Chapter Sixteen Sloane #2
“Some might call it respect for tradition.” His lips quirk up. “Though clearly I’m not as devoted to order as I used to be.”
“What gave it away?” I glance pointedly at the broken glass. He takes a slow sip from his glass.
“Let’s just say my priorities are shifting.”
“The steak is perfect,” I say, taking another bite. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t go with something more elaborate.”
“You struck me as someone who appreciates simplicity.” He watches me over his new wineglass. “At least when it comes to food. Your designs are anything but.”
“Says the man who spent three years hunting down a single bottle of wine.” I take another sip from my glass, considering him. “I’ve never met anyone so determined to get exactly what they want.”
His smile holds a hint of challenge. “You should look in the mirror.”
I lean back in my chair, fingers absently touching the necklace. “So tell me something I don’t know about Cole Asher. Something that isn’t in the press releases or Forbes profiles.”
“Trying to get the upper hand?” He cuts into his steak with precise movements.
“Maybe I’m just curious about the man who breaks thousand-dollar wineglasses to make a point.”
“Two thousand when you count the wine inside of it.” He sets down his knife with a smirk. “And what would you like to know?”
“Why jewelry?” I tilt my head. “Of all the investments you could make, why choose this collection?”
“Because you didn’t try to sell me on profits or market projections.” He studies me for a moment. “You showed me the pieces and let them speak for themselves. It’s rare to find someone that confident in their work.”
“Most people would call that arrogance.” I pause, studying his face. “But I think there’s more to it. Something you’re not telling me.”
Cole’s expression shifts subtly, a shadow passing over his features.
“Someone I once cared about was an incredible jewelry designer like you. She died and never got to complete her vision.” His voice grows softer.
“When I saw your work, I felt like it was important to support you, to show the world what you could create. And maybe... maybe it honors her memory too.”
My heart beats faster. “Who was she?”
“Her name was Claire,” he says, the words coming reluctantly.
“Claire?” I lean forward, a suspicion forming. “Wait—Claire as in Claire Voss?”
Cole’s eyes meet mine, and he gives a small, tight nod. “Yes.”
“Oh my god!” I can’t hide my excitement.
“I studied her work obsessively in design school! Her use of negative space, the way she incorporated unexpected materials—” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Her pieces weren’t just jewelry; they were tiny sculptures that told stories.
I have her portfolio book dog-eared to death.
Everyone was devastated when she died so young. ”
Cole nods again, his jaw tightening in a way that tells me not to push further.
I can see the pain in his eyes, and suddenly a thousand questions flood my mind.
How did he know her? Were they close? What really happened to her?
But I don’t ask. Instead, I reach across the table and briefly touch his hand.
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his own glass slowly between his fingers.
His eyes drop to my wrist, and his expression shifts. “You’re not wearing the frost bracelet.”
I follow his gaze to my bare wrist and sigh. “It’s not finished yet.”
“Not finished?” His voice takes on an edge. “I thought I was clear that I needed it completed by tonight.”
I set my fork down. “Look, the stones weren’t working with the setting. I needed to reconfigure the entire clasp mechanism. It wasn’t ready.”
“Sloane.” The way he says my name is both caress and warning. “We have deadlines for a reason. The frost bracelet is central to the winter collection. When I say I need something by a specific date, it’s not a suggestion.”
I feel my hackles rise. “That’s not how creative work happens. I can’t just force it because of some arbitrary deadline you’ve set. The piece speaks to me when it speaks to me.”
“Arbitrary?” His jaw tightens. “The New Year’s launch isn’t arbitrary, and neither is the timeline leading up to it. Every piece needs to be completed, photographed, and cataloged. There’s PR, marketing, distribution—”
“I know how a product launch works,” I cut in. “I’ve been doing this for years. And I’ve never missed a deadline that actually mattered.”
Cole’s eyes narrow. “This one matters, Sloane. More than you know.”
For the first time, I notice the tension in his shoulders, the slight crease between his brows. This isn’t just business-as-usual Cole. He’s genuinely stressed about the timeline.
“Why?” I press, leaning forward. “Why is this date so important? What aren’t you telling me?”
He takes a slow sip of his wine. “The date is nonnegotiable. That’s all you need to know.”
“No, it’s not.” I push my plate aside. “If I’m going to be a part of this, I need to understand the business side too. I’m not just some... some monkey with a soldering iron, churning out pretty baubles on command.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “A monkey? Is that what you think I see you as?”
“I don’t know what you see me as,” I counter. “But it’s clearly not as a full partner in this venture. You keep me in the dark, dictate deadlines without explanation, and expect me to just fall in line.”
“I brought you in for your creative vision,” he says, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Your talent. Your unique perspective. I’m not looking for a business partner. I’ve been down that road before. I’m looking for an artist who can deliver on time.”
“Deliver on your schedule, you mean.” I stand up, my appetite completely gone. “Well, guess what? Art doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way.”
“Everyone works according to deadlines, Sloane. That’s how the world functions.”
I hate how he says my name when he’s pissed.
“Not my world.”
“It is now.” His tone is final. “You signed a contract.”
The mention of the contract stings more than I want to admit. Because he’s right. I did sign it. I needed this opportunity. I needed his backing, his resources, his connections. Without them, my designs would still be sketches in a portfolio that no one would ever see.
“Fine.” I toss my napkin onto the table. “I’ll go work on your damn bracelet. Right now. Will that make you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I turn to leave, then pause. “You know, I may need your money to make this happen, but you need my creativity just as much. Your capital is worthless without my vision to turn it into something real.”
“Artistic genius that never makes it to market is just wasted potential.”
His words hit harder than I want to admit. Without another word, I head for the stairs, already mentally sketching the modifications I’ll need to make to that fucking bracelet tonight.
Behind me, I hear another glass shatter against the floor.
Back in my studio, I channel my frustration into creating something new. Four hours of work and the bracelet transforms into something else entirely—twin cuffs connected by a platinum chain.
I make them cold and sharp, with jagged crystals that catch light like actual frost. The silver metal has a matte finish that looks like ice against skin. The clasp I’ve been fighting with becomes a locking mechanism that can tighten the chain between the cuffs.
It’s not just jewelry anymore. It’s power. Control. The kind that makes your pulse quicken.
I’m admiring my work when the knock comes at my door. I know it’s him.
“What?” I call out, not looking up.
The door opens. Cole stands in the doorway, tie gone, sleeves rolled up, tension visible in his shoulders. The argument from earlier still hangs between us, but there’s something else now too.
“You shouldn’t be working this late,” he says, his voice low, not moving past the threshold until I explicitly invite him in.
“Deadlines, remember?” I hold up the finished pieces. “Happy now?”
His eyes focus on what I’ve created. “Those aren’t bracelets.”
“They are. Just not what you expected.” I stand, moving toward him. “They’re exactly what this collection needs.”
“Restraints?” he asks, still not stepping into the room, though his knuckles whiten where he grips the doorframe.
“Cuffs,” I correct. “Functional jewelry. Come in and I’ll show you.”
The invitation hangs between us.
“Are you sure about that? Once I enter...” Cole’s voice is controlled, but I can hear the tension underneath.
I hesitate, knowing where this might lead. “Yes.”
His eyes darken as he steps across the threshold, closing the door behind him.
“Put out your hand,” I say, testing how far this new power dynamic will go.
“I’m the one that gives the orders.” His voice drops lower, a warning that sends heat through me.
“Scared?” I challenge.
Something shifts in his eyes. He extends his hand, palm up.
I place one cuff in his palm instead of on my wrist. “You want control so badly? Here it is.”
Cole studies the cuff, running his thumb over the locking mechanism. “You’ve been holding back on me.”
“You have no idea.”
His eyes snap to mine.
Without breaking eye contact, I hold out my wrists. “Go ahead.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he steps closer, his body radiating heat. He takes the first cuff and locks it around my left wrist, his fingers brushing my skin.
“Both,” I say, my breath catching.
He secures the second cuff on my right wrist. The chain between them is short, maybe six inches. Not enough to pull my arms apart.
He yanks the chain, pulling me against him. Our bodies collide. His free hand grips my hair, tilting my head back.
“This what you want?” he asks, his eyes dark.
His grip tightens. The sting on my scalp only heightens my need. I’ve never wanted something... someone so much in my life.
“Yes...”
His mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is intense, hungry, with all the tension that’s been building between us since we met. I bite his lower lip, and he pushes me backward until I hit the wall, my bound hands trapped between us.
I’m vulnerable, and I fucking love it.
He breaks the kiss, both of us breathing hard. His hand slides from my hair to my throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Once I step forward, I never step back. You better be fucking sure.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” His thumb moves along my jaw. “Because once we cross this line...”
I answer by pressing forward against his hand, forcing him to either tighten his grip or let go.
He doesn’t let go.