Chapter 5

Sienna's POV

The morning after the yacht party, I sat in my Lumina Lodge office staring at supplier invoices on my computer screen. Numbers jumped before my eyes, but I couldn't focus on a single one.

My mind replayed last night's scenes on loop—Ethan's icy "Ms,Whitmore." Remembering Ethan's wet fingers. Victoria's saccharine mockery, and worst of all: that moment when he publicly claimed to be my silent partner, binding us together with a lie I couldn't refute without destroying my own credibility.

My phone lit up. Margot's message: Coming over now. Have a great opportunity to discuss—someone I want you to meet.

I typed back a noncommittal "okay," my stomach tightening. Margot's "opportunities" inevitably meant social entanglements that would pull me back into the Vance family orbit, back to the humiliation I'd spent two and a half years escaping.

At eleven, Margot swept into the sitting room carrying two lattes, her red hair catching the autumn light. She studied me with a prosecutor's assessment, eyes narrowing at the shadows beneath my eyes that no concealer could hide.

"You look terrible," she said bluntly, settling into the leather chair across from me. "What happened last night? I heard Victoria Ashford made a scene, and that Ethan—" She paused, her gaze sharpening. "Ethan defended you in front of half the development authority board?"

I sipped my coffee, the scalding liquid buying me time. "Victoria made pointed comments about Lumina's finances," I kept my voice even. "Ethan corrected some misconceptions. Standard professional courtesy."

The lie tasted worse than the too-hot coffee, but I forced myself to maintain the mask I'd worn for two and a half years.

Margot leaned forward, her expression shifting from interrogation to genuine concern. "Sienna, we grew up together. I know what you look like when you're lying to protect yourself. And I know—" She hesitated. "I know there's history between you and Ethan that you've never talked about."

Her warmth cracked my carefully constructed defenses. I looked away toward the fog-shrouded lake. "There's nothing to tell," I managed, my voice rougher than intended. "Ethan and I are business acquaintances. Whatever you think you saw was just professional networking gone awkward."

I forced myself to meet her eyes again. "What's this opportunity you mentioned?"

Margot studied me, clearly debating whether to push. Finally she sighed. "Fine. I want to introduce you to someone who might help with the Heart Island project. Nathaniel Reid—my cousin, Deputy Director of the Lake Aurelia District Development Authority."

She looked up, expression shrewd. "There's a small dinner tonight. He'll be there. I think you should come, not just for the project—" She paused. "Sienna, you need to start a new life. Whoever made you run to Seattle, you can't live in the past's shadow forever."

"I won't see that person again," the words escaped before I could stop them, more definitive than I'd intended.

The air froze.

"That person," Margot repeated slowly.

Before I could answer, footsteps sounded outside. Jodie's voice carried from reception, pitched with professional neutrality barely concealing surprise: "Of course, Mr. Vance. I'll let Ms. Whitmore know you're here."

The office went silent.

I watched Margot's eyebrows rise.

"Vance," she said slowly.

"Just a business call," I stood, smoothing my sweater, arranging my expression despite my racing heart. "He mentioned looking at investment opportunities in the area. Probably preliminary."

I walked out before Margot could ask more.

Ethan stood in Lumina's sitting room with that particular stillness that reminded me of storm systems—the calm before, not after. He wore a charcoal overcoat over a black turtleneck, hands in pockets, studying the pine beam ceiling with neutral assessment I didn't believe for a second.

Then I saw it—pinned to his lapel, a small piece of driftwood set in clear resin, no larger than a thumbnail. I'd made it years ago as a joke, a pair to the keychain—so we match, I'd said, laughing. I'd assumed he'd lost it somewhere in San Francisco's chaos, in our last impossible year together.

He hadn't lost it.

I froze. He turned. Our eyes met, and everything else receded.

Then I breathed.

"Mr. Vance," I approached, hand extended, professional. "I wasn't expecting you this morning."

He took my hand, held it a beat too long, released it. "I had a gap in my schedule." His voice carried that measured quality—unhurried, slightly too quiet. "Thought a site visit made sense before formal discussion."

"Of course," I gestured toward the lounge. "Can I have someone bring coffee?"

"I'm fine."

I led him through, acutely aware of Margot appearing in the office doorway with an expression that promised later interrogation.

The lounge was empty—windows overlooking the mist-covered lake, two sofas around a stone fireplace I'd repointed myself over three weekends. Ethan walked to the window, stood looking out, and the posture was so familiar I had to look away.

"The financial picture is worse than public filings suggest," he said without turning.

"Standard practice for small operators. We carry strategic debt."

"Two million isn't strategic. It's structural." He turned, face carefully composed. "Without cash injection before Q1, you're looking at forced sale."

I kept my expression level. "You've done due diligence."

"Standard preliminary assessment." A pause. "You built something real here. The satisfaction numbers are legitimate. The repeat booking rate is exceptional."

I waited.

"I'm prepared to discuss investment structure," he said. "But it requires time on-site. Proper evaluation."

The words left little room for misinterpretation. I studied him—the resin pin, the careful neutrality, the fact that he was here at all.

"How long?" I asked.

"A few days. Possibly a week." He said it lightly, as if merely suggesting.

"I don't have a suite available—" I began.

"You have the Ridgeline room. East corridor. Unbooked for six days." He said it without inflection. "I checked."

Of course he had.

Margot appeared in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to say goodbye before heading back." Her eyes moved between us, measuring. "You must be Ethan Vance. I'm Margot —Sienna's cousin. We've met at the Vance estate. Your mother sends lovely Christmas cards."

Ethan's expression shifted fractionally. " Of course." A beat. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thank you." Margot smiled pleasantly. She kissed my cheek, held my arm, whispered near my ear: "Call me tonight. Not a request."

Then she was gone, and the lounge was quiet.

I looked at Ethan. He was watching the doorway with an unreadable expression.

"She knows," he said. Not a question.

"She suspects," I crossed to the window, putting the sofa between us. "She's a prosecutor. She suspects everything." I turned to face him fully. "If you're staying here, we need to be clear. You're a prospective investor conducting evaluation. I'm the property owner. Everything else—" I held his gaze, "—stays where it belongs."

He looked at me for a long moment. His hand moved almost involuntarily to the lapel pin—thumb against resin—before dropping back.

"Agreed," he said.

I nodded, turned to call for Jodie, telling myself the movement in my chest was nothing more than the manageable ache of a wound mostly healed.

My phone buzzed. Eleanor Vance calling.

I let it ring twice, smoothed my expression, and answered.

"Sienna, it's Eleanor. I heard my son is at your property?"

"Yes, Mrs. Vance. He's here to discuss potential investment."

"How convenient." Her voice carried ice. "I have a matter that requires your services. My goddaughter Victoria's birthday is next week. I'd like to host her celebration at your lodge."

"Certainly, Mrs. Vance," I kept my voice professional. "How many guests? What arrangements?"

"Fifty people. The best of everything." She paused. "Victoria is very special. Ethan values her greatly."

Every word was a territorial marker.

"I understand. We'll provide excellent service."

"Good. And Sienna—" Her voice turned colder. "I trust you remember your place. Some paths aren't meant for you to walk."

The call ended.

I collapsed into my chair feeling encircled by malice on every front.

The truth had finally dawned on me.

This wasn't coincidence.

This was a carefully orchestrated hunt.