Chapter Eleven Sloane
I wake to sunlight streaming through soaring windows that stretch from the polished hardwood floors to the crown molding above.
For a moment, I stare at the unfamiliar coffered ceiling, my mind struggling to place where I am.
Then Manhattan’s Christmas lights twinkle against the early morning sky, and reality crashes over me like a wave.
Not a dream then. I’m actually here, in Cole Asher’s penthouse, in a bed that feels like sleeping on a cloud.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for my phone, pulling up my banking app before I can talk myself out of checking.
My modest savings sit unchanged. But beside them gleams a new seven-figure deposit that appeared overnight.
I stare at the number until my vision blurs, wondering if this is how people feel when they win the lottery.
Except this isn’t luck. This is Cole, systematically inserting himself into every aspect of my life.
The thought should terrify me. Why doesn’t it terrify me?
My phone vibrates with a notification. A message from Maya. I tap it open, grateful for the distraction from the dizzying figure in my bank account.
Sloane,
Remember that conversation we had over coffee last month? When you told me I should stop letting fear hold me back and “take the damn leap already”? I finally did it. I left Moth to the Flame yesterday.
You were right. Life’s too short to stay somewhere just because it’s comfortable and safe. Watching you walk away to pursue your own designs gave me the courage I needed. I was recently approached by someone who actually sees my potential, not just as an assistant but as a creative force.
I can’t share details yet, but it feels right.
Dinner soon to celebrate our new paths? I want to hear all about your line. People in the industry are talking.
You showed me it was possible.
Maya
I read the message twice, a genuine smile spreading across my face. Maya had been talking about leaving for months. The thought of her finally taking that leap makes me feel lighter somehow.
I set my phone down and stretch, feeling the delicious pull of muscles that had spent too many hours hunched over my workbench last night. The bathroom beckons with its promise of a soaking tub and rainfall shower.
The space is a study in luxury, an expanse of veined marble and polished chrome that could practically fit my entire old bedroom with room to spare.
Everything echoes slightly, the space so generous it creates its own acoustics.
At least in here, I’m truly alone—no cameras, as per our agreement.
This should comfort me, but as I take in the array of products lined up with military precision on the counter, a different kind of unease settles in my stomach.
The expensive La Mer face cream I usually ration for special occasions sits front and center. Beside it, my favorite Ouai shampoo that’s perpetually sold out at Sephora.
I find myself moving through the space like a detective, checking behind the Italian-silk shower curtain, in the walk-in closets, under the double vanity. No cameras—I believe that much.
My suite’s kitchen contains my preferred coffee—the small-batch roast from that tiny shop in Brooklyn I discovered last spring.
But the aroma of something more substantial draws me toward the main living area.
It’s only when I’m halfway down the hallway that I remember I’m wearing my oldest, most comfortable pajamas.
The flannel pants have seen better days, and my ancient Parsons T-shirt has a small hole near the hem.
I should turn back, should change into something more appropriate for a million-dollar penthouse.
But the smell of coffee and whatever else is cooking proves too tempting.
Cole stands at the kitchen island in a suit that transforms him from merely handsome into something devastating.
The dark gray Italian wool fits him perfectly, but he’s not reading market reports or checking his phone like I’d expect from a man dressed for Wall Street domination at 7 a.m. His presence dominates the space, a stark reminder of exactly who owns everything around me—including, for the next few months, my time and creativity.
I freeze, acutely aware of my inappropriate attire. He looks up from his phone, his expression shifting from business mode to something I can’t quite read.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—I should change,” I manage, self-consciously tugging at my worn T-shirt.
“Don’t bother on my account,” he says, voice cool and professional. “This is your living space too.”
But his eyes linger a moment too long, contradicting his detached tone. I break eye contact first.
“Right. Well, I’ll try to be more... prepared... in the future,” I say stiffly.
His eyebrow raises slightly. “No need to stand on ceremony, Ms. Whitmore. We’ll be sharing this space for the foreseeable future.”
The formal address feels like both a reminder and a challenge.
Heat blooms across my neck and cheeks. I attempt to slip past him to the coffee maker, but the kitchen suddenly feels impossibly narrow. Our arms brush accidentally, and I jerk away as if burned. He stiffens but doesn’t move, forcing me to navigate around him. The power play isn’t lost on me.
“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice neutral but his eyes following my movements with unsettling intensity.
“Like someone who just agreed to defuse a ticking time bomb. Less than a month is...” I reply, focusing intently on the coffee machine instead of looking at him. “This thing requires an engineering degree to operate.”
He reaches past me to press a button, his chest nearly touching my back. I can feel his breath on my neck, stirring loose strands of hair. Neither of us acknowledges how deliberately close he’s standing.
“Just this button,” he says, voice dropping lower. “For future reference.”
A throat clears from the doorway. “Cole.” Knox stands there with an iPad, carefully avoiding looking at our proximity. The tips of his ears are slightly pink. “The launch projection reports are in.”
Cole steps back, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. Something unspoken passes between us, heavy with promise. “We’ll discuss it in my office.” He clears his throat and continues, “I have meetings all day, but if you need anything—”
“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt, even though I have no idea if I will be. I have no idea where to start this day.
I remain frozen in place long after he leaves, my coffee forgotten. The kitchen feels different without him in it—bigger, emptier somehow. My skin still tingles where we touched, and I press my hands against the cool marble counter to ground myself.
What is wrong with me? I’m here to work, to create something fresh and exciting, not to get caught up in whatever this electricity between us means. I’ve fought too hard to be taken seriously as an artist to let myself get distracted now, even by a man who looks at me like that.
Gathering what’s left of my composure, I retreat to my studio. The familiar sight of tools and workbenches centers me, reminds me why I’m really here. This is my space, my sanctuary, where I can focus on what matters... my art, my vision, my future.
The pristine equipment waits like an artist’s dream made real. Every tool I’ve ever coveted gleams under perfect lighting. German files with handles worn to my exact grip preference, precision calipers, casting equipment that would make my old professors weep with envy.
I get down to work and two hours pass in a blink, the cameras catching my attention periodically, their tiny red lights blinking steadily.
I wonder if Cole observes my work, if he’s watching right now.
The thought sends an unexpected thrill down my spine, followed immediately by confusion.
When did the idea of his surveillance start feeling less like an invasion and more like. .. anticipation?
My phone buzzes—Chloe demanding details about everything. The screen fills with question marks and exclamation points that perfectly capture her personality. A smile tugs at my lips as I type back that I’ll tell her everything in person.
After changing into a sweater and jeans, I gather my courage and my purse. I need coffee with my best friend, need to process whatever this situation is becoming.
I’m halfway to the elevator when Knox emerges from what I thought was a plain wall panel. His sudden appearance makes me jump.
“Good morning, Ms. Whitmore.” Cole’s security guy.
His tone is professional, but there’s something assessing in his gaze as he takes in my outdoor attire.
He’s all military precision—crew cut silver-blond hair, impeccable posture, and the watchful eyes of someone who misses nothing.
Despite the expensive suit, there’s no mistaking the coiled readiness of a former Special Forces operative. “Planning to venture out?”
“I...” For a moment I consider lying, then realize how ridiculous that is. I’m a grown woman. I can leave if I want to. “Yes. Meeting a friend for coffee.”
He nods as if this is perfectly normal, though something in his posture shifts. “I’d be happy to drive you.”
The way he says it makes it clear this isn’t really a suggestion. I straighten my spine, channeling some of Cole’s boardroom confidence. “That’s not necessary. I can take the train.”
“Mr. Asher insists on certain security protocols when you leave the building.” His expression softens slightly, and I catch a glimpse of genuine concern behind his professional facade.
“You’re not confined here, Ms. Whitmore.
You’re free to go wherever you’d like. We just need to ensure your safety. ”
The “we” catches my attention. Just how many people are involved in “ensuring my safety”? And safety from what exactly?