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’ve never felt this way either,” I admit softly. “It’s intense and a little scary, but . . . I don’t want it to stop.”
Cole’s hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb gently stroking my skin. “It won’t,” he promises. “I meant what I said, Sloane. You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight Cole
From my office in the penthouse, I watch Sloane pace her studio through the security feed, her movements growing more agitated with each pass. She’s been working with Hailey for days straight, their winter collection taking shape in gleaming black metals and crystalline accents. But even through the grainy footage, I can see the tension building in her shoulders, the way her usual fluid grace has become sharp and brittle.
Knox appears in my doorway, leaning against the frame with barely contained amusement. “Your girlfriend attempted to leave the building this morning. Alone.”
“For?”
“Christmas shopping, apparently,” Knox says. “Said something about gifts for her entire family back in Montauk. She wasn’t happy when we redirected her back inside.” There’s a pause. “She’s getting restless.”
I watch the feed again, seeing the way she moves from workbench to window and back, like an animal testing the limits of its enclosure. The security measures necessary to keep her safe are clearly starting to wear on her. And, watching her now, I’m struck by the irony of trying to protect something wild by caging it.
“Set up everything I asked for earlier,” I tell Knox. “The works.”
When I enter the kitchen twenty minutes later, Sloane is already there, stabbing at her phone with more force than necessary. She’s wearing one of my sweaters over her workout clothes, her hair a mess of tangles, and my collar still gleaming at her throat. The sight of it—of her marking herself as mine even while bristling against my constraints—does something to my chest.
“I tried to find online shopping options,” she says without looking up. “Did you know your security team has actually blacklisted my favorite stores from delivering here?”
“Sloane—”
“I’m starting to feel trapped. Every time I try to step outside to get a breath of fresh air—”
“Sloane—”
“I can’t keep living in a gilded cage, Cole.” She finally meets my eyes, and the frustration there is edged with something deeper. “Even if it’s the most beautiful cage in Manhattan.” She holds up her hand before I can speak. “I know, I know, I have an intense deadline. And Hailey and I have made huge progress—we’re actually ahead of schedule. But Christmas is coming, and I haven’t gotten a single gift for my family.” Her voice softens. “I already can’t be there with them . . . the least I can do is send something thoughtful.” Her lips quirk despite her frustration. “I mean, I hear there’s a whole city out there somewhere. With stores full of Christmas gifts and everything.”
Instead of arguing about security protocols and Julian’s latest movements, I study her for a moment. “Get dressed,” I say finally. “Wear something warm.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
I let myself smirk. “Because I’m about to be extremely extra, as your friend Chloe would say.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means dress warm. We leave in thirty minutes.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then shakes her head and heads for her room. I hear her mutter something about “cryptic billionaires” as she goes, and I allow myself a small smile. Knox has already set everything in motion—the rink, the decorations, the security preparations. Time to remind her that even a gilded cage can have its doors opened.
When we pull up to Fifth Avenue an hour later, Sloane’s suspicion has shifted to excitement. I lead her toward the first store, watching her face light up at the holiday displays and twinkling lights adorning every storefront.
“You’re really going to help me shop for every single Whitmore?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“From babies to grandparents,” I confirm. “Though I confess I know nothing about what your teenage nephew might want.”
“Cole . . .” She turns to face me, her expression softer than I’ve seen in days. “This is . . . thank you.”
“Wait for it.” Right on cue, Knox appears with a team of discreet security personnel dressed as holiday shoppers. “You pick the items, they’ll handle the bags, and everything gets delivered to the penthouse for wrapping before shipping to Montauk.”
“Of course you turned Christmas shopping into a military operation,” she says with a laugh.
We spend the next few hours moving from store to store. I watch Sloane carefully select each gift—cashmere for her mother, a rare first edition novel for her father, custom jewelry for her sisters, and an assortment of toys and clothes for the children. She tells me stories about each family member as we shop, bringing them to life through her clear affection. I find myself making mental notes, storing away the details of these people who matter to her.