Hayes's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Get settled. I'll be back for dinner."
He left, closing the door with a soft click.
I stood there, surrounded by evidence left by a man who'd spent six years remembering every detail.
---
Around three in the afternoon, a soft knock sounded at the door.
I opened it to find Cindy holding a small tray. On it sat a small dish of cut fruit and what looked like an elegant slice of tiramisu.
"Ms. Thorne." She smiled. "Mr. Sterling specifically instructed me this morning before he left to prepare some dessert for you this afternoon."
I took the tray, somewhat surprised. "He... gave instructions this morning?"
"Yes. He left a list before leaving—about your dietary preferences and precautions." Cindy's tone was gentle. "Very detailed."
She paused, a soft smile touching her eyes.
"In all these years, this is the first time I've seen him prepare these things for anyone."
My throat tightened. I carried the tray to the desk and set it down, then turned to see Cindy still standing at the door.
"Cindy," I began, my voice hesitant, "you've... taken care of him since he was very young?"
"Yes. Since he was nine." She stepped inside a few paces, her hands folding naturally in front of her. "He was in elementary school then. I took care of his daily needs."
"What was he like... back then?" I asked, then realized how desperately I wanted to know the answer.
Cindy's expression softened, her eyes taking on a reminiscent quality.
"Very mischievous." She laughed lightly. "Couldn't sit still for a moment. Always making his father and mother furious—breaking antique vases in the estate, leaving muddy footprints on the study carpet, sneaking footballs into the dining room to practice passing."
She shook her head, though her tone carried affection.
"But his talent for football was evident even then. He could practice in the yard for hours without getting tired. When he fell down, he'd get right back up and continue."
An image of Hayes stubbornly practicing passes on the lawn over and over flashed through my mind.
"And later?" I heard myself ask.
Cindy looked at me, her gaze becoming meaningful.
"What came later..." she said softly, "you should ask him yourself."
Her smile was gentle but firm.
"Some stories have more meaning when they come from his own mouth."
She moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at me.
"Ms. Thorne, Mr. Sterling will be back at six. I'll have dinner ready by the time he gets back."
Then she gently closed the door.
Remembering Cindy's words—"the first time I've seen him prepare these things for anyone."
I sat down at the desk but found myself completely unable to concentrate on the laptop screen.
---
At six exactly, I heard the front door open. Hayes's voice carried up the stairs.
A soft knock sounded. "Dinner's ready."
In the dining room, the table had been set simply. Grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. Everything soft, easy to digest.
Hayes pulled out a chair for me. I sat down, acutely aware of how domestic this all felt. After years of deliberate avoidance, I had so easily accepted his hospitality, his care, his presence in my daily life.
He sat across from me and poured water into both our glasses.
I tried cutting the chicken with my left hand. The knife slipped, hitting the plate with a clatter. Heat flooded my face.
Without a word, Hayes reached across and took my plate. His movements were efficient and practiced as he cut the meat into manageable pieces. When he slid it back, his expression remained calm.
"I'm here. You don't need to force yourself."
The simple statement landed like a physical touch.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to maintain independence, even in this small thing.
Instead I picked up my fork and took a bite.
We ate in quiet. But it wasn't uncomfortable silence—it was that familiar old quiet belonging to two people who'd once been close enough not to need constant conversation to feel connected.
When I pushed my plate away, Hayes stood and began clearing. I moved to help but he stopped me with a look.
"Doctor's orders."
"It's just a plate, Hayes."
"And you're recovering." His voice carried that familiar stubbornness. "So either sit down or go upstairs. Your choice."
I went upstairs.