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)
Chapter Six Cole
Snow falls in thick curtains outside the Alpina’s private dining room, turning the Alps into a ghostly landscape. The timing couldn’t be better. By morning the storm will clear, leaving everything fresh and new for our swift return to Manhattan.
“Jesus Christ.” Knox shakes his head, watching me adjust the table settings for the third time. “I haven’t seen you this invested since Paris.”
Paris. We both remember that gallery, the artist whose work had awakened something in me. I’d been too slow then, too caught up in the numbers. By the time I’d made an offer, my old business partner Julian had already swept in and buried her career. Another lesson in the price of hesitation.
“The penthouse preparations are complete,” Knox continues, perhaps sensing my darkening mood. He consults his iPad, scrolling through updates. “Everything arranged exactly as you specified, though the contractors think you’ve lost your mind with some of the requirements.”
I almost smile at that. Let them think what they want. They don’t understand that some things require perfect conditions. The right pressure. The right moment.
“What about Claire’s biometric case?” Knox asks, lowering his voice. “You still plan to move it to the New York studio?”
“Yes. It’s the most secure option we have,” I reply, straightening a fork that’s barely out of alignment. “And it needs to be where I can monitor it.”
Knox frowns. “Julian knows you have it. He’s been trying to get his hands on it for years.”
“And he’s failed every time,” I remind him.
Knox looks at me for a long moment, then pulls up a new screen on his iPad, clearly dropping the subject.
I turn away from the window, deliberately casual. Julian Voss had been more than a mentor when I was building my empire—he’d been the first person to see potential in the hungry kid from Brooklyn. The first to show me how power really worked. First person to see my value and work with me. And now he’s just another part of my past I prefer not to discuss.
“He won’t get to the case,” I say with a certainty I don’t entirely feel. “The penthouse security is impenetrable.”
“No security is impenetrable, Cole.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “And you’re getting personally involved. I can see how you watch her. This isn’t just about protecting Claire’s designs anymore.”
The implications hang in the air, but I’m already distracted by movement on the security feeds. Sloane has arrived at her suite. Through the cameras, I watch her explore the space, taking in her unguarded reactions. There’s something compelling about seeing her like this, away from the careful persona she presents to the world.
I remember finding her file buried in Chase’s rejection pile—another dreamer deemed too risky. But where their analysts saw uncertainty, I saw hunger. The same drive that had pushed me from a Brooklyn walk-up to a Manhattan penthouse. The need to prove everyone wrong.
A discrete knock announces the hotel manager with security reports. I scan them quickly—every angle covered, every possibility accounted for. The east wing secured, no guests or staff except those cleared by Knox.
“Sir?” The manager hovers, awaiting further instructions. “The dining room is prepared according to your specifications. The vintage you requested is breathing.”
I nod, satisfied. Through the screens, I watch Sloane prepare for dinner. The white dress suits her, but it’s her composure that catches my attention—the way she squares her shoulders like she’s preparing for battle.
“It’s time,” I tell Knox, adjusting my cuffs. A habit from my younger days, when secondhand suits needed constant attention. Now my closet costs more than my father’s house did, but some habits die hard. “What’s Julian’s current position?”
“Still in Moscow, according to our sources. But Cole . . .” He hesitates.
“Drop it.” I cut him off. “Our security is the best in the business. Focus on what matters—tonight.”
Because tonight isn’t about Julian or the past or anything else. Tonight is about Sloane, and the way she makes me want things I’d forgotten existed.
“Sir?” The manager again. “Will you be requiring anything else?”
I check my watch one final time. In minutes, Sloane Whitmore will walk into this room, and this Christmas story of ours will begin.
“No,” I say. “Everything is perfect.”
Chapter Seven Sloane
The maître d’ leads me through the Alpina’s empty restaurant, my heels clicking against ancient wood floors that give an elegant character. Crystal chandeliers cast intimate pools of light, each table its own private island in a sea of luxury. But we pass them all, heading toward a separate dining room.
I clutch my portfolio closer, wondering if I’m walking toward my big break or my elaborate doom. The white dress moves like water around me, making me feel both powerful and exposed. Kind of like being naked, but fancy.
“Mr. Asher is waiting,” the maître d’ says, pausing before massive wooden doors that look old enough to have witnessed the signing of peace treaties. Or murder conspiracies. My imagination really needs to pick a lane here.