The morning after the press conference felt different.
For the first time in weeks, Siena didn't wake up to headlines steeped in scandal or photos taken out of context. Instead, they called her brave.
"Siena Hart Speaks Truth to Power."
"Hartline CEO Faces Fire, Doesn't Flinch."
"Grace in the Storm: A Leader's Stand."
They wouldn't last forever—she knew the media was fickle—but just for today, it felt like a win. A small one. A quiet breath.
She sat at her dining table in a worn T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, laptop open, a half-full mug of coffee cooling beside her. Notifications buzzed non-stop—messages from former mentors, distant college acquaintances, and supportive investors.
But one message made her still.
Unknown Number: You're stronger than I expected. But don't forget who gave you your first win. You still owe me more than you think.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. The tone, the audacity—it had to be Trent. The man was always a shadow, lurking, threatening, waiting for her to fall apart.
Siena's jaw tensed. Without responding, she deleted the message and turned her phone face down.
---
At Knight & Company, Alexander stood in the strategy room, half-focused as his legal team updated him on the status of their case against Dorian Gray. New leads. Financial trails. Witnesses willing to talk. The puzzle was forming.
But his mind wasn't in that room.
It was still on Siena.
He'd watched the press conference again that morning. No PR team. No rehearsed script. Just her—vulnerable, bold, real.
She'd gone up against public perception with nothing but her voice, and it had worked.
He tapped his knuckles once on the table and stood. "Keep the updates coming. Email me a full summary by noon."
His assistant blinked. "Do you have a meeting, sir?"
"Yes. But not here."
---
Siena wasn't expecting company, especially not in her pajamas with her hair in a messy knot and half a piece of toast still on her plate.
But when the doorbell rang, she opened it to find Alexander standing there, dressed down in a grey sweater and jeans, holding a bag from her favorite local café.
"I brought real coffee. And a breakfast that doesn't taste like cardboard," he said.
She blinked. "You know, if you keep doing things like this, I might start depending on you."
"That's kind of the point." He stepped inside.
They sat on the couch, ignoring the food for a while, just sipping coffee in companionable silence. Siena looked tired, but lighter—like something heavy had shifted.
"You were incredible yesterday," he said eventually. "But I hate that it had to come to that."
"I know."
"People only call it bravery when someone survives something they shouldn't have had to face."
She looked down at her cup. "You always say what I didn't know I needed to hear."
"That's because I see you. Not the headlines. Not the guarded version you show people. The real you."
She set the cup aside and turned to him. "What do you see?"
Alexander met her gaze, steady and unflinching.
"I see a woman who's been broken but rebuilt herself stronger. Someone who gives even when everything in her life says she should stop. Someone is scared sometimes… but never lets that fear decide for her. I see a leader, a survivor… and the girl who still believes love doesn't have to be a weakness."
Her throat tightened. "You always say too much."
"You always need more."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if Trent doesn't stop?"
"Then we won't either," he said gently. "We'll keep going until there's nowhere left for him to hide."
"And if he drags me down?"
"Then I'll go down with you."
She didn't answer, but she didn't pull away either. The silence that settled wasn't heavy. It was full—of trust, of something growing.
---
That afternoon, Siena stood in the Hartline boardroom, flanked by Waverly and three members of the board. Lydia, seated across from her, held the newest report in hand.
"These are the financial records connected to Trent's latest claims," Siena said. "The digital copies he referenced have been tampered with."
"Tampered how?" asked Mr. Dale, head of financial oversight, furrowing his brow.
"The original ledgers show standard, cleared transactions," Waverly added, passing around Siena's backup copies. "But the files submitted to the regulators show inflated amounts, false recipient codes, and approval trails that don't exist."
"If I hadn't archived physical backups from the quarter," Siena said, "we'd have had no way to disprove it."
Lydia flipped through the papers. "You're sure about these?"
"I triple-checked. We're initiating an internal and third-party forensic audit starting tomorrow."
Waverly nodded. "We've already hired Riden & Finch. Neutral. Highly recommended."
"And Trent?" Lydia asked.
Siena's expression didn't flinch. "He's no longer a story I'm reacting to. From now on, I'm taking the lead. If he files another suit, we counter. If he lies again, we bring the truth forward first."
Mr. Dale nodded slowly. "That's a bold move, Siena."
"It's the only one left," she replied. "I'm not letting him rewrite my story."
Lydia smiled faintly. "That's the CEO we backed."
Siena inclined her head. "Thank you for still backing her."
---
That evening, Siena walked alone through her childhood neighborhood.
No drivers. No guards. Just her hoodie pulled low and the pavement she'd grown up with—cracked, familiar, scarred in places like she was.
She passed the closed corner store where her mother once worked weekend shifts.
The tiny public library where she'd spent afternoons studying under flickering lights.
The rooftop of the old apartment building where she'd once promised herself she'd make something out of nothing.
And somehow, she had.
Her phone rang.
She answered without checking. She already knew who it was.
"Hey," Alexander's voice said softly. "Just calling to say goodnight."
She smiled faintly. "Are we doing goodnight calls now?"
"I like ending the day with your voice. Helps me sleep better."
She slowed her steps. "Today was heavy. But I got through it. I'm learning that survival isn't always loud. Sometimes it's just… not giving up."
"You didn't just survive," he said. "You made people listen."
She stopped under the streetlight, eyes on the dim outline of her old apartment building. "So did you."
There was a pause on the other end. Then he said it, quiet and sure.
"I love you, Siena."
She closed her eyes. The wind brushed her cheek. Her heart didn't race—it settled.
"You don't have to say it back," he added. "I just needed you to know. Whether we're in a boardroom or at war… I love you in all of it."
Her voice was low. "And I believe you."
A soft laugh. "Progress."
She smiled. "Goodnight, Alexander."
"Goodnight, Siena."