Page 28 of Breaking the Ice Queen
Adriana sat in the empty conference room with the coffee cups and the whiteboard and the evidence of a partnership that was supposed to be professional and was becoming personal, and she made a decision.
Professional distance. Starting now. No more personal observations. No more tracking the movement of her hands or the shift of her weight or how her laugh sounded when it arrived without warning. No more oat milk from home.
She would be cordial, cooperative, and exactly as warm as the alliance required. Nothing more.
The decision was clean, logical, and strategically sound. It was the kind Adriana Lovett had built a career on—ruthlessly in service of the best outcome.
It was also, she suspected, a decision that only worked if both parties agreed to it, and Sienna Ramirez had not been consulted.
Andrew had given it forty-eight hours.
The next forty-eight hours were an exercise in the limits of Adriana’s considerable willpower.
She arrived at the conference room at her normal early time. She did not bring oat milk. She provided only the standard kitchen coffee, black, in the firm’s white ceramic mugs. The gesture felt petty and significant in equal measure, and if Sienna noticed the downgrade she said nothing about it, which was either diplomatic or indifferent and Adriana spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to determine which.
She maintained distance. Kept to her side of the table. Did not lean in when they shared a screen. Spoke in clipped sentences. Treated every interaction with the crisp courtesy of a lawyer addressing a valued but impersonal client.
It lasted through Monday. It lasted through Tuesday. On Tuesday evening, Sienna said, “Good night, Adriana,” with a warmth that made her first name sound different than it had from anyone else’s mouth in years, and Adriana’s resolve survived the moment by the thinnest of margins.
On Wednesday, the resolve failed.
The failure arrived in the form of Sienna coming late to their session with rain in her hair and an apology on her lips and a quality of breathlessness from running up the stairs that made Adriana’s maintained distance falter, stutter, and stop functioning entirely.
“Sorry,” Sienna said, dropping her bag on the chair and pushing wet curls from her face. “Dani’s car broke down on the 5 and I had to drive her to a mechanic in Atwater Village and the rain slowed everything down.”
Rain had soaked dark patches across her shoulders, and her cheeks burned pink from cheekbones down. The curls that she usually kept loosely gathered had escaped their tie entirely and were falling around her face with the wild, rain-darkened abandon of someone who had been running and didn’t care what she looked like, which was, of course, when she looked most like herself.
Adriana looked at her across the conference table. Wet hair, flushed cheeks, loose curls falling in her eyes, and thought, with the quiet, devastating clarity of a woman who had spent forty-four years building walls and had just heard one of them crack:I am in serious trouble.
“You’re fine,” Adriana said. Her voice was steady. Her hands were steady. Her heart rate was not steady, but the heart was internal and therefore invisible and therefore, technically, nobody’s business. “Let me get you a towel.”
She went to the kitchenette. She got a hand towel from the cabinet beneath the sink. She brought it back to the conference room and held it out.
Sienna took it, and their fingers brushed in the exchange, and the contact was as brief and as devastating as it had been on Monday when Sienna’s forearm had pressed against hers over the financial records. Sienna’s fingertips were cold from the rain. Adriana’s were warm. The temperature difference lasted a fraction of a second, and Adriana carried it for the rest of the day.
“Thank you,” Sienna said, drying her curls with the towel and smiling at Adriana with a gratitude that was so open, so unprotected, so unlike anything that existed in Adriana’s world, that it made her chest ache.
“Shall we begin?” Adriana said, because beginning was the only thing she could do that didn’t involve examining what was happening behind her ribs.
Sienna sat down. She draped the towel over the back of her chair. She opened her laptop. Her damp hair curled against her neck and her cheeks were still flushed and she looked, in the conference room’s fluorescent light, like the realest thing in the room.
The distance had lasted forty-six hours. Andrew, as usual, had been approximately right.
The next morning, the oat milk was back in the conference room. Adriana did not explain its return. Sienna did not ask. The coffee cups sat in their usual positions, and the distance between them felt like both too much and not nearly enough, and Adriana had stopped pretending she didn’t know why.
11
SIENNA
The whistleblower’s name was Marcus Reed, and he called on a Thursday afternoon while Sienna was elbow-deep in financial timeline reconciliation in the Silver Lake office.
“Ms. Ramirez, my name is Marcus Reed. I was the director of financial operations at Howarth Media Group from 2016 to 2022. I’ve been following the rumors about your documentary, and I’d like to speak with you. On the record.”
Sienna sat up straight. Her hand tightened on the phone. Dani, who was across the room editing footage, looked up at the shift in Sienna’s posture and set down her headphones.
“On the record,” Sienna repeated. “Mr. Reed, can I ask why now?”
“Because I’ve spent two years trying to forget what I saw in that company.” He stopped. And then, steadier, “I can’t. Forgetting isn’t working.” His voice held as he continued, the words coming in pieces, conviction carrying even when his voice didn’t quite. “I have documentation. Internal records. Email chains, authorization signatures. I can testify to the payment structures, the shell company routing.” A pause, longer than the others. “The systematic manipulation of industry awards. On camera, with my name attached. I’m prepared for the legal consequences.”
