Chapter Sixteen Sloane
T ell me again why I agreed to dinner?” I hold my phone closer to my face, watching Chloe roll her eyes on the screen.
“Because you’re into him. And he’s into you. And honestly? The sexual tension is exhausting just hearing about it.”
“But the cameras—”
“The cameras that you were literally performing for this morning?” She raises an eyebrow. “The ones you admitted make you hot?”
“I’m actually looking forward to them now,” I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “What is wrong with me?”
“You’ve gone full Stockholm syndrome, and I am HERE for it.” Chloe’s grin is wicked, but it fades when she sees my expression. “What’s really bothering you?”
“I’ve worked so hard to get here.” I sink onto the edge of my bed. “Ten years of apprenticeships, studying metallurgy, learning from masters. I don’t want anyone looking at this collection and thinking I got it because I’m sleeping with the investor.”
“Stop.” Chloe leans closer to her camera.
“Cole Asher has a reputation for being ruthless with his investments. You really think he’d risk millions on a jewelry line just because he wants to get laid?
Please.” She rolls her eyes. “He chose you because you’re brilliant at what you do.
The fact that you two can’t keep your hands off each other doesn’t change that. ”
I think about the way Cole watches me work, how he asks questions about my process, the vintage pieces he keeps finding that align perfectly with what I’m trying to create.
“Hey, have you heard anything about Maya?” I try to keep my voice casual.
“No, actually. It’s weird. She hasn’t posted anything in like two weeks. A few people from Moth to the Flame are starting to ask questions.” Chloe tilts her head. “Why? Have you heard from her?”
“No, and that’s what’s bothering me. She’s never offline this long. Not even when she went to Bali last year.” I shrug, but my stomach tightens.
The silence is so unlike Maya. She’s the person who posts every day’s breakfast. Something about her silence feels wrong.
Like there’s a piece of a puzzle I’m missing, and it might be important.
And here I am, letting myself get distracted by hot chocolate and near kisses at Rockefeller Center, designer dresses and vintage jewelry.
I’ve read enough thrillers to know how this usually ends for the girl who ignores the warning signs because she’s too caught up in the fantasy.
“Hey.” Chloe’s voice softens. “I’m sure she’s fine. Maybe she’s just doing a digital detox.”
I nod. She’s probably right, but I make a mental note to do some digging of my own.
“So stop overthinking and show me what you’re wearing.”
I turn the camera toward my bed, where another perfectly curated outfit waits.
The deep blue dress catches the light, but it’s what’s beside it that makes me pause—a vintage diamond and sapphire necklace.
The note underneath reads: I want to watch the diamonds rest against your throat while you remember who put them there.
“Holy shit,” Chloe breathes. “That’s—”
“A lot.”
“Put it on,” Chloe insists. “I need to see it.”
I stare at the dress, torn. “I don’t know. He’s so controlling already. If I wear exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it...” I pick up the note again. “Who does he think he is, telling me what to wear?”
“The same man you were teasing with a camera show this morning,” Chloe points out. “Come on, just try it on. For me.”
“It feels like giving in,” I say, but my fingers are already running over the fabric. The dress is gorgeous. Exactly what I would have chosen for myself. And the necklace...
“ Submitting can be fun sometimes.” Chloe grins. “Besides, didn’t he say something about not asking twice? On second thought, maybe don’t wear it. I wanna know what he’ll do...”
I bite my lip, remembering his text. The thought of pushing him further is tempting, but something tells me this isn’t a boundary I want to test. Not tonight.
“Fine. Reverse psychology for the win,” I say, and we both laugh.
I send Chloe a photo once I’m dressed, endure her squealing about how perfect everything is, and promise to tell her everything tomorrow. My hand trembles slightly as I fasten the necklace, the diamonds cool against my skin.
At eight sharp, Cole knocks on my door. His eyes land on the necklace, lingering there long enough that I forget to breathe.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice low with something that’s not quite approval. Something darker. When I do, his fingers brush the nape of my neck, adjusting the clasp. “Perfect,” he murmurs against my ear. “You decided to listen after all.”
I turn to face him, trying to keep my voice steady. “Was there really a choice?”
“There’s always a choice, Sloane.” His hand slides to my lower back, the pressure firm and possessive. “You just made the right one. Ready to see where I’m taking you?”
He leads me down a narrow staircase I didn’t even know existed.
The temperature drops as we descend. At the bottom of the stairs, a wine cellar stretches before us.
Antique crystal sconces cast intimate light across walls lined with vintage bottles.
A heavy wooden table dominates what looks like a tasting area, its surface reflecting the warm glow from above.
The space feels both opulent and intimate, like a secret tucked away beneath the bustle of the city.
“Where are we?” I ask, taking in the rows of bottles that seem to stretch endlessly into the shadows.
“My private collection.” Cole’s voice is different down here—softer but somehow more intense.
“Welcome to my favorite room in the building.” He moves through the space with easy familiarity, trailing his fingers along bottle labels, at home among the vintage wines in a way I haven’t seen him anywhere else.
“This Bordeaux,” he says, selecting one, “took three years to acquire. The owner refused to sell until I convinced him I’d appreciate it properly.” He glances at me. “I can be very persuasive when I want something.”
“Three years for one bottle?” I glance at him, remembering how skillfully he’d negotiated our own deal. “I can believe it. I’ve seen your powers of persuasion firsthand.”
His eyes darken at that. “Have you?”
“Though I’m curious what methods you used on the wine seller.”
“Some secrets I need to keep.” He runs a finger along the bottle’s label. “For now.”
He pours the wine with the precision of a man who’s done this a thousand times before.
Every movement becomes deliberate, practiced.
His fingers brush mine when he hands me the glass.
His body shifts closer as he explains the vintage, using words I’ve only heard on cooking shows. His eyes follow my lips as I taste it.
A bottle on the far wall catches my attention—one he mentioned earlier.
I step closer to examine it, my fingers hovering near the label without quite touching.
My hands feel clumsy, my movements too big for this delicate space.
The wine in my glass sloshes dangerously close to the rim with each breath, and I find myself overthinking every small motion.
Which of course is exactly when disaster strikes.
The wineglass slips. Time seems to slow as I watch it fall, my brain helpfully supplying a montage of every clumsy moment I’ve ever had. The crash when it hits the floor makes me jump.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, mortified. “The wine—I can’t believe I just—” I look at the spreading puddle of red against stone. “I need something to clean this up. Where’s the—”
He catches my wrist as I start looking around. His thumb traces circles against my pulse point. “Sloane.”
I try to pull away. “No, really, if we hurry we can save the—”
Cole releases my wrist, picks up his own glass, and deliberately lets it fall. The crash echoes through the cellar.
My jaw drops.
Has the man lost his mind?
But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, the casual display of destruction just to prove a point.
“Stop apologizing.” His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer. “Stop trying to be perfect.” His lips brush my ear, then trail down my neck. “You’re more interesting when you’re not.”
I reach for him. “It’s just... I’m sorry, I should be more—”
“What did I say about apologizing?” His voice has an edge that makes my skin tingle. He tilts my chin up. “Unless, of course, your goal for the night is to do exactly that... please me .” He studies my face. “Is that what you’re doing, Sloane?”
I meet his eyes. Everything else falls away—the broken glass, my nerves, all my earlier doubts. There’s only this moment, this man, and the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.
A knock breaks through the tension. We both turn toward the stairs.
“Mr. Asher?” A staff member calls down. “Dinner is ready to be served.”
“Shall we eat?” His voice is rough. “I had them set up down here. No cameras.”
I nod, trying to steady my breathing as he leads me to where covered dishes await us on the far end of the table.
“I thought we deserved a proper meal after both working all day.” He pulls out my chair. “And I need to make sure you actually take the time to stop and eat.” The way he says it is both teasing and protective, like he’s already learned this about me.
Cole lifts the silver covers from our plates, revealing perfectly seared steaks with roasted vegetables.
“So this is how you impress all your business partners?” I pick up my fork. “Private wine cellars and intimate dinners?”
“Only the ones who break my expensive wineglasses.” He sits across from me, his eyes bright with amusement. “Though you’re the first to make me want to break one too.”
“I create chaos wherever I go. It’s a gift.” I cut into my steak. “Though usually I at least make it through the appetizer before destroying things.
“I notice you keep the French reds separate from the Italian ones.” I gesture at the wall of bottles. “Some might call that obsessive.”