Vows of Vengeance

Chapter 4:Safety Cone-Chic

​Sienna

​I woke up the next morning to the sound of industrial drills and heavy boots. Julian wasn’t kidding. He had actually brought a Vane Construction crew into the penthouse at 7:00 AM.

​I threw on my black silk robe and marched toward the master suite’s walk-in closet, Maria trailing behind me with a protective canister of espresso.

​"Sienna, brace yourself," Maria whispered. "I caught a glimpse of the paint cans. It’s... aggressive."

​I pushed past the plastic dust sheets and stopped dead.

​The walk-in closet—my sanctuary, my cathedral of couture—was no longer pearl white. It was orange. Not a soft apricot or a sunset peach. It was Safety-Cone Orange. It was the color of a highway detour. It was so bright it felt like it was humming.

​Julian was standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Two workers were packing up their brushes, looking terrified to meet my eyes.

​"Orange is the new black, remember?" Julian smirked, gesturing to the glowing walls. "I thought a Construction King and a Fashion Queen should have a space that represents both. Do you hate it? Because we can always go brighter."

​I felt the urge to scream, but I suppressed it. I let my eyes trail over the walls with the slow, analytical gaze I used when judging a runway show. I walked over to one of the shelves, ran a finger along the wet paint, and then looked at Julian with a bored expression.

​"Is this it?" I asked, my voice flat.

​Julian’s smirk faltered by a fraction of an inch. "Is what it?"

​"The prank," I said, turning to Maria. "Maria, what would you call this? International Orange? Or maybe a very loud Tangerine?"

​"It’s definitely got high-visibility properties, Sienna," Maria added, playing along perfectly.

​"It’s actually quite bold," I told a bewildered-looking Julian. "It’s very 'Hermès meets Industrial Revolution.' It’s a bit 2024, but honestly, with the right lighting and some gold hardware, it’s actually a very chic choice for a closet. It makes my black dresses pop."

​I turned back to the workers. "Thank you, boys. You’ve done a lovely job. Though next time, ask Mr. Vane for the 'Saffron' swatches. This one is a bit... basic."

​The silence in the room was delicious. Julian looked like a man who had prepared for a nuclear explosion only to be met with a shrug. He had spent thousands of dollars to annoy me, and I was treating it like a free paint job.

​"You don't hate it?" he demanded, stepping toward me.

​"Julian, darling," I said, patting his cheek as I walked past him toward the espresso machine. "I’m a Sterling. I can make a potato sack look like a gala gown. You’ll have to try much harder than a bucket of Home Depot paint to get a rise out of me."

​I didn't look back, but I knew he was staring at those glowing orange walls, feeling like he’d just decorated his own prison.

​Julian

​"The projected growth for the midtown plaza is looking at a twelve percent increase if we break ground by Q3, Mr. Vane. However, the marketing team is concerned about the branding—"

​I wasn't listening.

​I was staring at the mahogany conference table, but I wasn't seeing blueprints or spreadsheets. I was seeing orange. That specific, violent shade of Safety-Cone Orange.

​“It’s very Hermès meets Industrial Revolution,” she’d said.

​I’d spent six thousand dollars on a rush-order paint crew and top-tier industrial pigment just to watch her cry. I wanted her to scream about her ruined "fashion cathedral." Instead, she’d patted my cheek like I was a toddler who had just successfully used the potty.

​"Mr. Vane?"

​I blinked, looking up. My marketing director was staring at me, her pen hovering over her notepad. My personal assistant, Alan, was leaning against the back wall, his eyebrows raised in a way that said, 'You’ve been staring at that spot for five minutes, boss.'

​"The branding," I repeated, clearing my throat and straightening my tie. "Right. It needs to be bold. But not... pink. Definitely no pink. And no glitter."

​Alan coughed to hide a laugh. I shot him a look that could have melted steel.

​Ever since I’d walked into my penthouse yesterday to find it looking like a Sterling-branded fever dream, my life had been a nightmare. I was still finding hot-pink glitter in my socks. I’d had a meeting with the board of directors this morning, and halfway through, I realized there was a tiny, gold Sterling monogram sticker stuck to the bottom of my luxury watch.

​She hadn't just decorated; she’d infested.

​"Is everything alright, Julian?" Alan asked as the marketing team filed out of the room. "You seem... colorful today."

​"She didn't react, Alan," I snapped, standing up and pacing the length of the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I turned her closet into a highway detour, and she thanked the painters. She called it 'bold'."

​Alan shrugged, checking his tablet. "Sienna Sterling grew up in a house where the wallpaper costs more than my college tuition. You can't out-aesthetic a woman who views the world as a runway. You tried to insult her style, but you forgot she can make anything look like a choice."

​"It wasn't a choice! It was a prank!" I growled. "I want her out of my space. I want my minimalist, grey-scale sanctuary back. Instead, I’m living in a pink-and-orange circus with an assistant who treats my kitchen like a lab for detox teas."

​"So, what's the next move?" Alan asked. "The Vane Construction team is still on standby. We could rip out the floors?"

​I paused, a slow, dark thought forming. If I couldn't break her style, I’d have to break her routine. Sienna Sterling was a creature of comfort and control.

​"No," I said, a smirk finally returning to my face. "If she likes the orange, she can keep it. I’m not spending another dime to renovate a room she claimed to like. But if she thinks life in the Vane Penthouse is going to be a 'chic' experience, she’s mistaken."

​I turned to Alan. "When is that charity gala for the Street Cat Sanctuary? The one the lawyers mentioned?"

​"Tomorrow night," Alan replied.

​"Good. Tell the organizers I’ll be there. With my wife. And Alan? Call the penthouse building manager. Tell them we’re having an 'emergency' plumbing inspection starting tomorrow evening. Specifically in the master suite's shower."

​Sienna wanted to be unbothered? Let’s see how unbothered she is when she has to wash that expensive hair of hers in a bucket because I "forgot" to tell her the water would be off.

​"You’re a petty man, Julian," Alan sighed, though he was already typing the instructions.

​"I’m a Vane," I corrected. "And I don't lose."

​