The morning after the dinner party, Sierra woke to an empty side of the bed and the scent of Liam's cologne still lingering on his pillow. He was already gone. Probably at the gym or catching a sunrise call with investors. He was always two steps ahead, strategic, calm, and unreachable when he needed to be.
But now, she was catching up.
She lay in bed for a moment longer, her mind racing. Isabelle. The bracelet. The burner phone. And now the message: I'm late.
Liam had secrets. And Sierra was going to expose them, layer by layer.
Downstairs in her home office, she reviewed the photos she'd taken from the burner phone. Every word, every timestamp, every desperate plea from Isabelle. There was something off about the woman's tone. Too needy. Too emotional. It didn't feel like someone who was in a healthy relationship.
Was Isabelle a gold digger?
There was only one way to find out.
She opened a new browser tab and began to search.
"Boston tech conference keynote speakers."
"Beacon Plaza business events."
She cross-referenced names, dates, and locations. It took two hours before she found something useful. An image. Liam, standing with a woman at a networking mixer. She was tall, brunette, and too close to him for Sierra's comfort. The caption read: Isabelle Hartman, CTO of NovaTech.
She clicked on the woman's LinkedIn profile. There she was, perfect hair, icy blue eyes, degrees from Stanford, CEO endorsements, and thousands of followers.
Sierra's lips tightened.
So she wasn't just a random woman. She was powerful. Ambitious. Dangerous.
And probably unhinged.
By noon, Sierra had called her assistant to cancel her meetings. Instead, she sat across from a private investigator in a quiet café downtown with dark Prada shades over her eyes. The man was sharp-eyed and discreet, recommended by a friend of Mila's.
"I need to know everything about Isabelle Hartman," she said, sliding a photo and printed messages across the table. "Where she lives. What she does. If she's really pregnant. And how she met my husband."
The investigator gave a slow nod. "How soon do you need the report?"
"Yesterday," Sierra answered.
He took the envelope and stood. "You'll hear from me soon."
That evening, Liam returned home early. He greeted her with a kiss, a glass of wine, and a casual, "How was your day?"
"Productive," she said, smiling faintly.
They sat across from each other at the dinner table, eating grilled salmon and roasted vegetables. Sierra studied him in the candlelight: his easy posture, the faint crease between his brows, the way he avoided prolonged eye contact.
Was he hiding guilt or just tired?
"Remember that Boston trip?" she asked casually, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
He looked up quickly. "Yeah. Why?"
"Did you meet anyone interesting?"
Liam hesitated a beat too long. "A few potential investors. Why?"
Sierra tilted her head, eyes unreadable. "No reason. Just curious."
She didn't press. Not yet. She wanted to see how far he would go to lie.
After dinner, he reached for her hand.
"You've been quiet lately. Everything okay between us?"
Sierra smiled gently. "Of course. Just... thinking a lot. About where we're going. The next chapter."
Liam nodded. "We've built something incredible, Si. You and me, we've weathered everything. We'll get through this too."
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she leaned back and studied his face for a long moment. "You're right. We've been through so much. But sometimes, I wonder if we really know each other anymore."
He frowned slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know," she murmured, standing and collecting the dishes. "Maybe we've just grown so used to performing, we forgot how to be real."
Liam stood and followed her to the kitchen. "Si, if something's bothering you, talk to me."
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Nothing's wrong, babe."
They stood like that for a moment, silence swelling between them. Then, like a retreat, Liam kissed her forehead and said, "Let's just get some sleep."
She nodded. "You go ahead. I'll finish up here."
Later that night, Sierra sat in her home office, the lights low, fingers gliding across the keyboard. She opened a new document.
SUBJECT: ISABELLE HARTMAN — INVESTIGATION FILE
She pasted the screenshots. Added her own notes. Compiled timelines. This wasn't just suspicion anymore. It was evidence. And she intended to collect every piece.
Her phone buzzed just as she was closing her laptop.
Unknown Number:He'll never leave me, Sierra. He told me you'd never understand.
Her stomach twisted.
Isabelle had her number.
And now, it was war.