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)
A server appears silently to pour wine—something red that probably has its own Swiss bank account. I don’t touch it. Rich psychopaths are still psychopaths, and I’ve seen enough movies to know better.
“Your work,” he says without preamble, “is unique.”
“My work that you’ve been spying on?” The words come out sharp enough to cut. “How exactly did you get access to my private designs?”
He takes a sip of wine, apparently unruffled by my hostility. “The same way I knew your loan application would be rejected by Chase. The same way I knew Jasmine Walsh would make your departure effective immediately.” His eyes lock onto mine. “I pay attention to things that interest me.”
“That’s not an answer.” My fingers clench around my portfolio. “That’s just admitting to more stalking.”
“Would you prefer I lie?” The question catches me off guard. “Tell you I happened to notice your talent through normal channels? That this meeting is just a fortunate coincidence?”
“I’d prefer you stop playing games and tell me what you want.”
Something darkens in his expression. “I want to give you everything you’ve been denied. A fully equipped workshop. Complete creative freedom. Financial backing that will let you create without compromise.”
The first course arrives—something that looks like winter elegance itself plated in silver. I ignore it.
“And in exchange?”
“You work exclusively for me. From my penthouse, where I’ve already prepared a studio space. The collection must be ready by New Year’s Eve.”
“Your penthouse?” I stare at him, wondering if I’ve heard wrong. “You want me to move in with you? A man who just admitted to stalking me?”
“I want to give you an opportunity.” His voice stays frustratingly level. “The kind that comes once in a lifetime.”
“The kind that comes with eight million red flags,” I counter. “Why should I trust anything about this?”
“Because deep down, you know I understand your work in a way no one else has.” He leans forward slightly. “The banks see risk. Jasmine sees a liability. But I see what you could become if someone would just let you embrace your instincts.”
The man is saying all the right things. Damn him. Because he’s right. No one has ever understood my work. And yet, he claims to. The question is how much that understanding is worth.
“Show me,” he says quietly. “Show me the designs you’ve been hiding.”
I look down at my portfolio, then back at him. The smart thing would be to walk away. Get a normal job. Create normal, safe jewelry that doesn’t make people uncomfortable.
But I’ve spent my whole life being smart. Being safe. And where has it gotten me?
Slowly, deliberately, I open my portfolio. “Just so we’re clear,” I say, meeting his gaze, “if this turns out to be some kind of elaborate murder plot, I will absolutely come back to haunt you.”
For the first time, a real smile crosses his face. It transforms him from merely handsome into something devastating. “I would expect nothing less.”
I turn the first page, and we begin.
As I explain the concept behind my winter collection, Cole surprises me by asking actual intelligent questions. Not the usual “can you make it prettier” feedback I’m used to, but specific queries about technique and symbolism.
“The negative space here,” he says, pointing to a particularly complex piece, “it mirrors your work from your second year at Parsons. The ice dagger series.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “How did you—”
“I particularly liked the professor’s note about your ‘disturbing but brilliant use of sharp angles.’” He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “Though I disagree about the ‘disturbing’ part.”
“Okay, this has to stop.” I set down my fork. “The designs you somehow know about, fine. Creepy, but fine. But you can’t just casually reference my college work like—”
“Like I’ve thoroughly researched everything about your creative evolution?” His smile is infuriating. “Would you prefer the Tribeca gallery showing where they called your work ‘too aggressive for the bridal market’?”
We spend the next few minutes eating in a strange, loaded silence. I’m torn between being impressed by the food and unnerved by how much this man knows about me. By the time our empty plates are cleared away, I’ve had enough time to collect my thoughts.
“I’d prefer to discuss actual business.” I try to steer us back to safer ground. “The timeline you mentioned—”
“Tell me about the first real piece you ever sold.” He cuts me off smoothly. “The silver pendant with the hidden blade design.”
“That’s not relevant to—”
“Everything about you is relevant.”
The intensity in his voice makes me pause. We stare at each other across the table, the air suddenly thick with something I can’t name.
Between our appetizers and main course, I notice at least twenty minutes have passed. We’ve been talking through each dish, the servers hovering discreetly, never rushing us. I’ve nearly finished my first glass of wine when Cole reaches for the bottle to refill it. Our fingers brush as I move to stop him, and that same electric current from the bar shoots through me, stronger this time.