Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Not helping, Chlo.”
“Sorry. But seriously, this is a legitimate company. You need this. Like, really need this.”
After hanging up, I do what any rational person would do—I google “Asher Industries.” The results lead me to their CEO, Colsen Asher. Articles paint him as a brilliant but ruthless businessman who specializes in finding undervalued assets and turning them into gold. There aren’t any pictures of him online, but I suppose old dudes who rule empires aren’t worried about their social media presence.
Before I can stop myself, I type: “How to tell if a billionaire is a serial killer?”
The search results are not reassuring.
An hour later, my suitcase is open on my bed, winter clothes piled around it. My portfolio sits ready on my desk, containing every sketch, every design that’s ever mattered to me. I still can’t quite believe I’m doing this.
I check my phone one more time. The email is still there, still real. The plane ticket is still valid. And my Google search history still asks the question I can’t quite answer: Is this a Christmas miracle or a very elaborate trap?
But as I pack my warmest sweaters (none with working lights, thankfully), I realize Chloe’s right. In this economy, with my dreams on the line and my savings dwindling, I’ll have to take my chances.
Besides, I reason as I zip up my suitcase, if he really is a serial killer, at least I’ll go out in style.
Chapter Four Cole
The Gulfstream’s engines hum steadily as Manhattan disappears beneath the clouds. Knox sits across from me, iPad in hand, monitoring our elaborate plan’s next phase.
“Whitmore’s through security,” he reports after hours of us working in silence, scrolling through real-time updates. “First class lounge at JFK. She’s been staring at her phone for twenty minutes, probably second-guessing everything.”
I swirl the scotch in my glass, remembering how it felt to orchestrate our “accidental” meeting. The way her eyes lit up when she spoke about her designs, that spark of defiance beneath her uncertainty. “Show me the surveillance.”
Knox taps his screen, bringing up the lounge’s security feed. There she is, curled in a leather armchair, her ever-present portfolio clutched close. No ridiculous sweater today. She’s dressed for business in a charcoal blazer that speaks of carefully curated professionalism. Even through the grainy footage, I can see her nervous energy, the way she keeps checking her boarding pass as if reassuring herself this is real.
“You know,” Knox muses, “most people would consider flying to Switzerland just to arrive before someone else a bit excessive. Even for you.”
“Most people lack vision.” I set down my glass, studying the flight path displayed on my cabin screen. “Everything has to be perfect. The timing, the setting, the first impression of Asher Industries.”
“Because the first impression at Tonic wasn’t enough?” There’s a hint of challenge in Knox’s voice. “She’s already intrigued. Why not just—”
“Because Sloane Whitmore isn’t looking for a man,” I say and cut him off. “She’s looking for someone who believes in her vision. Someone who sees what those shortsighted banks missed.” I stand, moving to the window. Below, the Atlantic stretches endlessly, a dark mirror reflecting the winter sky. “The man she met at Tonic was a stranger who ruined her sweater. The CEO of Asher Industries is someone who can make her dreams reality.”
“And the fact that they’re the same person?”
“Is a detail she’ll discover when I choose.” I turn back to him, letting a rare smile surface. “After all, timing is everything.”
Knox sets down his iPad, leaning back in his leather seat. “Walk me through the Gstaad arrangements. And please tell me you didn’t book the entire hotel this time.”
“Just the east wing.” I return to my seat, pulling up the blueprints I’ve memorized. “The Alpina’s discrete enough for our purposes.” I chose it carefully. Old money, old walls, the kind of place where privacy is understood without being discussed.
Knox shakes his head, but I catch the glimmer of admiration in his eyes. “You’ve orchestrated this like a military campaign.”
“This isn’t war, Knox. It’s courtship.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He swipes through another set of reports. “Security detail’s in place at the Alpina. And the jeweler’s workshop in your penthouse has been set up exactly to your specifications.”
I nod, satisfaction coursing through me. Every detail matters—the lighting, the tools, the rare gems I’ve sourced from across the globe. All arranged to show Sloane that someone finally understands what she sees.
“Jasmine Walsh did us a favor,” I say. “Every time she forced Sloane to compromise her vision, she only strengthened her resolve.”
“Speaking of Walsh,” Knox interjects, “our sources say she’s already trying to take credit for Sloane’s spring collection designs. Telling buyers it was all her all along.”
Something dark flashes through me. “Make a note. Moth to the Flame might need a change in leadership soon.”
“Already ahead of you.” Knox’s smile is sharp. “I’ve had our analysts reviewing their financials. Several . . . interesting discrepancies in their books.”