Chapter Twenty Cole
T he sound of metal hitting the floor echoes through the studio as I enter. Sloane stands at her workbench, shoulders tight with frustration. The necklace she’d mentioned this morning lies in pieces before her.
“Damn it.” She pushes away from the bench. “Nothing’s working.”
She blows a strand of hair from her face, nose scrunched in concentration. Even when she’s frustrated, it’s impossible to take my eyes off her.
I check my watch. Eight o’clock. “You’ve been at this for twelve hours. Time for a break.”
She doesn’t look up. “I should keep working—”
“You need a break. And after the day we’ve both had, we need a change of scenery.” I take her arm, guiding her away from the bench. “And that’s not a suggestion.”
“If I keep having days like this, the collection won’t be ready.” She lets me help her into her coat anyway, still talking as I find her boots under the workbench. “The metal’s fighting me on every piece. Nothing’s flowing right.”
I kneel down, sliding the boots onto her feet while she steadies herself with a hand on my shoulder. For someone so resistant to being taken care of, she doesn’t pull away.
“The collection will be ready.” I stand, straightening her collar. “You’ve never missed a deadline. And I’ve never backed the wrong horse.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “Though you might be the most expensive bet I’ve made.”
The roof access requires my fingerprint and a code.
I watch her face as the doors open, catching the exact moment her eyes widen.
The entire space has been transformed. State-of-the-art heating lamps line the perimeter, casting golden light across the dark Brazilian wood decking.
White fur blankets drape over modern loungers and deep-cushioned sofas, arranged around sleek fire tables.
Strings of lights curve overhead, weaving between heated glass pergolas that shelter intimate seating areas while maintaining the view.
But it’s the center of the roof that draws her attention.
A professional photography setup gleams under the lights—cameras with lenses that cost more than most cars, soft boxes creating perfect illumination, reflective screens positioned at precise angles.
Behind it all stands a backdrop of white silk draped to look like snow drifts, with crystal icicles hanging from an ornate frame above.
In the corner, partially sheltered by a pergola, stands a massive Christmas tree.
Every branch holds crystal and silver ornaments, each piece catching and fracturing the light.
No colored lights, no tinsel—just pure winter elegance that matches the rest of the space.
The kind of tree that belongs in a place like this, sixty stories above the city.
The view through the glass walls takes in most of Manhattan.
The Empire State Building rises ahead of us, its spire bright against the night sky.
The Hudson River cuts a dark line in the distance.
Office buildings cluster close by, their windows still lit up despite the late hour.
Central Park opens up before us, darker than the surrounding blocks and dusted with the snow that fell earlier.
“God, this view is incredible,” she breathes, turning slowly to atake it all in. “I’ve lived here ten years and I’ve never seen the city quite like this.”
And then she sees her—Vivienne Moore, current Hollywood It Girl, sitting in a makeup chair while someone touches up her hair.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, turning to take it all in. “Cole, what is this?”
“Your jewelry deserves better photos than phone shots,” I say, enjoying her shocked face. “Vivienne agreed to model for a private shoot. The photographer’s ready whenever you are.”
She takes a few steps forward, touching one of the light stands like she can’t believe it’s real. “This is crazy. When did you even set all this up?”
“When I saw you were stuck,” I reply. “Sometimes seeing your work on someone else helps break through the block.”
“You arranged all this?” she asks, still stunned as an assistant approaches with a clothing rack—all whites and silvers that will make her jewelry pop.
“Your work deserves it,” I reply. “The collection needs good photos before launch. Something that shows what you’ve created. The edge, the beauty, the frost effect you’ve been chasing.”
“Fur blankets and all?” She runs her fingers over one of the blankets. Below, steam drifts up from the street vents. The low clouds suggest more snow is coming before morning.
“A frozen girlfriend would be significantly less entertaining.” The word slips out before I can catch it. Girlfriend. Like I’m sixteen instead of thirty-five.
She smirks but doesn’t comment as Vivienne walks over to us.
“Your jewelry is amazing,” Vivienne tells Sloane, genuine excitement in her voice. “Those dagger earrings made me feel like an ice villainess. In the best way.”
“Thank you so much! I’m thrilled you liked them,” Sloane says, her smile widening. Then she turns to me, eyes bright. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I pay attention,” I say simply. “Even to the things you don’t say out loud.”
We move toward the set where the photographer gives Sloane a nod. “Ready when you are. Your vision. I’m just here to capture it.”
Sloane hesitates briefly before her professional side takes over. I watch as she directs the shoot, placing pieces on Vivienne carefully, adjusting angles, suggesting poses that show off her designs.
“The necklace needs to catch the light right here.” She shows Vivienne, adjusting the centerpiece. “So the diamonds break the light instead of just reflecting it.”
I sit back, watching and occasionally asking questions as the shoot goes on. Despite her initial surprise, Sloane runs the set confidently, her vision clear. The photographer follows her lead, recognizing she knows what she’s doing.
“Today was pure hell before this,” she admits during a break while Vivienne changes. “I hate days when nothing works right.”
I nod, understanding. Sloane’s work is more than just jewelry; it’s art. Each piece carries a piece of her soul.
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” I suggest. “Sometimes, when we force things, they resist.”
She looks at me, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Is that your philosophy on relationships too?”
I chuckle, caught off guard by her directness. “Perhaps. Though I find some things are worth pursuing, even if they resist at first.”
Sloane’s eyes linger on mine for a moment before she looks away, her gaze drifting to the twinkling city lights beyond the rooftop. “I’ve never been good at forcing things,” she admits softly. “In my work or... otherwise.”
“That’s not always a bad thing. Your determination but also your flexibility is what’s gotten you this far.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And what about you, Cole? What’s gotten you this far?”
“Calculated risks,” I reply, watching her closely. “Knowing when to push and when to step back.”
Sloane nods, her fingers tracing the edge of her blanket. “And which are you doing now?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with unspoken implications. I consider my words carefully before responding. “I’m... assessing the situation.”
She laughs softly, the sound melting into the night air. “Always the businessman.”
“Not always,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger, tracing the curve of her jaw. “Sometimes I’m just a man who knows what he wants.”
Sloane’s breath catches, her eyes meeting mine. The sounds of the city fade into the background, and all I can focus on is how her skin feels under my fingertips.
“And what is it that you want, Cole?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
Instead of answering, I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she chooses. She doesn’t. Our lips meet, soft and tentative at first, then with growing intensity. I taste her lip gloss, feel the warmth of her skin as my hand cups her face.
When we finally part, both slightly breathless, Sloane’s eyes are wide with surprise and desire.
“I want this,” I say simply, my thumb caressing her cheek. “Us. No more dancing around it.”
She bites her lip, considering. “It’s risky. Isn’t the saying ‘You shouldn’t mix business and pleasure’?”
“Some risks are worth taking.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Well, you have always had good instincts when it comes to investments.”
“Is that what we’re calling this?” I raise an eyebrow, enjoying the way her smile widens.
“What would you call it?”
“Research and development?” I suggest, making her laugh.
“Just how much research are you planning to do?”
I grin, pulling her closer. “Oh, I intend to be very thorough.”
As we kiss again, Sloane relaxes into my embrace. Her fingers thread through my hair, and I feel the last bit of hesitation leave her body. When we finally break apart, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright.
“I think,” she says softly, “that this might be exactly what I needed.”
I pull her closer, wrapping us both in one of the fur blankets. “Good. That was the goal.”
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the photographer capture the final shots. Vivienne poses with the Manhattan skyline behind her, Sloane’s diamond crown catching the city lights perfectly.
The shoot wraps up around ten. Vivienne thanks Sloane warmly, genuinely impressed with the collection. “Those frost pieces are going to be everywhere next season,” she says as her assistant helps her into her coat. “Send me the pricing when they’re ready. I want first pick.”
The photographer and lighting crew pack up efficiently, the makeup artist trailing after them with her case. I watch Sloane thank each of them personally, her excitement visible as the photographer shows her a few preview shots on his camera.
“We’ll have the full set edited by tomorrow afternoon,” he promises, zipping up his equipment bag.
Within twenty minutes, they’ve all filed into the elevator, leaving us alone on the rooftop.