Chapter Eight Sloane
T he hotel bar is exactly what you’d expect from a five-star establishment in Manhattan—all dark wood paneling and strategic lighting that makes everyone look like they have secrets worth keeping.
The evening crowd is starting to filter in, executives with loosened ties and women in designer suits who look like they eat quarterly reports for breakfast.
I choose a corner booth that lets me keep my back to the wall—a habit I’ve apparently developed in the last hour of realizing I’m dealing with a sexy but possibly unhinged billionaire.
The leather upholstery is butter-soft, probably flown in from some exotic location.
A single candle flickers in a crystal holder on the table, and somewhere behind the curved bar, a pianist is playing something that sounds expensive.
Cole slides in next to me—not across the table, where normal business associates would sit. No, he positions himself close enough that our knees could touch if either of us shifted slightly. A leather portfolio appears in his hands, different from my own. The contract, I realize.
“Let me guess,” he says, studying me in the low light. “Another peppermint martini?”
“Not a chance. I need all my wits about me for whatever’s in that portfolio you’re clutching.”
His laugh is warm, genuine. “Smart girl.”
“You’ve figured me out already?”
“Always.” He signals the bartender with a subtle gesture. “Though you’re proving more challenging than most.”
“I live to disappoint.”
The drinks arrive. He’s ordered a Manhattan for both of us. I raise an eyebrow at his presumption but take a sip anyway. It’s perfect, damn him.
“Now then,” he says, opening the leather portfolio with deliberate care. “Let’s talk about your future.”
I pride myself on being able to parse contracts—a skill hard-won from years of freelancing and knowing every business vulture is out there to get you.
This one is different. The language shifts and weaves, precise yet somehow elusive.
Every time I think I understand a clause, there’s a subtle reference to another section that changes the whole meaning.
Like the contract itself is a piece of jewelry, each facet reflecting and refracting light differently depending on how you look at it.
The numbers, though—those are crystal clear, and they make me dizzy.
The kind of figures that could change everything.
Complete creative control, something unheard of for a designer my age.
A fully equipped workshop with tools I’ve only seen in industry magazines.
Resources I’ve only dreamed about, materials I’ve never dared request from clients before.
A chance to actually create the collection that’s been burning in my mind for years.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cole watches me read, and I notice he’s paying close attention to my eyes—tracking how I navigate the document, which sections make me pause.
“Impressive is one word for it.” I flip back three pages to cross-reference a clause. “Labyrinthine would be another.”
His smile widens. “Most people don’t catch the subsection dependencies on first read.”
“My mother’s an attorney—I grew up hearing about the ‘devil in the details’ at the dinner table.”
I keep reading, fighting to maintain my professional expression as the figures climb higher.
But then I hit the living arrangements clause, and my blood turns to ice. I read it again, slower this time, making sure I haven’t misunderstood. The language here is suddenly crystal clear.
“Required residence in your penthouse?” I look up sharply. “That’s not happening.”
“You’ll have your own room in the east wing of the penthouse level. Private bath, study area—”
“Wait.” I set my glass down. “I don’t even know you, and you want me to live with you?”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Worried I snore?”
“Worried you’re a serial killer with excellent taste in jewelry.”
He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. “If I were a serial killer, I’d have much better pickup lines than ‘Come live in my tower and make pretty things.’”
“That,” I said, pointing at him, “is exactly what a serial killer would say.” I narrow my eyes. “For all I know, you have a collection of artist pelts somewhere.”
“Artist pelts?” He looks both amused and appalled. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you’re a man who’s used to getting his way. Who’s offering a completely insane living arrangement to a stranger, and who’s yet to deny the serial killer accusation.”
“Fair points.” He leans back, still smiling.
“I hereby formally deny any involvement in serial killing, artist-pelt-collecting, or other nefarious activities. I simply want the best designer under my roof where she can work without distraction. Though I do have an extensive collection of designer scarves that might look suspicious to the right detective.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet here you are, considering my ridiculous offer.”
“It says there will be camera surveillance at all times. With how many cameras?” I press back to the serious issue at hand.
“You’ll be working with pieces worth millions, Sloane. Rare gems, proprietary designs, materials that never leave the building.”
“And you protect your assets.” I meet his gaze. “Is that what I am? Another precious stone to keep under lock and key?”
Something flashes in his eyes—I can’t read him. “I protect what matters to me.”
“Who watches the feeds?” I press. “How many people get front row seats to the Sloane Whitmore show?”
“A highly vetted security team who couldn’t care less about your creative process. Their only concern is ensuring our work stays secure.” He leans closer, his knee brushing mine. “Your private quarters will remain camera-free. But I need you there, especially given our timeline.”
I scan the document again. “New Year’s Eve? You want an entire collection designed, prototyped, and ready for production in a month? A month!”
“Cartier’s pulling out of their New Year partnership with Bergdorf’s.” His voice drops lower, conspiratorial. “Their new creative director is taking them in a different direction. It leaves a gap—one we’re uniquely positioned to fill. If”—he taps the deadline clause—“we can deliver.”
My mind races with the implications. A first-of-the-year launch at Bergdorf’s would be... “That’s impossible.”
“For most people, yes.” That dangerous smile again. “But you’re not most people, are you?”
I take another sip of my Manhattan, buying time to think.
The practical part of my brain is screaming about red flags—the control, the monitoring, the impossible deadline.
My bank account whispers about rent past due and maxed-out credit cards.
But there’s something else, something that has nothing to do with money or desperation.
“You still haven’t explained why me.”
“Because when I look at your work, I see something rare.” He pulls out my portfolio.
His fingers trail across the pages in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“On the surface, these pieces are exactly what the market wants. Safe enough for the society women who lunch, creative enough for the young executives climbing the corporate ladder. You understand people—what they want, what they think they want, what they’re afraid to want. ”
He pauses, turning to a specific sketch.
It’s one of my darker pieces, one I usually keep buried in the back.
A necklace that’s more weapon than jewelry, gothic with shadowed spaces.
His thumb traces the edge of the design, almost intimate.
“The way it wraps around the throat... there’s nothing timid about this piece.
A woman with dark secret desires would wear this piece. ”
“Most women don’t want to wear their secrets so openly,” I counter, watching his reaction.
“Don’t they?” His smile suggests otherwise.
He flips to another design, a ring that seems to writhe around the finger like smoke made solid.
“These pieces? They’re savage. Untamed.” His voice drops lower.
“Like you’re trying to crack open the world and reshape it.
” He leans closer, and I catch the subtle scent of his cologne.
“These are the ones you don’t show clients.
The ones that live in the back of your sketchbook, that keep you up at night.
” He pauses and then adds, “They represent dominance and submission, even if you don’t know it yet yourself. ”
I feel exposed, seen in a way that makes me want to squirm in my seat. “Those are experimental pieces.”
“They’re honest pieces.” His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s something dark and knowing in his gaze.
“Everyone sees in you the polished New York designer—ambitious, talented, ready to take on the world. But there’s something else under that carefully curated surface, isn’t there?
Something that doesn’t care about market trends or buyer demographics.
Something that wants to create beauty so sharp it draws blood. ”
“You seem very interested in what’s beneath surfaces,” I say, aiming for professional but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“Only certain ones.” The way he says it makes heat crawl up my spine.
I hate how well he sees me. Hate that he’s right about both sides—the professional who knows how to work a room, and the artist who sometimes scares herself with what emerges on the page at midnight. Hate even more how his assessment causes my pulse to quicken.
“And which designer are you hoping to hire?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “The one who knows what sells, or the one who makes beauty that bites?”
His smile is slow, predatory. He leans back, but his eyes never leave mine. “I want both.” There’s a delicious emphasis on want that makes my throat go dry. “The question is: Are you ready to let me see all of you?”
This isn’t just about jewelry anymore... or at least I don’t think it is. I take a too-large sip of my Manhattan to break the moment and nearly choke. Real smooth, Sloane.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to reclaim some semblance of professionalism. Having your potential boss look at you like that should not be this unsettling. Or appealing. Focus. “About these living arrangements. Ground rules.”
Cole’s expression shifts seamlessly from smoldering to amused, which somehow makes it worse. I straighten my spine and put on what my brother calls my “business bitch” voice.
“No cameras in my room,” I say firmly, proud that I sound like someone who hasn’t just been mentally undressing their future employer.
“I don’t care about your security concerns.
My private space stays private. And I’m not just saying that because of what you probably think I’m saying that for.
” Oh god, stop talking. “I mean, because of privacy. Normal privacy. Professional privacy.”
His lips twitch. “Professional privacy.”
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “Exactly.”
“Of course.” He’s definitely trying not to laugh now. “Completely professional.”
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious about the cameras.”
“Done.”
“And I want full access to the workshop, day or night. If you want this done by New Year’s, I’ll be pulling a lot of late hours.”
“Already planned for.”
“Also, you don’t enter my workshop or my bedroom without my express permission. I need to know my space is mine. Consider it a creative sanctuary. I can’t work if I’m constantly wondering when you’ll appear.”
He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Understood.”
“One more thing.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Creative control means exactly that. You can have opinions, but final decisions are mine.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “As long as you’re willing to defend your choices.”
“Oh, I always am.”
“Let me add these conditions to make them official.” He takes the contract and, with a sleek Mont Blanc pen, begins writing in the margins.
His handwriting is precise and architectural as he notes each point: “No cameras in private quarters. No entry to workspace or bedroom without express permission. Creative control rests with designer for all pieces.”
He initials each addition, then slides the contract and pen back to me.
“These amendments are now legally binding,” he says, his expression serious despite the slight curve of his lips. “I always honor my contracts to the letter.”
I stare at the pen, acutely aware that I’m standing at a crossroads. The smart choice would be to walk away. But there’s a part of me—the part that’s always pushed boundaries, always reached for more—that wants to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.
I pick up the pen.
“I’ll need help moving.”
“I’ll send a team tomorrow.” He lifts his glass. “To new beginnings?”
I clink my glass against his. “To not regretting this.”
As I sign my name, I know I’m doing more than agreeing to a job. I’m stepping through a door that will change everything. The real question isn’t whether I’m ready—it’s whether I’ll be able to find my way back.