The following morning was quieter than Siena expected.
She had anticipated chaos—calls from legal teams, investors knocking down her phone, journalists begging for statements—but instead, there was a strange, tense calm. Like everyone was holding their breath.
She stood in the kitchen of her penthouse, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in both hands. Alexander was seated at the breakfast bar, eyes on his phone, scrolling silently through updates. Neither of them had said much since waking up.
Siena finally broke the silence.
"You'd think the media would be louder about Trent's arrest."
Alexander looked up, blinking. "It's being contained. Reeve said they're trying to keep the bigger pieces under wraps until they get enough to file full charges."
She nodded slowly, but her chest still felt tight. "And what about Withers?"
"No leads yet." He set his phone down. "Reeve said it's like he vanished."
Siena sank onto the stool beside him. "He wouldn't just disappear without help. Someone's protecting him."
"Yeah," Alexander said. "Or someone's silencing him."
The implication sat heavily between them.
Siena stared at the countertop. "I can't shake the feeling that my father's death wasn't just bad timing. That he was... in the way."
Alexander didn't rush to respond. Instead, he reached out and gently rested a hand over hers.
"It's okay to say it out loud."
Siena's throat tightened. "I think he was killed."
The words came out so quietly, that she barely recognized her voice. But once she said them, she couldn't un-say them. And she didn't want to.
"I think whoever's behind all this—Withers, W.H., whoever they are—I think they wanted Hartline. And when my dad didn't play along, they found another way."
Alexander nodded slowly. "That memo about the Blackwood-Hartline merger wasn't just business. It was a plan."
Siena looked at him. "Your family knew about it?"
"No," he said quickly. "I asked around. My father might've known something—he was always chasing control. But I was just a junior exec back then. I didn't even know Hartline existed outside media coverage."
She let out a slow breath. "It's just… a lot."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "But you're not alone in this."
She offered a faint smile. "You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
---
Later that afternoon, Siena sat across from Waverly in her office. The room was dimly lit, the blinds drawn to keep the press from peering in.
"We need to be ready for the board," Waverly said. "They'll want answers. A clear strategy."
Siena nodded. "They'll want blood, too."
"They're already drafting a statement distancing Hartline from Trent. They want to protect the brand."
"Let them. But we don't bury the truth," Siena said firmly. "We're going to clean house. Publicly."
Waverly leaned back, studying her. "You sure?"
"No more secrets," Siena said. "Not in this company. Not in my father's name."
There was a pause.
Then Waverly said, "Alright. Then we start from the top. We go through every document Withers touched. Every agreement Trent signed. We vet everything."
Siena nodded. "And we find the money trail that leads to W.H."
---
That night, Alexander took Siena to a quiet Italian restaurant tucked in a corner of the city far from the bustle of downtown. No suits, no reporters—just warm lighting, rustic decor, and the smell of garlic and wine.
She looked exhausted, but her shoulders relaxed a little as soon as they sat down.
"You know," she said, swirling the red wine in her glass, "I used to come here with my dad."
Alexander glanced up. "Really?"
She nodded. "He loved their lasagna. Said it reminded him of his college days in Rome."
He smiled. "You ever think about those kinds of things more now? The little memories?"
"All the time," she whispered. "It's like I'm trying to hold on to the pieces of him that no one else knew."
Alexander reached across the table and took her hand. "You're not losing him, Siena. He's in you."
Her eyes glistened. "I know. But sometimes I still wish he was here. I wish I could ask him who to trust. What to do."
Alexander didn't try to fix it. He didn't throw out empty comfort. He just squeezed her hand and let the silence be safe.
They ate slowly. Talked about everything but business. Laughed over silly things, like how Alexander still couldn't cook anything more complex than toast. How Siena had once set fire to her high school chemistry lab by accident.
It was normal. For the first time in days, it was just the two of them. No accusations. No heavy truths. Just... warmth.
---
After dinner, they walked the streets, the city's night air wrapping around them. They didn't speak much, but Siena found herself leaning into Alexander, his arm around her shoulders steady and grounding.
"Do you ever get scared?" she asked suddenly.
He glanced down. "Of what?"
"Of how close we're getting again. Of all the mess between us."
He slowed, stopping under a streetlamp. "I think fear's part of the deal."
Siena looked up at him. "So you're afraid too?"
He hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. I'm afraid of losing you again. Of saying the wrong thing. Of not being enough."
She smiled sadly. "That's a lot to carry."
"So is what you're carrying," he said gently. "But I'd rather carry it with you than without you."
For a moment, she just stood there, heart aching with something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time—hope.
She leaned in, and he kissed her slowly, like they had time, like the world wasn't chasing them.
And for that one moment, maybe it wasn't.
---
Back at the penthouse, Siena changed into one of his old t-shirts—something she'd slipped into without thinking, but now noticed he was watching her with an unreadable expression.
"What?" she asked, tugging it down her thigh.
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You look good in that."
She smirked. "Better than you?"
"Absolutely."
She laughed softly, and the sound made his chest feel lighter.
Then her expression sobered.
"There's something I haven't told you."
He straightened, sensing the shift in her tone. "Okay."
She hesitated. "I kept a folder. After my father died. A private one. I didn't want it in Hartline's system."
Alexander waited.
She went to her room and came back holding a slim black binder. When she handed it to him, he saw the handwriting immediately.
J. Hart – Private Notes.
He opened it slowly.
Pages of scribbled thoughts. Loose financial observations. Warnings. Notes about people he didn't recognize—and some he did. Including Withers.
Siena sat down beside him. "My dad knew something was wrong. He just didn't know how big it was."
Alexander flipped through, stopping on a page labeled "Future Risks."
Underlined, bold:
> "If anything happens to me, do not trust Withers. He knows too much. He talks to people who don't show their faces."
Alexander looked at her. "This changes everything."
"I know," she whispered. "And I've been too scared to use it. Because if it got out…"
He closed the folder gently. "We'll use it the right way. Carefully. Strategically."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm just so tired."
"I know," he said, wrapping an arm around her. "But we're getting closer. We're going to finish this."
Together.
---
The next morning, Siena woke up to an alert on her phone.
A message from Reeve:
> "Found something. Urgent. Meet me at 10."
She didn't wake Alexander. Instead, she wrote a note, left it by his pillow, and slipped out quietly.
---
Reeve met her outside an old office building in the industrial district—quiet, half the windows boarded up. He held out a flash drive.
"Security footage from a storage facility ten miles out. Withers was there two nights ago."
Her heart thudded.
"Still there?"
"Don't know. But he rented Unit 407 under a fake name. We traced the payments to an offshore account—the same one W.H. used in the shell transfers."
Siena clenched her fists. "We have him."
"We might," Reeve warned. "But if he knows we're coming…"
"He'll disappear again," Siena finished.
Reeve nodded.
She stared at the building.
It was time.