Chapter Seven Sloane
T he ma?tre d’ leads me through the Alpina’s empty restaurant, my heels clicking against ancient wood floors that give an elegant character.
Crystal chandeliers cast intimate pools of light, each table its own private island in a sea of luxury.
But we pass them all, heading toward a separate dining room.
I clutch my portfolio closer, wondering if I’m walking toward my big break or my elaborate doom. The white dress moves like water around me, making me feel both powerful and exposed. Kind of like being naked, but fancy.
“Mr. Asher is waiting,” the ma?tre d’ says, pausing before massive wooden doors that look old enough to have witnessed the signing of peace treaties. Or murder conspiracies. My imagination really needs to pick a lane here.
The doors open to reveal a private dining room that makes me forget how to breathe.
One entire wall is glass, showcasing the snow-covered Alps now lit by a nearly full moon.
The other walls are aged wood panels that glow warmly in the light from iron chandeliers.
A single table sits in the center, set with what has to be antique silver and crystal that catches the light like diamonds.
But it’s the man standing at the window that stops my heart.
He turns, and the world shifts beneath my feet. I know that profile, those shoulders, that way of owning every molecule of space around him. I’ve seen them before, stained with expensive scotch in a Manhattan bar.
Cole.
“Hello, Sloane.” His voice is exactly as I remember—that low rumble that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my spine. “I believe we’ve met.”
I open my mouth, close it, try again. “You’re Colsen Asher?”
“Yes.” No apology, no explanation. Just that intensity I remember, now cranked up to about a thousand.
I blink, my brain struggling to reconcile the stranger from the bar with the billionaire who’s apparently been orchestrating my life. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. “I don’t... I mean, you’re...” Words fail me completely.
Cole stays perfectly still, watching me process with those unnervingly intense eyes. The same eyes that had studied me so carefully at Tonic, that had shown such interest when I described my work. Oh. OH.
“The scotch,” I say suddenly, the memory hitting me like a physical blow. “At the bar. You were so interested in my designs. You kept asking questions about Midnight Frost...”
His lips curve slightly, and there’s something almost proud in his expression, like he’s pleased I’m putting it together. But that means...
“How did you...” I stop, my hand tightening on my portfolio. Another realization slams into me. “The collar piece. In the email. I never showed that to anyone except...” My voice trails off as implications start stacking up like building blocks, each one more unsettling than the last.
Chloe was the only person who’d seen those designs, but somehow he knew about them in detail.
“That night at the bar...” I finally manage, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking. “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No.” He moves toward me, and I instinctively take a step back, my spine hitting the doorframe. “Very little in my world happens by accident.”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.
“You’ve been watching me.” My voice shakes with a mixture of fear and anger. “Following me. For how long?”
He doesn’t answer, which somehow makes it worse. I clutch my portfolio to my chest like a shield, mind racing. I should run. I should absolutely run right now. Call Chloe, call the police, call anyone.
“Would you like some wine?” He gestures to the table as if this is all perfectly normal. As if he hasn’t just revealed himself to be exactly the kind of stalker I’d joked about with Chloe.
Oh my god. I have a billionaire stalker.
“I’d like an explanation.” I’m surprised by the steel in my voice. “Because right now I’m trying to decide whether to run screaming or just start throwing things.”
“You won’t do either.” His certainty makes my blood boil.
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
“Because you want to know why.” He takes another step closer. I hold my ground this time, anger overtaking fear. “Why I chose you. Why I’ve gone to such lengths. Why I know about designs you’ve never shown anyone.”
“How do you know about those?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “The collar piece—I never showed that to anyone except my friend. If you’ve done something to her—”
“Your friend is fine.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Please, sit. Let me explain what I’m offering.”
“Offering?” I laugh, and it sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears. “You manipulated me. Stalked me. Lured me to another country. And now you want me to sit down for a friendly chat?”
“Yes.” Still so calm, so controlled. It makes me want to scream. “Because despite your very justified anger, you’re curious. You want to know how I knew about your midnight sketching sessions. About the designs you hide from Jasmine Walsh. About the darkness you keep trying to contain.”
My hands shake. He’s right. I do want to know. And I hate that he knows that about me too.
“Sit,” he says again. “Stay. Let me show you what I’m offering. If you still want to run afterward, I won’t stop you.”
I should leave. Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to is screaming at me to get out now. But as I slowly sink into the chair he holds, I realize I’ve already made my choice. God help me, I have to know what this is all about.
A server appears silently to pour wine—something red that probably has its own Swiss bank account. I don’t touch it. Rich psychopaths are still psychopaths, and I’ve seen enough movies to know better.
“Your work,” he says without preamble, “is unique.”
“My work that you’ve been spying on?” The words come out sharp enough to cut. “How exactly did you get access to my private designs?”
He takes a sip of wine, apparently unruffled by my hostility. “The same way I knew your loan application would be rejected by Chase. The same way I knew Jasmine Walsh would make your departure effective immediately.” His eyes lock onto mine. “I pay attention to things that interest me.”
“That’s not an answer.” My fingers clench around my portfolio. “That’s just admitting to more stalking.”
“Would you prefer I lie?” The question catches me off guard. “Tell you I happened to notice your talent through normal channels? That this meeting is just a fortunate coincidence?”
“I’d prefer you stop playing games and tell me what you want.”
Something darkens in his expression. “I want to give you everything you’ve been denied. A fully equipped workshop. Complete creative freedom. Financial backing that will let you create without compromise.”
The first course arrives—something that looks like winter elegance itself plated in silver. I ignore it.
“And in exchange?”
“You work exclusively for me. From my penthouse, where I’ve already prepared a studio space. The collection must be ready by New Year’s Eve.”
“Your penthouse?” I stare at him, wondering if I’ve heard wrong. “You want me to move in with you? A man who just admitted to stalking me?”
“I want to give you an opportunity.” His voice stays frustratingly level. “The kind that comes once in a lifetime.”
“The kind that comes with eight million red flags,” I counter. “Why should I trust anything about this?”
“Because deep down, you know I understand your work in a way no one else has.” He leans forward slightly. “The banks see risk. Jasmine sees a liability. But I see what you could become if someone would just let you embrace your instincts.”
The man is saying all the right things. Damn him. Because he’s right. No one has ever understood my work. And yet, he claims to. The question is how much that understanding is worth.
“Show me,” he says quietly. “Show me the designs you’ve been hiding.”
I look down at my portfolio, then back at him. The smart thing would be to walk away. Get a normal job. Create normal, safe jewelry that doesn’t make people uncomfortable.
But I’ve spent my whole life being smart. Being safe. And where has it gotten me?
Slowly, deliberately, I open my portfolio. “Just so we’re clear,” I say, meeting his gaze, “if this turns out to be some kind of elaborate murder plot, I will absolutely come back to haunt you.”
For the first time, a real smile crosses his face. It transforms him from merely handsome into something devastating. “I would expect nothing less.”
I turn the first page, and we begin.
As I explain the concept behind my winter collection, Cole surprises me by asking actual intelligent questions. Not the usual “can you make it prettier” feedback I’m used to, but specific queries about technique and symbolism.
“The negative space here,” he says, pointing to a particularly complex piece, “it mirrors your work from your second year at Parsons. The ice dagger series.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “How did you—”
“I particularly liked the professor’s note about your ‘disturbing but brilliant use of sharp angles.’” He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim. “Though I disagree about the ‘disturbing’ part.”
“Okay, this has to stop.” I set down my fork. “The designs you somehow know about, fine. Creepy, but fine. But you can’t just casually reference my college work like—”
“Like I’ve thoroughly researched everything about your creative evolution?” His smile is infuriating. “Would you prefer the Tribeca gallery showing where they called your work ‘too aggressive for the bridal market’?”
We spend the next few minutes eating in a strange, loaded silence. I’m torn between being impressed by the food and unnerved by how much this man knows about me. By the time our empty plates are cleared away, I’ve had enough time to collect my thoughts.
“I’d prefer to discuss actual business.” I try to steer us back to safer ground. “The timeline you mentioned—”
“Tell me about the first real piece you ever sold.” He cuts me off smoothly. “The silver pendant with the hidden blade design.”
“That’s not relevant to—”
“Everything about you is relevant.”
The intensity in his voice makes me pause. We stare at each other across the table, the air suddenly thick with something I can’t name.
Between our appetizers and main course, I notice at least twenty minutes have passed.
We’ve been talking through each dish, the servers hovering discreetly, never rushing us.
I’ve nearly finished my first glass of wine when Cole reaches for the bottle to refill it.
Our fingers brush as I move to stop him, and that same electric current from the bar shoots through me, stronger this time.
I jerk back like I’ve been shocked. “I can pour my own wine.”
“Is that something you feel you have to announce?” His voice holds a hint of amusement. “Or do you just prefer to keep your distance?”
“I prefer professionalism.” I straighten my spine. “This is a business meeting.”
“I agree.”
Before I can respond, the door opens and a man appears. His expression is tense.
“Sir, we have a situation. Julian’s people have been—”
“Not now.” Cole’s voice turns to steel.
“But the security protocols—”
“I said not now.”
They exchange a loaded look that makes me feel like I’m missing volumes of subtext. The man exits as silently as he appeared, but the interruption has changed something in Cole’s demeanor. There’s an edge now that wasn’t there before.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable,” he says, standing. “The bar here makes an excellent Manhattan.”
“I should probably get some rest.” I don’t want to admit how much this evening has rattled me. “It’s been a long day of being stalked and manipulated.”
That gets an actual laugh from him. “Just one drink. We still need to discuss the specifics of your contract.”
Somehow, I find myself walking with him, his hand resting on the small of my back. The touch should feel presumptuous. Instead, it feels... claiming. Like he’s already decided I’m his, regardless of whether I’ve agreed to anything.
The really disturbing part? Some traitorous part of me likes it.
“You know this is insane, right?” I say as we near the bar. “This whole situation is completely insane.”
He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Wait until you see what I have planned next.”
Every instinct I have screams that I’m walking into a trap. But like a moth drawn to a particularly dangerous flame, I follow him anyway.