Chapter Thirty-One Sloane
M y feet are killing me, but I’ve never felt more alive.
Three hours of handshakes, subtle politics, and thinly veiled social warfare have left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
I catch Cole’s eye across a cluster of aging socialites who’ve been debating the merits of my spine necklace for twenty minutes, wondering if he’d notice if I kicked off these heels under my dress.
Probably. He notices everything.
I make my way to him, searching for a tactful way to suggest we leave without seeming ungrateful or overwhelmed. Maybe I could fake a headache? Though knowing Cole, he’d have a doctor here in ten minutes. Perhaps I could—
Cole’s entire demeanor shifts. The change is subtle—most wouldn’t notice—but I’ve learned to read him. His hand slides to my lower back, fingers pressing slightly harder than usual. His stance widens, angling his body partly in front of mine.
That’s when I see them. Three men in impeccable suits that somehow look wrong here, too sharp-edged for the polished wealth around us. They move through the crowd with practiced ease, but there’s nothing social about their approach.
“Ms. Whitmore.” The one in front smiles without warmth. “Quite a debut.”
Cole’s fingers flex against my back. His eyes are scanning the room, and I follow his gaze just as it lands on Knox, who’s already moving toward us with controlled urgency.
“Cole... Julian sends his regards,” another one says, his accent vaguely Eastern European. “He wasn’t aware you had another designer... for your line.”
My spine stiffens at his tone. Did Cole have another designer besides me at one point?
“To think,” the man continues. “Julian thought you were going to try to launch Claire’s designs this entire time. Instead you brought in”—he looks me up and down—“a body double.”
Cole remains quiet, but I can nearly feel the rage sizzling off his skin.
“I particularly admire that piece.” The first man gestures to my collar, his eyes lingering too long. “Is the line your design alone, Ms. Whitmore?”
“Why would you ask that?” I keep my voice steady, even as Cole’s hand tightens possessively at my waist.
Knox arrives just as the third man steps forward, speaking softly. “Julian just wanted to remind you that in this industry, the right connections are everything. And some connections”—his eyes flick to Cole, then back to me—“can become quite dangerous. For everyone involved.”
They melt back into the crowd before Cole can respond, leaving behind a chill that has nothing to do with the winter air outside. Knox moves closer, his expression grim.
“Time to go,” Cole says, and for once, I don’t argue about being protected.
The look in Cole’s eyes is murderous, but his touch remains gentle as he guides me toward the exit.
Knox flanks us, speaking quietly into his comm unit.
I notice how the security team materializes around us, a choreographed dance I’m starting to recognize.
I think of Chloe trying on gowns in my bedroom, teasing me about whether I’d actually asked Cole if he was in the mafia.
The memory almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“Cole?” I keep my voice low, steady despite the rapid beating of my heart.
“It’s fine.” His response is automatic, practiced. But I catch the way his eyes keep scanning our surroundings, the slight tension in his jaw. “Just a precaution.”
Right. Because everyone leaves their own gala with a small army of security. Just another casual Friday night at the Met. I want to make a joke about sleeping with the fishes, but the steel in Cole’s expression stops me.
“Car’s ready,” Knox murmurs. “Thompson caught them heading east on Eighty-Second.”
Cole’s jaw clenches. “And?”
“Two black SUVs. Diplomatic plates.” Knox’s voice drops lower. “Russian.”
I feel Cole’s entire body tense against mine. There’s an undercurrent to their exchange I don’t fully understand, but I recognize enough to know this wasn’t just a casual threat.
We emerge into the bitter night air, and I’m grateful for both Cole’s warmth and the armed men surrounding us. The exhaustion from earlier has transformed into something else—a humming awareness of danger that makes every shadow seem deeper.
“I’m sorry,” Cole says once we’re in the car. “We should have stayed longer. It was your night, and I had to cut it short—”
“What was that all about?” I turn to face him, sudden anger flaring. “Tell me the truth. All of the truth.”
Something shifts in Cole’s expression.
I fold my arms. “And what line are you talking about—his or mine? Because it sounds like there’s a race happening and I’m just now being told I’m in it.”
“Sloane.” Cole’s voice drops, his hands reaching for mine. “Let’s not do this now. You’ve had an amazing night. Your collection was incredible—”
“Don’t change the subject.” I pull my hands away. “What did he mean about another designer?”
Cole runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to Knox, who’s pretending not to listen from the front seat.
“It’s complicated,” he says finally.
“Uncomplicate it,” I snap.
“Not here.” He glances meaningfully at the partition between us and the driver. “Not like this. When we get home—”
“No.” My voice is steel. “Now.”
“I’m handling it—”
“You’re not handling anything! You’re sitting here refusing to tell me why I just got menaced by what I can only guess is the Russian mob at my own fashion debut!”
I narrow my eyes.
“Was I a pawn? My line—”
“Is going to be the best we’ve seen in a very long time,” Cole cut in.
“You are not a pawn. Yes, I brought you in to beat Julian’s line, but it’s because of your skill.
Your talent. Only your designs can beat what he’s trying to fake and pass off as Claire’s.
The minute I saw your work, I knew how truly talented you are. ”
“Why is he trying to do this? Why try to fake her designs?”
“Because Julian doesn’t want her remembered for what she actually was. He’s been rewriting the story—trying to frame his new line as the continuation of her legacy.”
“And mine gets in the way.”
“Yes.” Cole doesn’t sugarcoat it. “If your line comes first—if it’s better—then everything he’s built falls apart.”
I stare at him, pulse ticking in my throat. “You brought me in to stop him.”
He hesitates. Then nods. “You’re not the kind of talent you can fake. And that’s all he has—smoke and mirrors and stolen stories. I knew if you launched something real before he did, he wouldn’t recover.”
My breath catches. “So that was the plan all along.”
“Not all of it,” he says, softer now. “It started that way. But then you became... more.”
I cross my arms. “You could’ve told me.”
He sighs, and I can see the weight in it. “I didn’t want to put that pressure on you. Or that target.”
“Too late,” I whisper. “The Russians at the Met? The cameras everywhere? I’ve been in actual danger this entire time? I think it’s fair to say I’m a target.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
“Wait—” I put up my hands as realization crashes over me. “That night we met. The party. You approaching me wasn’t random, was it? You were fucking stalking me!”
Cole’s jaw tightens. “I was looking for you, yes.”
“So everything—” My voice catches. “Everything was calculated from the beginning.” Each word feels like I’m spitting out glass. “You needed someone to beat Julian, and I was the perfect candidate. Young. Hungry. Naive.”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Then what was it like, Cole?” I don’t try to hide the tremor in my voice now. “Did you even like my designs? Or was I just convenient? The right skill set with the right desperation to meet your timeline?”
“Of course I liked your designs—”
“Or was I just the closest thing to Claire you could find?” The question hangs between us, sharp and dangerous.
Cole flinches. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair!” My voice rises. “You’ve had me working around the clock to beat some deadline to piss off a rival, for a battle I didn’t sign up for, against people who apparently have no problem threatening me in public!”
“I was protecting you—”
“No.” I shake my head fiercely. “You were using me. There’s a difference.”
Knox shifts uncomfortably in the front seat, but I’m beyond caring who hears this.
“Sloane.” Cole reaches for my hand. I pull away. “I admit I wasn’t completely transparent about why I needed your line to launch so quickly. But everything else—us—that was real.”
“Real?” I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “You had me followed. You had security on me before I even knew I needed it. Our entire relationship has been built on things you decided I didn’t need to know.”
“To keep you safe—”
“To keep your plan intact,” I correct him. “I wasn’t your partner. I was your weapon against Julian. I need to know—are Hailey and Chloe safe? My family?”
Something flickers in Cole’s eyes. He glances at Knox, who’s already pulling out his phone.
“They’re safe,” Cole says. “But if it would make you feel better, Knox can arrange—”
“Security on them?” The words taste bitter.
“Eyes on their homes? Tracking their movements?” I run a hand through my hair, reality crashing in.
“Jesus. This is insane. A week ago I was worried about meeting collection deadlines, and now I’m standing here discussing putting surveillance on my best friends because some psycho with Russian mob connections—” I break off, my throat tight.
“This isn’t the life I signed up for,” I continue, my voice steadier now. “I wanted to design jewelry, not get caught in some vendetta between billionaires with dangerous friends.”
“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you—”
“You don’t get to make that call!” I’m shouting now, weeks of stress and exhaustion fueling my anger. “You don’t get to decide what risks I take, what battles I fight. That was my choice, and you took it from me.”
“Sloane, please—”
“No.” I shake my head, tears threatening. “I’m done being a pawn in your game.”
“Sloane.” Cole reaches for me, and this time I let him. “They’re safe. Julian won’t—”
“You don’t know that.” I press my face into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. “I don’t want them followed. I don’t want any of this. I just want him to go away.”
His arms tighten around me. “I know.”
But I can hear what he doesn’t say: wanting something doesn’t make it happen. And this isn’t going away.
I should protest. Should insist my friends don’t need to be dragged into this world of shadows and threats. But all I can think about is Chloe’s bright laugh, Hailey’s fierce loyalty, my mother’s quiet strength. And I know—if anything happened to them because of me...
The thought stops me cold. Because of me, and my choices.
Because somewhere between his first arrogant smile and this moment, I’ve fallen in love with Cole Asher.
The realization hits me like a physical force.
Love. When did that happen? And of course it would dawn on me now, discussing Russian mobsters and surveillance teams.
I pull away from him suddenly, like his touch burns. The cruel irony isn’t lost on me—realizing I love him at the exact moment I can’t trust him anymore.
“I need to go.” My voice is surprisingly steady. “Take me to Chloe’s place.”
“Sloane, it’s late, and after what just happened—”
“Take me to Chloe’s.” I don’t phrase it as a request this time. “Or I’ll call a cab.”
“Be reasonable,” Cole says, frustration edging into his voice. “It’s not safe for you to be alone right now.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Chloe.” I meet his gaze defiantly. “And I’m pretty sure I’m safer away from you at this point.”
I see the hurt flash across his face, but I’m too angry to care. Too scared. Too everything.
“We’ll drive you,” Cole says finally, his voice tight.
“Fine.” I turn toward the window, watching the city lights blur as tears fill my eyes.
The rest of the ride passes in tense silence. I can feel Cole watching me, can sense the words he wants to say building in the air between us. But he doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
What could he possibly say now that would make any of this okay?
I think about the collection waiting in my studio, all those hours of work, the joy I felt creating each piece. Was any of it real? Or was I just playing my part in Cole’s revenge story all along?
Was I just Claire Voss 2.0?
When the car finally stops outside Chloe’s house, I don’t wait for Knox to open my door. I reach for the handle, then pause, still facing forward.
“I need time,” I say quietly. “Don’t call me. Don’t send security. Don’t do anything.”
“Sloane—”
“I mean it, Cole.” I finally turn to look at him, hating the way my heart still lurches at the sight of his face. “It’s my turn to decide what happens next. I’m the one in control. Not you.”
I don’t wait for his response. I slip out of the car and into the cold night air, not looking back even when I hear his door open, even when I hear him call my name. I keep walking until I reach Chloe’s door, until I’m safely inside the house, until I can finally let the tears fall.