Chapter 95 Back Home
The private jet touched down at Farnborough Airport at 10:00 a.m. on Monday. The London sky was a washed-out gray, mirroring the storm still brewing inside Sierra’s chest. Rain tapped lightly against the windows as the wheels locked into place, the brakes hissing like a warning. The Highlands were gone. The loch, the moonlight, the quiet ache of memory, swallowed by clouds, distance, and the cold calculus of Julian’s world.
Julian didn’t move when the cabin door opened. He remained in his seat, straight-backed, a man already shifting time zones in his mind. He reached for his briefcase, sliding it onto his lap with a quiet click. Then he looked at her.
“Go home,” he said, voice lower now, almost gentle. “Rest. They won’t be expecting you in the office until tomorrow.”
She nodded, gripping her purse tighter than necessary. “And you?”
“Sri Lanka. A data center launch. One week, maybe less.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers were warm, but the gesture felt rehearsed. “Don’t overthink this.”
There it was again, the silent command beneath the caress.
She forced a smile. “I’ll try not to.”
He didn’t return it. Instead, he gave a small nod, like a king dismissing a favored subject, and turned back to his tablet.
She stepped off the plane into the damp English air, her heels clicking against the tarmac. A black Range Rover waited, engine idling, the driver in full livery bowing slightly as he opened the rear door. She slid inside, the scent of leather and ozone filling the space. The door shut with a solid thud, sealing her in.
The jet’s engines roared to life behind her.
She didn’t look back.
As the plane lifted, banking eastward over the Thames Estuary, Sierra let her head fall back against the headrest. Her breath shuddered. Her fingers trembled in her lap. She closed her eyes, but the images came anyway: her father’s grave, the fresh flowers, the note: You’re not the only one who honors the dead.
That wasn’t Julian’s style. His style was one of ownership and power, dressed up as respect.
Tears spilled over, silent and hot. She wiped them quickly, ashamed, as if the driver might see. But she couldn’t stop them. Not now. Not after everything, the gilded cage, the threats wrapped in silk, the way Julian’s eyes had darkened when she challenged him, like she’d scratched the surface of something vast and ugly beneath.
She wasn’t loved. She was being managed.
The car wove through London’s gray streets, past cafes and boutique shops, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the overcast sky. Shoreditch was alive with energy, street art, pop-up markets, the hum of espresso machines, and indie bands, but as the car pulled up to her flat, a converted warehouse with exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows, the world seemed to shrink.
She climbed the stairs slowly, keys in hand, heart thudding.
The door opened under her hand.
She flicked on the lights.
Sierra froze in the doorway.
There, seated at her dining table as if he belonged, was the Scotsman.
He wore a dark wool coat, collar turned up, a travel mug in one hand. His hair was still that unruly russet wave, his face weathered but sharp. He looked at her with eyes that had seen too much and revealed nothing.
Without warning, the dam broke.
She dropped her bag, shoulders shaking, tears coming in earnest now. “I can’t—I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered, voice cracking. “He knows. He knows everything.”
“There’s no need for all of that,” the Scotsman said, calm, almost amused. He stood, walked to the kitchen, and poured her a glass of water. “Sit down. Breathe.”
She obeyed, sinking into a chair, gripping the glass like a lifeline.
“I thought you were one of them,” she said. “One of Julian’s people.”
“And if I were,” he replied, “would I be here alone? Unarmed? In your kitchen?”
She looked at him. Really looked.
No, he wasn’t Julian’s man. He was something else entirely.
“You’ve been watching me,” she said.
“I’ve been guiding you,” he corrected. “You’re doing well, Sierra. Better than expected. You’re not just playing the part, you’re surviving it. That takes strength.”
She wiped her face. “I altered the London rollout. I changed Julian’s plan.”
He nodded slowly. “I know. And it was the right call. The firm wasn’t built to be bulldozed. Sterling, Quinn & Spencer has its own DNA. You’re protecting it.”
“But Julian…”
“...doesn’t own the firm. Not yet. And he doesn’t own you.” He paused. “But he thinks he does. And that’s dangerous.”
She took a breath. “Someone is spying on me. Jonathan Hale, he’s on the London marketing team. He reports to Julian directly. He’s been feeding him information. I know it.”
The Scotsman tilted his head. “Hale? Yes, he’s ambitious. But he’s not our concern. He’s Julian’s yes-man, not a deep operative. We’ve already accounted for him.”
“Then who sent the texts?” she asked, leaning forward. “From the unknown number. He knows about the call. And the photo from my father’s grave. The flowers. That wasn’t you?”
The Scotsman’s expression shifted. Not anger. Not fear. Concern.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t send those.”
Silence fell.
“That means,” she whispered, “someone else is tracking me. Someone you don’t know about.”
He didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes confirmed it.
“I received a call,” she said, voice low. “From Ryder. I was alone when we talked.”
“And you told no one?”
“No.”
“You are certain that Ryder is not working with Julian?”
“Absolutely sure!” Her response came out with greater force than she’d intended. In a calmer voice. “Ryder hates him.”
He exhaled, slowly. “Then someone tapped your phone. Or your network. Or they have access to Nexora’s surveillance infrastructure. Julian’s been building a quiet empire, not just land, not just companies. Data. Access. And if he’s monitoring that call…”
“He knows about Ryder,” she finished. “They met at the ranch when my father died.”
The Scotsman stood. “I’ll look into it. But for now, you need to stay the course. Don’t confront Julian. Don’t run. And don’t cut ties. The ranch is still safe, for now. But if he thinks you’re resisting, if he feels threatened…”
“He’ll burn it,” she said.
“Yes.”
He reached into his coat and placed a small, unmarked SIM card on the table. “If you need to call me, really need to. One use. Then destroy it.”
She stared at it. “That’s it? No answers? No protection?”
“You want answers?” he asked. “Then keep playing the part. Keep him close. The truth isn’t found by running. It’s found by watching.”
And just like that, he was gone, out the door, down the stairs, vanishing into the London drizzle.
Sierra sat alone.
The flat was quiet.
Too quiet.
She picked up her phone, the same phone she’d used to call Ryder. She stared at it. At the sleek, polished screen. The camera lenses. The charging port.
Could someone have planted a bug? A tracker? A backdoor in the software?
Her fingers hovered over the settings, but she didn’t even know where to begin. Factory reset? Would that erase a hardware implant? What if the phone itself was compromised?
Why hadn’t she asked the Scotsman when he was here? She could have handed him the phone, had him check it. But she hadn’t. She’d been too shaken, too desperate for comfort.
Now, regret coiled in her gut.
She walked to the window and looked down at the street. No one lingered. No cars idled. But that meant nothing.
Julian had eyes everywhere.
And if someone was watching her, tracking her using her phone, then every message, every call, every breath she took in this flat was being recorded.
Her hands clenched.
She stood in the silence, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down.
A stubbornness, probably inherited from her father, but equally possible from her mother, surged inside her. Let him watch. Let him track her.
And he did not control her schedule. She was going into the office this afternoon.