Sierra arrived home just before sunset, the soft glow of the sky casting long shadows across their expansive penthouse kitchen. She changed into a silk robe, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. Their private chef had been sent home early with strict instructions. Tonight, Sierra was cooking.
She carefully prepped Liam's favourite: braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes and rosemary-glazed carrots. The scent of red wine reduction filled the space, mingling with slow jazz playing softly in the background.
By the time Liam walked in, loosened tie and briefcase in hand, the table was set with crystal, candles, and polished silverware.
He froze at the entrance.
"Sierra?" he called out cautiously.
"In the dining room," she replied with a smooth, warm tone.
When he rounded the corner and saw her standing beside a steaming dish, her hair tied back loosely, and the table elegantly set, his brows lifted in surprise.
"You cooked?"
"Guilty," she said with a soft smile.
He chuckled, eyes widening. "You sent Gerard home?"
She nodded. "Tonight felt... personal."
He blinked, pleasantly stunned. "Well damn. I feel like royalty." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed quickly. "Kara? Yeah, no calls unless it's an emergency. I'm... busy tonight."
He ended the call and loosened his shirt. "I'll be back in five. Don't touch the food until I'm seated."
She laughed lightly. "Hurry, or it'll get cold."
Ten minutes later, Liam returned fresh from the shower, dressed in a soft black T-shirt and sweats, smelling faintly of cedar and musk. He sat across from her, picked up his fork, and took the first bite.
"Mhmmm…" he groaned. "This is so good."
Sierra smiled across the candlelight. "Thank you."
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes until Sierra glanced up. "Tell me about your day."
He launched into a detailed account of back-to-back meetings, a property bid they'd won in Atlanta, and a hilarious slip-up by one of the new interns. His eyes sparkled as he spoke, hands gesturing animatedly. He talked for nearly a minute straight.
"And that," he said, spearing another bite, "was my day. What about you?"
Sierra placed her fork down delicately and took a sip of champagne. "Oh, mine was fun."
"Okayyy," he said slowly, picking up the playful tone. "Tell me about it."
She rested her chin on her hand and gave a serene smile. "Well, I went to visit a very good friend of yours."
Liam's brow furrowed. "A good friend of mine?"
She leaned forward just a little. "Isabelle... Isabelle Hartman."
Liam's eyes widened, and he nearly choked on his water. He coughed, eyes darting across the table in panic.
"What? Wait…Sierra…how do you…"
She held up a hand, her tone calm and chilling. "Relax. I know everything. The Boston trip. The burner phone. The pregnancy."
He opened his mouth to explain, but she cut him off.
"Don't worry," she said smoothly. "I know you were drugged. You didn't cheat on me. You didn't even want to be there. And most importantly… I know the pregnancy isn't yours."
Liam blinked, stunned.
Internally, his thoughts raced: I already knew the kid wasn't mine. I just never told Isabelle I was infertile. I thought if I kept up the act, it would buy me more time to know what to do with her...
But he composed himself, feigning surprise. "What do you mean... It's not mine?"
Sierra gave a pointed look. "Let's just say, I presented her with facts and in her scattered defense, it slipped... out of her own mouth."
He looked down at his plate, guilt clawing at his chest.
"I paid her to stay quiet," he admitted softly. "I just didn't want you to find out. Not because of what happened... but because I thought it'd ruin us."
"I know," she said.
His eyes snapped to hers. "You know?"
"I do," she said, lifting her glass.
"I also told her not to call you again. Or text. Or show up anywhere near you. Because if she does, I'll make sure our lawyers file a claim for criminal harassment and stalking so fast, her fake pregnancy report will burst into flames."
His jaw slackened, and he sat back in stunned silence.
She lifted her champagne glass with an exaggerated sweetness, her smile twisting into a mockery of affection. Her tone dripped with sarcasm, eyes glinting with triumph as she said in a theatrical drawl, "To the best husband ever."
She sipped, her eyes never leaving his.
Then she rose from her chair with the elegance of a queen leaving her throne, but beneath the silk grace of her steps was a storm she refused to unleash. Her silence screamed louder than rage. Disappointment flickered behind her eyes, quiet and cold, but unmistakable. The meal had been her message. The toast had been her warning. And her retreat... her final verdict.
Liam sat frozen, staring at the untouched dessert, his conscience gnawing at him like a starving beast.
He had dodged a bullet.
But Sierra?
She had fired it… and smiled while doing it.