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But I stand and walk to the sink. I splash water on my face, watching as droplets trace the tired lines beneath my eyes.

This is what heartbreak looks like.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. My skin is pale. My lips pressed tight. But there’s something else, too. Something behind the exhaustion and the ache.

Determination. Steel.

I didn’t come here just to fall apart. And I won’t.

I towel off and move through the suite slowly, choosing a sleek, charcoal-gray dress from my suitcase. It hugs my body like armor. Strong. Simple. Professional.

I tie my hair into a clean low bun, slick and precise. Add a touch of mascara, just enough blush to look alive. Lipstick in a matte rose. Nothing too soft. Nothing that says “vulnerable.”

By the time I zip my heels and reach for my coat, the mask is in place. I’m Sierra Hardy. And I look composed. I look capable. Untouchable.

Half an hour later, I’m walking through the grand revolving doors of Masterpiece, one of the most exclusive restaurants in London.

The place is pure elegance—crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, tables draped in soft ivory linens, the air scented with fresh herbs and champagne.

There's a live string quartet playing in the corner, and the lighting is warm enough to feel intimate but bright enough to notice the luxury watches on every wrist, including mine.

The hostess leads me toward a corner table with a view of the river. He’s already there.

Theo Smith.

I pause for a heartbeat.

He’s younger than I expected—maybe late twenties. Tall, with broad shoulders, and the kind of confidence that doesn’t need an introduction.

He’s dressed in a navy suit that fits like it was sewn directly onto his body. His blond hair is pushed back in an artfully messy way, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut diamonds.

There are tattoos peeking out above his collar under his sleeve—just enough to make you wonder how far they go.

When he sees me, he smiles.

And God help me, it’s the kind of smile that probably gets him anything he wants in this world.

It’s confident. Playful. Lethal.

But it doesn’t melt me.

“Sierra, I presume?” he says, standing and extending a hand. His voice is rich and easy—like aged whiskey and sunlight.

I nod, slipping my hand into his. “Mr. Smith.”

“Please, Theo.” He holds my gaze for just half a second longer than necessary. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”

“Of course,” I reply smoothly. “Any excuse to come here.”

As we sit, a waiter materializes with menus, then vanishes again after a brief exchange in French. Clearly, Theo is a regular here.

“You’ve chosen the most exclusive place in London for a business meeting.” I remark, unfolding my napkin and dropping it over my lap.

Theo leans back, lips quirking. “I like to make things memorable. And I own this place, so technically, I’m having lunch at home.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You own Masterpiece?”

“I do,” he says it casually, without arrogance. “Along with every restaurant in this building and the Majestic Hotels.”