Chapter Thirty Cole #2
I note with satisfaction the models I’d arranged for—three willowy figures in white silk sheaths that serve as perfect backdrops for Sloane’s pieces.
They move through the crowd with practiced grace.
One wears a suite of white gold and diamonds that traces the elegant line of her spine.
Another displays an intricate collar of silver filigree and moonstones that draws every eye in the room.
The third wears a convertible piece that transforms from bracelet to necklace, demonstrating its mechanics to a captivated audience.
Every movement is choreographed to ensure the jewelry catches the light just so.
I keep my hand on Sloane’s lower back as we descend the curved staircase.
Her black dress moves like liquid shadow, making the diamonds at her throat and ears seem brighter, more alive.
Against the sea of bright colors—emerald silks, ruby satins, sapphire chiffons—she stands out like a perfect black diamond.
The crowd parts and re-forms around us. Women in designer gowns pause mid-conversation, champagne flutes forgotten in their hands.
Men in tailored tuxedos track our movement across the floor, their usual carefully maintained expressions slipping.
Within minutes, we’re surrounded by New York’s elite, all vying for introductions.
Diamond-draped socialites lean in close, openly staring at the delicate silver pieces adorning Sloane’s neck and wrists.
A well-known fashion editor actually reaches out to touch one of her earrings before catching herself.
Sloane handles it perfectly. She’s gracious but not eager, elegant but approachable. When asked about her collection, she speaks with quiet confidence about her inspiration, her techniques. She doesn’t oversell—she doesn’t need to. The pieces speak for themselves.
“Cole.” A familiar voice cuts through the crowd. Alexander Pierce, one of New York’s biggest collectors. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
I make the introduction, watching as Sloane charms yet another influential figure in the art world. But I’m also scanning the room, noting who’s watching, who’s making calls, who’s trying to get closer.
Let them watch. Let them see exactly who she is. What she’s capable of.
Let them all see that she’s not just mine. She’s a force of her own.
After an hour of introductions and carefully navigated conversations, I notice her fingers drifting to her collar more frequently—a habit she only falls into when she’s feeling overwhelmed. I lean close, my lips near her ear. “Come with me.”
I guide her through a hidden door behind a tapestry, into one of the Met’s private galleries. Here, the noise of the gala becomes distant, muffled. Ancient artifacts rest in glass cases, bathed in soft light. Sloane’s shoulders relax as she takes in our surroundings.
“How did you know I needed this?”
“You were starting to fidget with your collar.” I run my finger along its edge, feeling her pulse quicken. “You’ve been perfect out there. Every person in that room is either envying you or wanting to own a piece of what you create.”
She turns to face me, and in the dim light I see something fierce in her eyes. “I saw the models wearing my pieces. That was your doing?”
“You can’t wear everything you’ve created.
” I trace the line of her jaw. “And I want them desperate to see the full collection. The convertible piece on Isabelle has three society wives plotting how to get first dibs. The spine necklace on Sofia had Diana Winters taking notes. And that moonstone collar?” I smile.
“I’ve watched at least five women try to get James Morton’s attention, hoping he’ll buy it for them. ”
“You’re teasing them.”
“I’m creating demand. By the time we reveal the full collection, they’ll be ready to kill each other for it.” My thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Besides, you chose which pieces to wear tonight. The ones that matter most. The ones that show exactly who you are.”
“Tactical marketing through strategic torture? How very you.”
“Having second thoughts about any of this?”
“No.” She reaches up, adjusting my tie with familiar precision. “But I keep waiting for someone to see through it all. To realize I’m just a girl from Montauk who—”
I cut her off with a kiss, harder than I should in such a public setting, but I need her to feel the truth of it. When I pull back, my hand tightens on her waist. “You’re exactly who you’re meant to be. The girl from Montauk who’s about to have half of Manhattan fighting over her jewelry.”
“Only half?” One eyebrow arches as she smooths my lapel. “I must be losing my touch.”
“I saw three society wives ready to steal that convertible piece right off the model.”
“Careful.” Her lips curve into a smile against my jaw. “A girl could get used to this kind of power.”
“Good.” I trace the edge of her collar. “Because watching you own that room is incredibly attractive.”
“Is that why you dragged me into a dark corner of the Met? To tell me how attractive I am?”
“Actually, I dragged you into a three-million-dollar gallery of ancient artifacts.” I glance at the cases around us. “Much more dignified.”
She turns to one of the displays, her fingers hovering over the glass. “The craftsmanship in these pieces...” Her eyes light up the way they do when she’s studying something that inspires her. “I could spend hours in here.”
“Now who’s avoiding the party?”
“Says the man who orchestrated this escape.” The smile she gives me over her shoulder is pure temptation.
“That, and you look absolutely sinful in that dress.”
She brushes her thumb across my bottom lip, removing a trace of her lipstick. “We should get back. I have a room full of potential clients to seduce.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“You started it with those models in white.” She steps toward the door, then glances back over her shoulder. “Coming?”
I lead her back toward the noise and light of the gala, but not before catching the way she touches her collar, a gesture of confidence now rather than anxiety. Let them see that too—how thoroughly she belongs to me, even as she conquers their world.
We’ve barely rejoined the crowd when I spot Jasmine Walsh approaching, looking expensive but trying too hard in a dress that screams new money.
The owner of Moth to the Flame, where she’d spent two years trying to break Sloane’s spirit with manipulation and stolen designs.
The woman’s smile is sharp as cut glass.
“Sloane, darling.” Her air-kiss misses Sloane’s cheek by design. “Who would have thought you’d end up here?” She gestures broadly at the opulent ballroom.
My jaw tightens, but Sloane’s hand finds my arm, a subtle request to let her handle this.
“Jasmine.” Sloane’s voice is warm honey over steel. “I was just telling Diana Winters about my time at Moth to the Flame. How it taught me exactly what I didn’t want my brand to be.”
Jasmine’s perfectly lined eyes narrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Delicate. Girly. Lacking edge.” She pauses deliberately. “Derivative.” Sloane takes a sip of champagne. “But you’ve seen the pieces on the models. I’d love your professional opinion on how they compare to your current collection. The one inspired by Van Cleef’s 1950s archive?”
I hide my smile behind my glass. The woman’s latest line is a blatant copy of the classic jeweler’s work, and everyone in the industry knows it.
“I see success hasn’t improved your attitude.” Jasmine’s voice has lost its fake warmth. “I hope you remember who gave you your first real experience in this business.”
“Of course.” Sloane’s smile is radiant. “Your company taught me everything I needed to know about what sells... and what deserves better.” Her eyes flick meaningfully to the models displaying her work. “Something original.”
I watch Jasmine’s face flush as she realizes she’s not dealing with the same young woman she once lorded over. My possessive pride wars with the urge to step in, to put this woman in her place. But Sloane doesn’t need my protection. Not anymore.
“Well.” Jasmine clutches her clutch tighter. “I suppose we’ll see how the market responds to your... unique perspective.” She turns to me, desperation making her bold. “Cole, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in discussing some investment opportunities in established brands?”
“Actually”—I keep my tone pleasant even as I shift closer to Sloane—“I’m exclusively focused on supporting genuine innovation in the industry. Speaking of which—Diana’s waving us over.” I touch Sloane’s back. “Jasmine, if you’ll excuse us.”
As we walk away, I lean down to murmur in Sloane’s ear. “That was impressive.”
“The part where I eviscerated my former boss or the part where I didn’t let you do it for me?”
“Both.” I press my lips to her temple, not caring who sees. “Though watching you destroy her while smiling was incredibly arousing.”
She laughs softly. “Down, boy. We still have a room full of much more important people to impress.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” And it isn’t. Because the woman beside me isn’t just wearing confidence like her jewelry—she’s earned it.