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)
I leave her with that, enjoying how her carefully constructed professional facade briefly cracks with a soft curse.
In my office, I split my attention between screens. On one, my Bergdorf’s team outlines how we are going to launch Sloane’s line, but they have concerns on the timeline. On another, Sloane begins setting up her workspace with quick, efficient movements.
“Cole.” Knox’s voice cuts through the CFO’s droning about deadlines. “Are you going to watch her all night?”
I watch Sloane pull out her sketchbook, settling into the chair by the window. Her pencil moves across the page with sure strokes, completely absorbed in her work despite everything that’s happened tonight.
“It’s business,” I tell him, ending the call with the CFO. “I’m investing a lot in her. I just want to watch her work.”
Knox rolls his eyes but says nothing more.
I lean back in my chair, switching off the business feeds to focus on a single screen. Sloane pauses in her sketching, studying whatever she’s created with that slight head tilt that means she’s seeing something new. Something unexpected.
Tonight, I want to watch her create.
Chapter Eleven Sloane
I wake to sunlight streaming through soaring windows that stretch from the polished hardwood floors to the crown molding above. For a moment, I stare at the unfamiliar coffered ceiling, my mind struggling to place where I am. Then Manhattan’s Christmas lights twinkle against the early morning sky, and reality crashes over me like a wave.
Not a dream then. I’m actually here, in Cole Asher’s penthouse, in a bed that feels like sleeping on a cloud.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for my phone, pulling up my banking app before I can talk myself out of checking. My modest savings sit unchanged. But beside them gleams a new seven-figure deposit that appeared overnight. I stare at the number until my vision blurs, wondering if this is how people feel when they win the lottery. Except this isn’t luck. This is Cole, systematically inserting himself into every aspect of my life.
The thought should terrify me. Why doesn’t it terrify me?
My phone vibrates with a notification. A message from Maya. I tap it open, grateful for the distraction from the dizzying figure in my bank account.
Sloane,
Remember that conversation we had over coffee last month? When you told me I should stop letting fear hold me back and “take the damn leap already”? I finally did it. I left Moth to the Flame yesterday.
You were right. Life’s too short to stay somewhere just because it’s comfortable and safe. Watching you walk away to pursue your own designs gave me the courage I needed. I was recently approached by someone who actually sees my potential, not just as an assistant but as a creative force.
I can’t share details yet, but it feels right.
Dinner soon to celebrate our new paths? I want to hear all about your line. People in the industry are talking.
You showed me it was possible.
Maya
I read the message twice, a genuine smile spreading across my face. Maya had been talking about leaving for months. The thought of her finally taking that leap makes me feel lighter somehow.
I set my phone down and stretch, feeling the delicious pull of muscles that had spent too many hours hunched over my workbench last night. The bathroom beckons with its promise of a soaking tub and rainfall shower.
The space is a study in luxury, an expanse of veined marble and polished chrome that could practically fit my entire old bedroom with room to spare. Everything echoes slightly, the space so generous it creates its own acoustics. At least in here, I’m truly alone—no cameras, as per our agreement. This should comfort me, but as I take in the array of products lined up with military precision on the counter, a different kind of unease settles in my stomach.
The expensive La Mer face cream I usually ration for special occasions sits front and center. Beside it, my favorite Ouai shampoo that’s perpetually sold out at Sephora.
I find myself moving through the space like a detective, checking behind the Italian-silk shower curtain, in the walk-in closets, under the double vanity. No cameras—I believe that much.
My suite’s kitchen contains my preferred coffee—the small-batch roast from that tiny shop in Brooklyn I discovered last spring. But the aroma of something more substantial draws me toward the main living area. It’s only when I’m halfway down the hallway that I remember I’m wearing my oldest, most comfortable pajamas. The flannel pants have seen better days, and my ancient Parsons T-shirt has a small hole near the hem. I should turn back, should change into something more appropriate for a million-dollar penthouse. But the smell of coffee and whatever else is cooking proves too tempting.
Cole stands at the kitchen island in a suit that transforms him from merely handsome into something devastating. The dark gray Italian wool fits him perfectly, but he’s not reading market reports or checking his phone like I’d expect from a man dressed for Wall Street domination at 7 a.m. His presence dominates the space, a stark reminder of exactly who owns everything around me—including, for the next few months, my time and creativity.