Chapter Twenty-Six Sloane
T he soft jazz fills Cole’s penthouse as we sway together by the fireplace.
His hand rests lightly on my lower back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
After our intense dinner conversation about Julian and Claire, this feels like needed relief—a moment to breathe, to be normal.
But my mind is racing faster than my heart as we sway to the music.
When the song ends and the room becomes silent, I step back, needing some space. My gaze wanders to the grand piano in the corner, gleaming in the low light. I walk over, drawn to it almost unconsciously.
“Do you play?” Cole asks, following me.
“Badly.” My fingers ghost over the keys without pressing them. “Though this is nicer than the upright I learned on.”
“Play something,” he says.
I shake my head. “I told you, I’m terrible.”
“Play anyway.” He sits on the bench, leaving space for me. “I promise not to judge. Much.”
I hesitate, then join him. My shoulder brushes his as I position my hands.
The moment my fingers touch the keys, something shifts in my posture.
I start with what I know are the opening bars of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”—precise, controlled, technically correct—before abruptly switching to a jazz rendition that would no doubt have given my old piano teacher a heart attack.
There’s this mischievous little smile on my face as I move further away from Beethoven.
My hands move with surprising confidence, like they’ve been waiting for permission to break the rules. I catch him staring, and my smile fades a bit—like I just remembered I’m showing him a side of myself most people don’t get to see.
“My mom used to play the piano,” he says quietly. “Every Christmas Eve. She believed she wasn’t very good either, but she loved it. Said music didn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”
My hands still on the keys. “My mother was the opposite.” Something in my voice makes him turn to study my profile.
“Everything had to be perfect. Piano lessons, skating, grades...” I press a key softly.
“She meant well, I think. Wanted me to have every advantage she didn’t.
But nothing was ever quite good enough.”
“Is that why you stopped playing?”
“No. Well, maybe.” My fingers start dancing across the keys again, this time playing fragments of Christmas carols that dissolve into improvised melodies that have nothing to do with the original tune.
“I had this teacher, Mrs. Caldwell. Ancient woman, smelled like mothballs. She’d rap my knuckles with a ruler when I tried adding my own flourishes.
” I laugh softly. “My mother was horrified when I quit formal lessons at sixteen. Even more horrified when she caught me playing pop songs by ear.”
“And now?”
“Now I rarely play at all.” I glance down at the keys. “Though she still asks me to play for family gatherings. I usually find an excuse.”
“Let me guess. She wants Chopin, and you want to play Chappell Roan?”
“It drives her absolutely insane. She calls it ‘noodling around.’”
I trail off, my expression distant as my playing softens. The melody becomes almost melancholy. I recognize that look in his eyes.
The weight of expectations never quite met.
“What excuse did you use for not going home for Christmas this year?” he asks.
“Work.” A faint smile touches my lips. “Which isn’t exactly a lie now, is it?”
“She’s still waiting for me to follow a more traditional path,” I continue quietly. “Dad’s a surgeon—the practical choice was always very clearly marked. She keeps sending me job listings for corporate design firms. Places with 401(k)s and dental plans.”
“Not exactly what you’re looking for?” he asks, watching how my fingers still move restlessly across the keys, unable to stay within the lines even in conversation.
“God no,” I say with a laugh that’s laced with half frustration.
“My mom’s all about structure and planning.
Like, her entire life is color-coded in her planner.
Meanwhile, I’m over here with fifty browser tabs open and my best ideas scribbled on coffee-stained napkins.
” I hit a discordant note deliberately. “She nearly had an aneurysm when she saw my apartment. Called it ‘chaotic’ like it was the worst insult she could think of. Calls me chaotic.”
“And are you? Chaotic?”
“Totally. But that’s where all the good stuff happens. In the mess, you know? My brain just doesn’t work in straight lines.” I shrug. “I just want to create something that matters.” My fingers trace the edge of a key. “Something that’s mine.”
I play a final chord that lingers in the air between us. The vulnerability of the moment suddenly feels too intense, so I stand from the bench and move toward the living area.
“Your turn,” I say, curling into the corner of the sofa. “Tell me about your first business deal.”
He settles beside me, his laugh low and self-deprecating. “It was a complete disaster.”
“How bad?”
“I tried to negotiate a software contract thinking I knew everything about everything. I was twenty-two, arrogant, and completely out of my depth.” He shakes his head. “Lost the deal and nearly bankrupted my first start-up in the process.”
“What happened?”
“I learned. Quickly.” His eyes fix on the city below. “Started over. Built something stronger.” He turns to me with that hint of a smile. “What about you? First real heartbreak?”
“Oh god.” I take a sip of wine. “Junior year of college. He was in the business program, very practical, very focused. Told me my jewelry was ‘too artistic’ for his taste. That I should consider something more... commercial.”
“Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Better. I designed an entire collection inspired by how much I wanted to strangle him. Won my first major award with it.”
Cole’s laugh echoes against the windows. “Of course you did.”
“What about you? First million?”
His expression shifts to something more contemplative. “By twenty-five. Lost it all by twenty-six.”
“What happened?”
“Market crash. Bad investments. Every mistake you can make when you think you’re invincible.” He takes a slow sip of wine. “Made it back triple by twenty-seven.”
“Just like that?”
“Nothing worth having comes ‘just like that.’” The city lights catch in his eyes. “But yes. Once I understood what I’d done wrong, the path back was clear.”
“Failure teaches you more than success?” I guess.
His smirk returns, wolfish in the dim light. “But success is significantly more comfortable.”
Something clicks into place as we talk. The drive I see in him, the relentless pursuit of excellence—it mirrors my own.
We’re both self-made, both pushing against the world’s expectations.
No wonder he understands my late nights in the studio, my need to prove myself.
He’s lived it too, just on a different scale.
A comfortable silence falls between us as we watch the snow drift past the windows, coating the city in white. I find myself shifting closer, drawn to his warmth, and Cole lifts his arm in silent invitation. I curl against his side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“This view never gets old,” I murmur, watching the flakes swirl in the lights from surrounding buildings.
“Mm.” His fingers find their way into my hair, absently playing with the strands. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice softer than before. “My first Christmas in the city, I was sixteen.”
Something in his tone makes me stay quiet, waiting.
“I bought myself a tiny plastic tree from a drugstore,” he continues, his voice distant with memory. “It was hideous. Perfect act of rebellion.”
I glance around at the crystalline winter wonderland he’s created. “Guess your war on real Christmas trees started early.”
“We’ve been through this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm.
“I know, I know. The mess.” I sigh, unable to let it go. “But imagine it, Cole. Right there.” I point to the empty corner by the window. “A seven-footer with that perfect pine smell. My mom always said a real tree brings the whole room together.”
“And brings half the forest floor with it,” he counters, but his eyes soften slightly.
“I’d clean up every single needle myself,” I promise.
“And we wouldn’t do anything fancy—just some colored lights.
Not white, they’re too sterile. And a few special ornaments.
Nothing matching or coordinated.” I can picture it so clearly: “Like this glass star my grandmother gave me before she died, and this ridiculous wooden moose my brother made in shop class.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “Or a lot.”
“It still doesn’t change the fact that—”
“That you’re impossibly stubborn?” I cut him off with a small smile.
His laugh is soft and warm, and as he draws me closer, I realize something that probably should terrify me but doesn’t: I’m falling for him. Not despite his revelations about his past, but partly because of them. Because he’s trusted me with the truth, even knowing it might change how I see him.
What does that say about me? That I’m sitting here in the arms of a man who’s just admitted to a past that should send me running, and all I can think about is how much I want to stay?
Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe this whole situation is crazy. But as Cole’s fingers trace patterns on my skin and the snow falls outside in silent swirls, I can’t bring myself to care.
“So what would you have done?” he asks suddenly, and I can hear the hint of amusement in his voice. “If I had turned out to be a serial killer?”
“Well,” I say, shifting to face him better, “I’ve never had sex with a serial killer before, so that would have been interesting.”
“That you know of.” His voice drops lower.
“True story.” I let my fingers trail along his arm. “Though I have to say, you’re doing pretty well in the dark and mysterious department without the murder.”