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 sommelier pours our wine, and Sloane immediately relaxes into the evening, the tension of the past month melting away. Between bites of her scallop appetizer, she can’t stop talking about the crown.
“You should have seen Hailey’s face when we tried the new setting technique.” Her eyes light up. “Everyone said black diamonds were too risky at that size, that they’d shatter, but—” She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a trade secret. “We found a way to distribute the pressure points so perfectly that—”
She breaks off as our entrées arrive, the waiter setting down her duck with a flourish. I’ve never seen her this animated, this proud of solving what everyone said was impossible.
She breaks off as voices from the next alcove grow louder, cutting through the usual quiet murmur of the room.
“—completely unexpected. The whole company.”
“Moth to the Flame? I thought they were stable.”
“Complete collapse. Bankruptcy filing this afternoon. My broker called to warn me to dump the stock, but it was already too late.”
Sloane’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth as the conversation from the next alcove registers. She sets it down slowly. “Did they just say Moth to the Flame filed for bankruptcy?”
I meet her eyes. “I heard about it this afternoon.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Tonight was about celebrating you. Your collection. Your achievement.” I lean back, studying her reaction. “I was going to tell you tomorrow.”
She’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then she grabs her phone and starts typing rapidly.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, though her intense focus tells me she’s already forming plans.
“Marcus.” Her fingers keep moving across the screen. “And Sarah. The whole platinum workshop team, really. They’re artists, Cole. The best I’ve ever worked with, and now they’ll be scattered to whatever corporate jewelry chain will take them.”
I watch her add another name to her list. “You want to hire them.”
“I want—” She looks up suddenly, eyes bright with possibility. “I want to build something real. Not just my private studio but a proper workshop. A place that values craft over quarterly profits. Where talented people can actually create, not just churn out whatever tests well in focus groups.”
Watching her plan her next venture over a plate of duck confit at Gloria’s feels exactly right. She’s always ten steps ahead, seeing possibilities where others only see rubble.
“I have real estate holdings that might interest you,” I say casually. “A few historic buildings with good natural light.”
She pauses mid-bite, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been waiting to mention these buildings?”
“About thirty seconds.” I take a sip of wine. “Though there might be some equipment from a recent acquisition that could be useful too.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Are you trying to be my angel investor, Mr. Asher?”
“I know a good investment when I see one.” I meet her gaze. “And you’ve more than proven your return potential.”
She traces the rim of her wineglass, and I catch a flicker of something in her expression. “If the collection is a hit.” Her voice is quieter now. “The reveal is in nine days and—”
“Stop.” I lean forward. “I’ve watched women’s faces when they try on your pieces. That crown alone . . .” I shake my head. “Every woman who sees this collection is going to want to wear it. Not just own it—wear it. Make it part of who they are.”
The confidence returns to her eyes, along with something fiercer. She picks up her wineglass again, a slight smile playing at her lips.
“You know,” she says, setting the glass down again, “for all their faults, Moth to the Flame had some incredibly talented people. I can’t save everyone’s job, but . . .” She starts counting on her fingers. “Marcus’s metalwork, Sarah’s stone setting, Jenna in procurement who somehow found the impossible . . .” She stops suddenly. “Oh god, Chloe. I need to text her. Moth to the Flame was her biggest contract. All those sponsored posts, the events—”
“Chloe,” I say, “is about to be very busy as the face of your collection. And as for the others . . .” I gesture to her phone. “Make your list. Anyone you vouch for, I’ll make sure they land somewhere. If not with your new venture, then with one of my subsidiaries.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. Talent is talent, and I trust your judgment.”
The waiter clears our dinner plates and presents the dessert menu. Sloane’s been quieter for the last few minutes, turning her wineglass by the stem.
“So,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
I look up from the menu. In the whirlwind of the past month—her moving into the penthouse, getting Havoc, decorating that ridiculous tree—we somehow never discussed our first Christmas.
“Your mother’s still upset you’re not going to Montauk?” I ask, though I already know the answer from the heated phone calls I’ve overheard.