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)
She laughs softly. “Down, boy. We still have a room full of much more important people to impress.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” And it isn’t. Because the woman beside me isn’t just wearing confidence like her jewelry—she’s earned it.
Chapter Thirty-One Sloane
My feet are killing me, but I’ve never felt more alive. Three hours of handshakes, subtle politics, and thinly veiled social warfare have left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. I catch Cole’s eye across a cluster of aging socialites who’ve been debating the merits of my spine necklace for twenty minutes, wondering if he’d notice if I kicked off these heels under my dress.
Probably. He notices everything.
I make my way to him, searching for a tactful way to suggest we leave without seeming ungrateful or overwhelmed. Maybe I could fake a headache? Though knowing Cole, he’d have a doctor here in ten minutes. Perhaps I could—
Cole’s entire demeanor shifts. The change is subtle—most wouldn’t notice—but I’ve learned to read him. His hand slides to my lower back, fingers pressing slightly harder than usual. His stance widens, angling his body partly in front of mine.
That’s when I see them. Three men in impeccable suits that somehow look wrong here, too sharp-edged for the polished wealth around us. They move through the crowd with practiced ease, but there’s nothing social about their approach.
“Ms. Whitmore.” The one in front smiles without warmth. “Quite a debut.”
Cole’s fingers flex against my back. His eyes are scanning the room, and I follow his gaze just as it lands on Knox, who’s already moving toward us with controlled urgency.
“Cole . . . Julian sends his regards,” another one says, his accent vaguely Eastern European. “He wasn’t aware you had another designer . . . for your line.”
My spine stiffens at his tone. Did Cole have another designer besides me at one point?
“To think,” the man continues. “Julian thought you were going to try to launch Claire’s designs this entire time. Instead you brought in”—he looks me up and down—“a body double.”
Cole remains quiet, but I can nearly feel the rage sizzling off his skin.
“I particularly admire that piece.” The first man gestures to my collar, his eyes lingering too long. “Is the line your design alone, Ms. Whitmore?”
“Why would you ask that?” I keep my voice steady, even as Cole’s hand tightens possessively at my waist.
Knox arrives just as the third man steps forward, speaking softly. “Julian just wanted to remind you that in this industry, the right connections are everything. And some connections”—his eyes flick to Cole, then back to me—“can become quite dangerous. For everyone involved.”
They melt back into the crowd before Cole can respond, leaving behind a chill that has nothing to do with the winter air outside. Knox moves closer, his expression grim.
“Time to go,” Cole says, and for once, I don’t argue about being protected.
The look in Cole’s eyes is murderous, but his touch remains gentle as he guides me toward the exit. Knox flanks us, speaking quietly into his comm unit. I notice how the security team materializes around us, a choreographed dance I’m starting to recognize. I think of Chloe trying on gowns in my bedroom, teasing me about whether I’d actually asked Cole if he was in the mafia. The memory almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“Cole?” I keep my voice low, steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.
“It’s fine.” His response is automatic, practiced. But I catch the way his eyes keep scanning our surroundings, the slight tension in his jaw. “Just a precaution.”
Right. Because everyone leaves their own gala with a small army of security. Just another casual Friday night at the Met. I want to make a joke about sleeping with the fishes, but the steel in Cole’s expression stops me.
“Car’s ready,” Knox murmurs. “Thompson caught them heading east on Eighty-Second.”
Cole’s jaw clenches. “And?”
“Two black SUVs. Diplomatic plates.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “Russian.”
I feel Cole’s entire body tense against mine. There’s an undercurrent to their exchange I don’t fully understand, but I recognize enough to know this wasn’t just a casual threat.
We emerge into the bitter night air, and I’m grateful for both Cole’s warmth and the armed men surrounding us. The exhaustion from earlier has transformed into something else—a humming awareness of danger that makes every shadow seem deeper.
“I’m sorry,” Cole says once we’re in the car. “We should have stayed longer. It was your night, and I had to cut it short—”
“What was that all about?” I turn to face him, sudden anger flaring. “Tell me the truth. All of the truth.”
Something shifts in Cole’s expression.
I fold my arms. “And what line are you talking about—his or mine? Because it sounds like there’s a race happening and I’m just now being told I’m in it.”
“Sloane.” Cole’s voice drops, his hands reaching for mine. “Let’s not do this now. You’ve had an amazing night. Your collection was incredible—”