Chapter 85 Luxury Getaway
The day after Sylvia’s departure unfolded in hushed tones and softened rhythms. Sundays in New York, Sierra always thought, were meant for breathing, for lazy brunches on sunlit terraces, for flipping through fashion magazines with a cappuccino, for wandering bookstores with no destination in mind. This Sunday, though, the city felt heavier, quieter. Every corner of her penthouse seemed to echo with Sylvia’s laughter, her warm cadence, the way she’d tilt her head when listening, as if each word mattered.
Sierra had helped Sylvia pack with a tenderness that surprised her. At LaGuardia, they stood just past security, bags at their feet, eyes glistening.
“I’ll come see you soon,” Sierra promised, voice catching. “A week, maybe ten days. I just need to wrap a few things up at work.”
Sylvia smiled, but it wavered at the edges. “You'd better. Don’t make me come back here and drag you out to the desert myself.”
They hugged, long and tight, the kind of embrace that lingers not because it has to, but because neither wants to be the one to let go. Sylvia pulled back first, brushing a thumb under her eye. “You’ve got this, Sierra. You know what to do and the perfect way to do it. You’re braver than you think.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into the flow of travelers, a streak of dark hair and denim swallowed by the terminal.
Back in her apartment, Sierra wandered from room to room, restless. The silence pressed in. There was a standing invitation from Julian and a conversation that needed to be had. She stared at her phone, thumb hovering over Julian’s name.
She couldn’t press the connect button.
Two days passed. On Tuesday evening, she called him.
“Is the upstate trip still on?” she asked, the words coming out softer than she intended.
There was a pause, one beat, two, and then Julian’s voice, smooth as velvet. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
The drive upstate was a gradual shedding of the city. Skyscrapers gave way to suburbs, then to open roads flanked by golden fields and forests painted in early autumn fire. The inn perched on a hillside like a secret kept by the mountains, a century-old stone estate wrapped in ivy, smoke curling from twin chimneys, horses grazing in a distant paddock.
Julian had reserved the entire east wing. “Privacy,” he said with a smirk as he guided her inside, “and discretion.”
The suite was opulence personified: a four-poster bed draped in ivory linen, a marble fireplace already crackling, crystal decanters filled with aged bourbon and single-malt Scotch. He’d even stocked her favorite herbal tea, chamomile with a hint of lavender.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured, setting her bag down.
“I wanted to,” he said simply, stepping closer. “For you.”
Dinner was served on a terrace overlooking a narrow valley with a crystalline stream winding through the bottom. A private chef, a sommelier in black tie, a string quartet playing Vivaldi beneath a canopy of stars. Julian poured her wine with deliberate grace, his fingers brushing hers just long enough to send a shiver through her.
They talked about art, about cities she’d never seen, about the startup he’d funded in Iceland that turned seawater into drinkable freshwater. He was brilliant, passionate, and radiant in his confidence. And for the first time, Sierra found herself feeling the same pull she’d felt in the Daily Grind, where she’d first met him, a pull that had been even stronger when he took her to Milan.
On Saturday morning, he surprised her with a trail ride through the woods. Not one of the groomed paths, but a raw, wind-carved route that wound through pine groves and over wooden bridges slick with moss. He had the staff pack a picnic: aged cheeses, figs, sourdough, sparkling water in crystal bottles, and they ate on a blanket beside a gurgling stream.
“I know this isn’t exactly like the ranch,” he said suddenly, his voice low. “It’s the best I could do here.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You miss the ranch when you’re in New York.”
Sierra looked up. “How do you know?”
“You light up when you talk about it,” he said. “Even when you’re trying not to.”
She exhaled, wrapping her arms around her knees. “It’s not just land. It’s history. It’s my dad. It’s the smell of pine and sage after it rains. I used to hate it. Now, for some reason, I miss it so much it aches.”
Julian was quiet. Then: “You don’t have to choose, Sierra. You can keep the ranch. As a retreat. A sanctuary. You don’t have to run it. You don’t have to live there, just visit when you feel like getting away from the rat race.”
“But someone does,” she said softly. “Cody does. And the ranch workers. They’re not employees to me — they’re family.”
He nodded slowly. “I respect that.”
She studied his profile, the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t even offering his usual alternative. And in that moment, she let herself believe he might actually understand what she was feeling.
That night, they danced in the ballroom, just the two of them, to an old jazz standard played on a grand piano by a man in a tuxedo who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. Julian held her close, one hand warm at her back, his breath soft against her temple.
“You’re exquisite,” he whispered. “Do you know that?”
She laughed, breathless. “You say that like it’s a fact.”
“Because it is.”
And she felt it, not just beautiful, but seen. Desired. Not for her connections, or her grief, or her past with Ryder, but for her. The Sierra, who loved Prada but remembered how to ride bareback. The woman who ran a billion-dollar firm but still got teary-eyed when she watched a spectacular sunset over the desert.
For the first time in months, she felt the weight on her chest lifted.
Sunday morning, they took a hot air balloon ride at dawn. The world below unfurled in ribbons of gold and crimson. Julian stood behind her, arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
“I want you to be happy,” he said quietly. “Whatever that looks like.”
Sierra closed her eyes. She wanted to tell him then, about the land he was buying in and around Kingman, the ranchers he was displacing, the future he was dismantling to build his vision of progress. She opened her mouth, ready to speak, but the words were stuck in her throat, and she closed it.
The moment passed.
Back in the city, the penthouse apartment felt surreal, too bright, too still. She dropped her bags in the foyer, kicked off her heels, and poured a glass of wine.
That’s when she saw it.
A thin manila envelope slid beneath the door. Unmarked.
Frowning, she picked it up. No name. No writing of any kind on the outside. As she carried it into the dining room, she could feel the weight of something important inside, though the envelope itself hardly weighed anything.
She pinched the metal clasps together and slipped open the flap, drawing its contents out and placing them on the dining table.
Inside was a photograph, grainy, but unmistakable. Julian, standing beside a man in a tailored pinstripe suit outside a high-rise in what looked like a building she knew in Phoenix. The man’s face was known to anyone who followed business scandals: Victor Pickens, corporate raider, destroyer of family-owned chains, the man who had gutted a historic vineyard in Napa and turned it into luxury condos.
The accompanying note was written with a Sharpie, stark black letters on crisp linen paper:
He doesn’t build. He buys. Then he destroys.
Sierra’s breath caught.
She stared at Julian’s face in the photo, not the charming, elegant face she’d seen over the weekend. Not the face of the man who was trying to win her over. The face in the photo was calculating and cold.
And suddenly, the weekend she’d just spent with the billionaire owner of Nexora didn’t feel so much like a dream.
It felt more like a trap.