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)
If he touches what’s mine, I’ll remind him exactly who he taught me to be.
Chapter Twenty Cole
The sound of metal hitting the floor echoes through the studio as I enter. Sloane stands at her workbench, shoulders tight with frustration. The necklace she’d mentioned this morning lies in pieces before her.
“Damn it.” She pushes away from the bench. “Nothing’s working.”
She blows a strand of hair from her face, nose scrunched in concentration. Even when she’s frustrated, it’s impossible to take my eyes off her.
I check my watch. Eight o’clock. “You’ve been at this for twelve hours. Time for a break.”
She doesn’t look up. “I should keep working—”
“You need a break. And after the day we’ve both had, we need a change of scenery.” I take her arm, guiding her away from the bench. “And that’s not a suggestion.”
“If I keep having days like this, the collection won’t be ready.” She lets me help her into her coat anyway, still talking as I find her boots under the workbench. “The metal’s fighting me on every piece. Nothing’s flowing right.”
I kneel down, sliding the boots onto her feet while she steadies herself with a hand on my shoulder. For someone so resistant to being taken care of, she doesn’t pull away.
“The collection will be ready.” I stand, straightening her collar. “You’ve never missed a deadline. And I’ve never backed the wrong horse.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “Though you might be the most expensive bet I’ve made.”
The roof access requires my fingerprint and a code. I watch her face as the doors open, catching the exact moment her eyes widen. The entire space has been transformed. State-of-the-art heating lamps line the perimeter, casting golden light across the dark Brazilian wood decking. White fur blankets drape over modern loungers and deep-cushioned sofas, arranged around sleek fire tables. Strings of lights curve overhead, weaving between heated glass pergolas that shelter intimate seating areas while maintaining the view.
But it’s the center of the roof that draws her attention. A professional photography setup gleams under the lights—cameras with lenses that cost more than most cars, soft boxes creating perfect illumination, reflective screens positioned at precise angles. Behind it all stands a backdrop of white silk draped to look like snow drifts, with crystal icicles hanging from an ornate frame above.
In the corner, partially sheltered by a pergola, stands a massive Christmas tree. Every branch holds crystal and silver ornaments, each piece catching and fracturing the light. No colored lights, no tinsel—just pure winter elegance that matches the rest of the space. The kind of tree that belongs in a place like this, sixty stories above the city.
The view through the glass walls takes in most of Manhattan. The Empire State Building rises ahead of us, its spire bright against the night sky. The Hudson River cuts a dark line in the distance. Office buildings cluster close by, their windows still lit up despite the late hour. Central Park opens up before us, darker than the surrounding blocks and dusted with the snow that fell earlier.
“God, this view is incredible,” she breathes, turning slowly to atake it all in. “I’ve lived here ten years and I’ve never seen the city quite like this.”
And then she sees her—Vivienne Moore, current Hollywood It Girl, sitting in a makeup chair while someone touches up her hair.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, turning to take it all in. “Cole, what is this?”
“Your jewelry deserves better photos than phone shots,” I say, enjoying her shocked face. “Vivienne agreed to model for a private shoot. The photographer’s ready whenever you are.”
She takes a few steps forward, touching one of the light stands like she can’t believe it’s real. “This is crazy. When did you even set all this up?”
“When I saw you were stuck,” I reply. “Sometimes seeing your work on someone else helps break through the block.”
“You arranged all this?” she asks, still stunned as an assistant approaches with a clothing rack—all whites and silvers that will make her jewelry pop.
“Your work deserves it,” I reply. “The collection needs good photos before launch. Something that shows what you’ve created. The edge, the beauty, the frost effect you’ve been chasing.”
“Fur blankets and all?” She runs her fingers over one of the blankets. Below, steam drifts up from the street vents. The low clouds suggest more snow is coming before morning.
“A frozen girlfriend would be significantly less entertaining.” The word slips out before I can catch it. Girlfriend. Like I’m sixteen instead of thirty-five.
She smirks but doesn’t comment as Vivienne walks over to us.
“Your jewelry is amazing,” Vivienne tells Sloane, genuine excitement in her voice. “Those dagger earrings made me feel like an ice villainess. In the best way.”
“Thank you so much! I’m thrilled you liked them,” Sloane says, her smile widening. Then she turns to me, eyes bright. “I can’t believe you did this.”