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)
The weight of Knox’s stare tells me he sees right through me, sees every doubt I’m trying to bury. He’s known me too long not to recognize when I’m wrestling with something I can’t control.
“Just . . . tell me you’ve considered all the angles.”
“Every single one.” I stand, grabbing my jacket. “Double the security detail tonight. I want eyes on every entrance and exit.”
“Already done.” Knox follows me to the door. “Teams are in position at the venue. Additional surveillance is set up. But Cole—” He pauses. “Julian’s not the only threat. Everyone’s going to be watching, analyzing. You sure you want to put her in the spotlight like this?”
“It’s not just about her, Knox. It’s about everything the collection represents.” I check my watch. “When Bergdorf’s announces Sloane’s line as their exclusive New Year’s launch—”
“Julian’s house of cards collapses,” Knox finishes, finally understanding. “His fake Claire collection becomes worthless overnight.”
“Exactly. Making her public doesn’t just protect her—it ensures the collection gets the attention it deserves. The attention that will destroy Julian’s plans completely.”
“But when he realizes you don’t plan on using Claire’s designs for the launch, he’ll still want them for himself. Even more so.”
“That’s why we have contingency plans.” I straighten my tie. “That’s why every member of the security team has been briefed on Julian’s previous tactics. And that’s why, after tonight, he won’t dare touch her. Not when the entire luxury world is watching.”
Knox sighs. “I hope you’re right. For both your sakes.”
“Making her public makes her untouchable.” My voice is cold, certain. “After tonight, hurting her would be an open declaration of war. Not just against me, but against every power player in that room who wants a piece of her collection. Julian’s smart enough to understand that.”
“I think you’re giving Julian too much credit. He’s not rational,” Knox presses. “Never has been.”
“I know Julian. I know how to control this situation.”
Knox nods but doesn’t look convinced.
I head home early to get ready, though my mind’s still running through contingency plans. The press will have a field day with this—Cole Asher, finally claiming someone publicly. They’ve documented all my carefully curated appearances over the years: models, socialites, daughters of business partners. Beautiful women who understood their role was temporary, who played their part in maintaining the image I needed. Three hours maximum at any event, a few practiced photographs, then separate cars home. Clean. Controlled. Forgettable.
This is different. There will be pictures of us all over social media. The way I keep her close, how my hand lingers on her back, the possessive edge to my smile when someone stares too long. The collar at her throat—to most, just another piece of exquisite jewelry. A lover’s gift. But certain members of New York’s elite will know better. The ones who frequent more exclusive circles, who understand the weight of such symbols. They’ll recognize it for what it is—a mark of ownership, elegant and absolute. No one will speak of it, of course. Not in polite society. But in their private clubs, their whispered conversations, they’ll know exactly what it means that Sloane wears my collar to her own debut.
She’s not just another pretty distraction. She’s an artist about to take over their world, and she’s unmistakably mine.
When Sloane emerges from the bedroom, everything else falls away. The black dress fits her like it was sculpted onto her body. Her jewelry catches the light—frost-etched pieces that seem alive against her skin. The earrings cascade like icicles, and her wrists shimmer with interwoven silver that mimics winter’s first frost across glass. But it’s my collar at her throat that makes my pulse quicken—platinum and diamonds forming an elegant chain of possession, marking her as mine even as she stands ready to claim her own power. She’s transformed herself into something ethereal, untouchable.
I was right. She doesn’t belong in the shadows.
“You look . . .” I step closer, touching one of her earrings. They’re new—she must have just finished them. The metal work is intricate, precise. Like her.
“Acceptable for my debut as the mysterious woman who’s caught Cole Asher’s attention?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice.
“Perfect for your debut as the artist who’s about to take New York by storm.”
Her smile tells me she’s ready for this, even if she won’t say it out loud. We head down to where Knox is waiting with the car, the winter air sharp against our faces. Sloane slides into the back seat, her dress whispering against the leather.
The city lights flash across Sloane’s face as our car moves through Manhattan traffic. Before we reach the Met, there are things she needs to know. I pull out my phone, showing her a photo from last month’s charity auction.
“Diana Winters. Art critic for the Times. She can be ruthless, but she respects technical skill above all else. Show her the inner mechanisms of your frost series—she’ll appreciate the engineering behind the aesthetics.”