Chapter Ten Cole
T he elevator doors slide open, and I watch Sloane’s first reaction to my penthouse. Her sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it. Through the wall of windows, Central Park stretches below us, its trees wrapped in thousands of white lights that make the snow glow.
“Welcome home,” I say, guiding her forward with a light touch at her back.
Sloane steps away from my touch, putting a deliberate few inches between us.
She takes in the subtle holiday touches my designer integrated into the modern design—white amaryllis arrangements, crystal decorations that catch the city lights.
The great room spreads before us, all clean lines and perfect symmetry.
A massive fireplace anchors one end, its marble surround stretching floor to ceiling.
Above it, an abstract canvas in shades of winter blue and silver draws the eye.
“This is where you live?” she asks. Her voice is carefully neutral, professional.
“Where you live as well,” I correct as she continues to walk around and study the surroundings.
“This is...” She shakes her head, her gaze sweeping from floor to ceiling.
She wanders around the space, trailing her fingers along the leather sectionals in the sunken living room, examining the dining area that could seat twenty, peering into the chef’s kitchen with its wall of copper pots gleaming in the light.
Everything here was chosen specifically to impress, to show power without being gauche about it.
“The art collection...” She stops in front of a glass sculpture, tilting her head to catch how it plays with the light. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it,” I say, stepping closer. She subtly shifts her weight, maintaining the distance between us.
It’s turning awkward... chilly.
Clearing my throat, I add, “Wait until you see your workspace.”
She follows me down the hall, past my private office—door firmly closed—and into the east wing. The space opens up, ceilings rising to showcase more windows, more views of the city below.
“The entire wing is yours,” I explain, opening the double doors to her studio.
She freezes in the doorway. The space is exactly as I specified—floor-to-ceiling windows, custom workbenches, tools that would make master craftsmen weep. A separate area for sketching overlooks the park, and climate-controlled storage units line one wall.
“Those are beveled casting molds,” she says faintly. “Those aren’t even available to the public yet.”
“I know people.”
“Clearly,” she replies, all business now. She pulls a small notebook from her bag and begins making notes, as if conducting an inventory rather than receiving a gift. “This is... impressive.”
“Ms. Whitmore.” Knox appears in the doorway, iPad in hand. She turns, and I see recognition flash across her face.
“You were in Switzerland.”
“Knox Bishop, head of security.” He extends his hand, his handshake firm but not aggressive. “Among other duties, I oversee all safety protocols for the building. We need to discuss the standard security measures for all residents of the penthouse level.”
I watch Sloane’s face as Knox outlines the restrictions—no unauthorized guests, limited elevator access, twenty-four-seven security detail. Her expression stays neutral, but I see the tension in her shoulders.
“The cameras,” Knox continues, “are primarily focused on the work areas and entry points. Your private quarters remain surveillance-free, as agreed.”
“And the feeds go where exactly?”
“To our security team. And Mr. Asher’s private office.”
She looks at me sharply. I meet her gaze without apology.
“My bedroom...” she starts, then stops as the doors to her private quarters swing open.
The space is larger than her entire apartment was—a proper suite rather than just a bedroom.
Floor-to-ceiling windows continue the view, with automated blinds for privacy.
Her belongings are arranged exactly as they were in her old place but now given room to breathe.
Her favorite reading chair sits in a window nook I had custom-built to match the dimensions of her old apartment’s bay window.
Her books line built-in shelves, organized by color just as she had them.
The bedroom itself is done in the same colors she chose for her apartment—soft grays and deep blues—but with higher-quality everything. Her grandmother’s quilt drapes across a bed three times the size of her old one. Her photographs have been arranged in the same pattern she’d had them.
A door leads to a walk-in closet where her clothes hang in perfect order, with space for the wardrobe I plan to add. The bathroom features a soaking tub positioned to watch the sunrise, and her exact brand of shampoo already waits on the marble counter.
“The kitchenette is stocked with your tea collection,” I tell her as she takes it all in. “Though you’re welcome to use the main kitchen as well.”
She walks into the space slowly, running her fingers along the spines of her books. “How did you...” She opens a drawer to find her socks neatly arranged. “My apartment. You already moved everything.”
“Efficiency is important.” I watch her process this, wondering if this will be the final straw.
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying the precise arrangement of her possessions. Then she turns to me with an expression I wasn’t expecting—determination rather than anger.
“I’d like to get started right away.”
Knox blinks. “You don’t want to get settled in? I could arrange—”
“I’m here to work.” She cuts him off. “This timeline isn’t going to meet itself.”
My phone buzzes—the Bergdorf’s call I’ve been expecting.
I pride myself on not being an easy man to read but Knox catches my reaction. His expression shifts to concern.
“Bergdorf’s?” he asks, voice low.
I nod once, hoping he drops it.
“Need me to handle it?” Knox asks, already reaching for his own phone.
“No.” My tone ends that line of conversation, but Sloane doesn’t miss the exchange.
She glances between us, that designer’s eye catching every detail. “Something wrong with the launch?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I keep my voice neutral, giving nothing away. “Just some last-minute date changes.”
Sloane’s glance darts to Knox, who’s doing a terrible job hiding his concern. I can see her mind working, filing away his reaction for later examination. She’s too sharp to miss the undercurrent here, which is exactly why Knox needs to learn to keep his damn face neutral.
“Take it,” Sloane says, already moving toward her work studio in the main part of the penthouse. “I’m going to be busy anyway.”
“Already trying to get rid of me?” I ask, watching her unpack her tools with practiced efficiency.
“Just trying to maintain boundaries.” She lines up her pliers with scientific precision. “You know, since you’ve already cataloged my socks.”
Knox coughs to hide a laugh.
“At least I didn’t upgrade them,” I say, earning a raised eyebrow from Sloane.
“Yet.” She pulls out her favorite set of files, arranging them by size.
Her hands still over her tools. “You’re really leaning into this whole stalker thing, aren’t you?”
“I prefer ‘detailed observer.’”
“And exactly how long have you been ‘observing’ me?” She tries to keep her tone light, but I catch the undercurrent of uncertainty.
“Long enough to know you hide your best sketches in that blue folder under your desk.” I pause, watching her process this. “The one you think no one knows about.”
She freezes for just a second—barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it. Which I am. She recovers quickly, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes now. “Should I be worried about what else you’ve noticed?”
“Probably.”
Her fingers trace the edge of her workbench, and I can see her reassessing everything, wondering just how long I’ve been watching, what else I might know. Good. Let her wonder.
“Well,” she says finally, trying to sound casual, “I suppose there are worse things than having a billionaire who knows my tea preferences.”
“Many worse things.”
The slight tension in her shoulders tells me she caught my meaning. She busies herself with arranging her tools, but I note how her eyes dart to the cameras in the corners, seeing them properly for the first time.
She picks up her sketchbook, angling it away from the nearest camera before catching herself. “So how many of these do you have pointed at me? Should I be waving at regular intervals? Practicing my good side?”
“Depends on the angle.” I enjoy watching her try to act casual while clearly mapping each camera location.
“Let me guess. You have a favorite view already.” She moves a toolbox, then moves it back, aiming for humor but not quite hitting it. “You know, most people just follow their employees on Instagram.”
“You keep your account private.”
She stills at that, and I see the moment she realizes I know this because I’ve tried to access it. A slight flush creeps up her neck, the only crack in her professional veneer. “Less creepy than hidden cameras, though.”
“Nothing’s hidden. They’re all in plain sight.”
“All twelve of them?” She tries to make it sound like a joke, but she’s counting them now, eyes darting from corner to corner.
“Twenty-seven in this room alone.”
She nearly drops her pliers. “You’re kidding.”
“Maybe. I’m going to enjoy watching you try to find them all,” I tease.
“That’s cruel.” She picks up her sketchbook, turning it slightly. “Now I’ll be paranoid about every suspicious light fixture. Every art piece. That plant in the corner looks particularly sneaky.”
“The plant’s innocent. Probably.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Probably?”
“I’d be a poor stalker if I gave away all my secrets.” I move toward the door. “Although...”
“Although what?”
“You missed one.” I nod toward the ceiling. My phone buzzes again. “Upper left corner.”
I leave her with that, enjoying how her carefully constructed professional facade briefly cracks with a soft curse.
In my office, I split my attention between screens. On one, my Bergdorf’s team outlines how we are going to launch Sloane’s line, but they have concerns on the timeline. On another, Sloane begins setting up her workspace with quick, efficient movements.
“Cole.” Knox’s voice cuts through the CFO’s droning about deadlines. “Are you going to watch her all night?”
I watch Sloane pull out her sketchbook, settling into the chair by the window. Her pencil moves across the page with sure strokes, completely absorbed in her work despite everything that’s happened tonight.
“It’s business,” I tell him, ending the call with the CFO. “I’m investing a lot in her. I just want to watch her work.”
Knox rolls his eyes but says nothing more.
I lean back in my chair, switching off the business feeds to focus on a single screen. Sloane pauses in her sketching, studying whatever she’s created with that slight head tilt that means she’s seeing something new. Something unexpected.
Tonight, I want to watch her create.