Chapter 87 London
The morning light in London was a gray, reluctant thing, thin and filtered through a veil of drifting clouds that clung to the skyline like forgotten breath. Sierra stood at the window of her temporary flat in Shoreditch, a cup of lukewarm tea in hand, staring down at the cobbled streets waking beneath a drizzle that had started before dawn and showed no sign of stopping. The city smelled of damp pavement, ambition, and centuries-old stone, hardly a soothing combination, especially when compared to the sweet aromas of pine and sage after a rain. She felt unmoored, suspended between three worlds, fully belonging to none of them.
Her phone buzzed several times. She glanced at the clock. It's only 8 a.m.
The three messages were from Chloe, who was either working extremely early or had scheduled them to be sent the night before.
Meeting with Billingham Agency at 10. They’ve sent revised mock-ups. I’ve already flagged the inconsistencies. Want me to push back before you join?
Julian’s office sent a note. He’s in Dubai and expects a full update by Friday. Said he’s “investing in more than real estate these days.”
P.S. A new scarf to help prevent you from freezing to death, a coffee maker, some coffee, and a little something special from me are in a care package that should arrive today or tomorrow.
Sierra exhaled, a short, humorless laugh escaping her. Chloe was relentless in the best way, eager, precise, already stepping into her role as a junior partner with a confidence Sierra remembered from her own early days. It was both comforting and unnerving. Seeing herself in Chloe was like catching a reflection in a warped mirror, familiar, but slightly skewed.
She dressed slowly, pulling on a charcoal wool coat over a tailored cream dress. Her Christian Louboutin boots clicked against the hardwood as she packed her briefcase: files, a Moleskine filled with notes from her last call with Fitzgerald, and the photograph she couldn’t bring herself to leave behind, the one of her mom and dad leaning against the poles of the corral outside the barn, squinting into the sun. She had finally convinced herself that it belonged on her desk, wherever her desk happened to be, but hadn’t yet felt the confidence to place it on the “temporary” one she was occupying in London.
The office space Sterling, Quinn & Spencer had leased in London was sleek and modern, glass and steel on the third floor of a converted warehouse. The newly assembled team was eager and well-prepared, but their energy felt performative, like they were auditioning for a role or trying win Sierra over.
During the Billingham meeting, she smiled, nodded, asked sharp but polite questions, but her mind kept drifting: to the ranch, to Cody’s last text message, to Julian’s absence. It was quite convenient that he was never around when she finally had something important to talk about.
By midday, her inbox was overflowing. Julian had greenlit an aggressive rebranding campaign targeting European fintech startups, more of his vision than the firm’s. She stared at his name in the email chain, bold and omnipresent, and her chest tightened.
He doesn’t build. He buys. Then he destroys.
She hadn’t told anyone about the note. Not Chloe, not Fitzgerald, not even Sylvia. It felt too raw, too private, like confessing a betrayal she hadn’t yet stopped herself from enabling.
That night, she skipped dinner and walked along the Thames, the city lights shimmering in fractured lines across the water. The crowds were sparse, muffled by the rain and the hour. She thought of Ryder, how his silhouette in front of the sitting sun on a ridge felt so grounding. His calloused hands, the scent of leather and sage that seemed to linger on him wouldn’t leave her thoughts. Before, the silence between them had never been awkward, always full, and then it had become overbearing after they parted ways and she had arrived at Sage Ranch with Julian Rossi.
She missed the simplicity of it all. She missed how he looked at her. She missed being known on a deeper level.
Her phone rang.
Sylvia.
Sierra answered the call.
“Hey, Si,” Sylvia said, soft, immediate. “I could feel you spiraling from three thousand miles away.”
A tear slipped free before she could stop it.
“I’m fine, Syl,” Sierra whispered.
“You’re not. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be fine.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of rain and the distant hum of traffic.
“I keep waiting for the moment,” Sierra admitted. “The one you said would come. When I could say what needs to be said. But Julian’s never there. And when he is, I hesitate. I let the moment pass. I keep choosing… luxury, ease, and pampering.”
“And guilt,” Sylvia added gently.
“Yes,” Sierra breathed. “Guilt like a stone in my stomach.”
“I know,” Sylvia said. “You’re carrying someone else’s burden because you care. But you’re not responsible for fixing every broken system. You’re responsible for being true to who you are. That’s enough.”
Sierra closed her eyes. “Sometimes I forget who I am.”
“You’re a woman who is the master of the chaotic world of balancing two lives, who has now been handed a third. You are fierce. And you have passions that run deep, too deep, sometimes, but that’s not a flaw, Si, That’s your superpower.”
Her voice cracked. “I don’t feel very powerful. I feel… invisible and overwhelmed.”
“Then it’s time to make them see you and take the reins in your hand,” Sylvia said. “Run things like you run them on the ranch or back in Manhattan. Push back on Julian’s branding plan if it doesn’t align with the firm’s values. You don’t have to take down an empire today. Just take one step. Let people hear your voice.”
Sierra wrapped her arms around herself, allowing her tears to trail down her cheeks. “Since my mom died, I’ve been pretending I don’t need anyone. But tonight, I do. I need you.”
There was a pause, a soft, breathy sound on the other end. “I’m here, Si,” Sylvia said. “Always. And not because you need me. I’m here because I want to be here. For you. With you.”
The words settled into Sierra’s chest like embers catching flame.
They talked longer, about Sylvia’s preparations for the gala, about the absurdity of British tea, about how much they both hated small talk at networking events. Laughter slipped in, tentative at first, then full and warm.
When Sierra finally hung up, the rain had stopped. A sliver of moon peeked through the clouds.
She returned to her flat and pulled out the photograph. She left it on the nightstand, facing up. Tomorrow, I’m going to put it on my desk and take up the reins.
She opened her laptop and drafted an email, not to Julian, not to Chloe, but to the London team.
Let’s reconvene in the morning... 9ish. I’d like to reframe the narrative. Our campaign shouldn’t just sell a product. It should tell a story rooted in community, sustainability, and real connection. Let’s make it mean something.
She hit send.
Then she whispered into the quiet room, “I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.”
But just as peace began to settle, her phone lit up with a new notification.
Unknown Caller: Miss Quinn. We need to talk. It’s about Kingman.
The screen darkened. The air in the room grew still.
She thought of the envelope slipped under her door.
Sierra’s breath caught, because for the first time, the fight wasn’t waiting for her.
It was coming to her.