Chapter Twenty-Eight Cole
F rom my office in the penthouse, I watch Sloane pace her studio through the security feed, her movements growing more agitated with each pass.
She’s been working with Hailey for days straight, their winter collection taking shape in gleaming black metals and crystalline accents.
But even through the grainy footage, I can see the tension building in her shoulders, the way her usual fluid grace has become sharp and brittle.
Knox appears in my doorway, leaning against the frame with barely contained amusement. “Your girlfriend attempted to leave the building this morning. Alone.”
“For?”
“Christmas shopping, apparently,” Knox says. “Said something about gifts for her entire family back in Montauk. She wasn’t happy when we redirected her back inside.” There’s a pause. “She’s getting restless.”
I watch the feed again, seeing the way she moves from workbench to window and back, like an animal testing the limits of its enclosure.
The security measures necessary to keep her safe are clearly starting to wear on her.
And, watching her now, I’m struck by the irony of trying to protect something wild by caging it.
“Set up everything I asked for earlier,” I tell Knox. “The works.”
When I enter the kitchen twenty minutes later, Sloane is already there, stabbing at her phone with more force than necessary.
She’s wearing one of my sweaters over her workout clothes, her hair a mess of tangles, and my collar still gleaming at her throat.
The sight of it—of her marking herself as mine even while bristling against my constraints—does something to my chest.
“I tried to find online shopping options,” she says without looking up. “Did you know your security team has actually blacklisted my favorite stores from delivering here?”
“Sloane—”
“I’m starting to feel trapped. Every time I try to step outside to get a breath of fresh air—”
“Sloane—”
“I can’t keep living in a gilded cage, Cole.
” She finally meets my eyes, and the frustration there is edged with something deeper.
“Even if it’s the most beautiful cage in Manhattan.
” She holds up her hand before I can speak.
“I know, I know, I have an intense deadline. And Hailey and I have made huge progress—we’re actually ahead of schedule.
But Christmas is coming, and I haven’t gotten a single gift for my family.
” Her voice softens. “I already can’t be there with them.
.. the least I can do is send something thoughtful.
” Her lips quirk despite her frustration.
“I mean, I hear there’s a whole city out there somewhere.
With stores full of Christmas gifts and everything. ”
Instead of arguing about security protocols and Julian’s latest movements, I study her for a moment. “Get dressed,” I say finally. “Wear something warm.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
I let myself smirk. “Because I’m about to be extremely extra, as your friend Chloe would say.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means dress warm. We leave in thirty minutes.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then shakes her head and heads for her room.
I hear her mutter something about “cryptic billionaires” as she goes, and I allow myself a small smile.
Knox has already set everything in motion—the rink, the decorations, the security preparations.
Time to remind her that even a gilded cage can have its doors opened.
When we pull up to Fifth Avenue an hour later, Sloane’s suspicion has shifted to excitement. I lead her toward the first store, watching her face light up at the holiday displays and twinkling lights adorning every storefront.
“You’re really going to help me shop for every single Whitmore?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“From babies to grandparents,” I confirm. “Though I confess I know nothing about what your teenage nephew might want.”
“Cole...” She turns to face me, her expression softer than I’ve seen in days. “This is... thank you.”
“Wait for it.” Right on cue, Knox appears with a team of discreet security personnel dressed as holiday shoppers. “You pick the items, they’ll handle the bags, and everything gets delivered to the penthouse for wrapping before shipping to Montauk.”
“Of course you turned Christmas shopping into a military operation,” she says with a laugh.
We spend the next few hours moving from store to store.
I watch Sloane carefully select each gift—cashmere for her mother, a rare first edition novel for her father, custom jewelry for her sisters, and an assortment of toys and clothes for the children.
She tells me stories about each family member as we shop, bringing them to life through her clear affection.
I find myself making mental notes, storing away the details of these people who matter to her.
As we’re walking between stores, Sloane suddenly stops, her attention caught by something across the street. I follow her gaze to a mobile pet rescue van parked near the curb, its side decorated with holiday wreaths and photos of animals needing homes.
“Can we look?” she asks, already moving toward it. “Just for a minute?”
Before I can object, she’s crossing the street, Knox and his team adjusting their positions with practiced ease. Inside the van, various dogs and cats are housed in temporary enclosures, volunteers managing the steady stream of interested passersby.
Sloane gravitates immediately to a pen containing a golden retriever puppy with oversize paws and soulful eyes. The volunteer explains that the puppy was found abandoned just a week ago.
“Look at him,” Sloane coos, scratching behind the puppy’s ears as it leans blissfully into her touch. “He’s perfect.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft. “I grew up with them. We always had at least two goldens at the house in Montauk.” Her expression grows wistful.
“My last one, Sailor, died right before I moved to the city. I’ve never gotten another one because.
..” She gestures vaguely. “Small apartment, crazy schedule, no yard.”
The puppy paws at the edge of the pen, trying to get closer to her. I check my watch, already calculating how this detour will affect our schedule.
She lifts the puppy up, cradling him against her chest. He immediately starts licking her chin. “Oh my god, you’re the sweetest thing.”
I take a step back when the puppy’s enthusiastic movements send a few golden hairs floating toward my custom suit. “These things shed everywhere,” I observe, brushing at my sleeve with mild distaste.
Sloane rolls her eyes. “He’s not a ‘thing,’ Cole. He’s a puppy.”
The volunteer approaches, smiling. “He seems to really like you. He was found taking his chances crossing the highway.”
“You’re kidding,” Sloane says, her eyes widening. “He was on the highway?”
“A truck driver saw him and stopped traffic. Brought him to us.” The volunteer shrugs. “Christmas miracle, I guess.”
“He deserves a good home,” Sloane says softly, nuzzling the puppy’s fur.
“You sure you don’t want to fill out an application?” the volunteer asks. “He’ll go fast.”
Before Sloane can answer, I interject. “We’re not looking for pets.” My tone is polite but firm, leaving no room for discussion.
Sloane’s face falls slightly, but she hands the puppy back to the volunteer. “Thank you for letting me hold him.”
“Knox,” I say, checking my watch again. “We’re running behind schedule.”
As we exit the rescue van, Knox falls into step behind us, but not before I catch his eye and give him a subtle nod toward the rescue van—a silent instruction he acknowledges with the barest tilt of his head.
I notice Sloane looking back once more at the van, but I say nothing as I guide her to the waiting car.
After completing our shopping, with gifts selected for every Whitmore family member, I direct the driver to our final destination of the day.
When we pull up to Central Park, Sloane’s expression shifts from wistful to curious.
I lead her toward Wollman Rink, watching her face as we round the final bend.
The entire rink has been transformed—ice sculptures of winter animals catch the morning light, while thousands of crystal strands create a shimmering canopy overhead, catching and fracturing the winter sun into rainbow prisms across the ice.
A custom hot chocolate bar has been set up in one corner, complete with every topping imaginable.
“You didn’t,” she breathes.
“I did.” I gesture to the empty rink. “It’s ours for the day.”
“The whole thing?”
“Including the very discrete security team disguised as rink staff.” I nod toward Knox, who looks decidedly uncomfortable in his bright red jacket with W OLLMAN R INK emblazoned across the back.
“Cole...” She turns in a slow circle, taking in the decorations. “This is insane.”
“Wait for it.” Right on cue, a woman in a Team USA jacket approaches. “Sloane, meet Jessica Martinez. She won silver in figure skating at the last Olympics, and she’s going to teach us how not to fall on our asses today.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Asher. This is right in my wheelhouse,” Sloane says with a grin.
Jessica’s eyes light up when Sloane mentions she skated competitively as a kid.
They immediately launch into a conversation about edges and jumps that might as well be in another language.
I watch as Sloane steps onto the ice with practiced ease, muscle memory taking over despite the years away.
Within moments, she’s gliding backward, testing old moves as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.
I, on the other hand, approach the ice with all the confidence of someone who’s never so much as seen a skating rink outside of television. My feet seem to have their own agenda, completely disconnected from what my brain is telling them to do.
“Keep your knees soft,” Jessica calls out, demonstrating with the same irritating ease as Sloane. “And remember to bend slightly at the waist.”