Chapter Thirty-Five Sloane
I wake to the sound of Cole having what appears to be a very serious conversation with our puppy.
“The tree is not a bathroom,” he’s saying in the same tone he probably uses for hostile takeovers. “We discussed this.”
Havoc’s response is the scraping sound of another ornament being batted across the floor.
I slip out of bed and peek around my bedroom door. Cole’s in his usual impeccable suit—he has a morning meeting he couldn’t reschedule—but he’s on his knees trying to extract a silver ball from under the couch while Havoc helpfully pounces on his tie.
“That’s Hermès silk you’re treating like a chew toy.” But he’s scratching behind Havoc’s ears even as he says it.
“Your tie collection was doomed the day we got him,” I say, and Cole looks up, caught in the act of baby-talking to a puppy. “I have photographic evidence of the mighty CEO on his hands and knees at seven in the morning.”
“Delete it.”
“Not a chance.” I snap another picture as Havoc successfully steals the tie. “This is definitely becoming my Christmas card next year.”
Cole stands, abandoning the tie to its fate. His eyes do that slow sweep that makes my skin heat. I’m wearing one of his dress shirts that I stole weeks ago, and his gaze lingers on my bare legs.
“I’m only going to be gone two hours,” he says, stepping closer. “Three at most.”
“We have all day.” I straighten his collar, deliberately brushing my fingers against his neck. “Go be a CEO. Havoc and I need to wrap your presents anyway.”
“About that.” He glances at the pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. “You do realize there are significantly more packages there than last night.”
“Knox helped me hide them in the garage. And before you say anything about excessive gift-giving, I saw your security team trying to be stealthy all week. They’re terrible at it, by the way. Even Havoc noticed them sneaking around with those giant boxes.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But the slight quirk of his mouth tells me otherwise. “Three hours,” he says again, and kisses me in a way that makes me seriously consider making him late for his meeting.
The moment he’s gone, I race to the kitchen.
I have precisely two hours and fifty-eight minutes to attempt something I’ve never done before—make Christmas Eve dinner.
Well, attempt to make Christmas Eve dinner.
I’ve got backup reservations at three different restaurants, but I’m determined to at least try the whole domestic goddess thing.
How hard can it be?
Two hours later, I’ve learned several important life lessons:
Cooking videos make everything look deceptively easy.
Setting off the smoke alarm once means Knox will appear in full tactical gear.
Setting it off twice means the entire security team will be hovering nervously in the hallway.
Setting it off three times means Knox will gently suggest ordering takeout while confiscating your oven privileges.
Knox clears his throat from the doorway.
“The cleaning service is here,” he says with admirable professionalism. “And may I suggest a cooking class for the new year?”
“That obvious?”
“Let’s just say I’ve seen less destruction in active war zones.”
The cleaning crew works miracles. By four, there’s no evidence of my culinary disaster, and Gloria’s team has transformed the dining room into something straight out of a magazine. The whole penthouse smells like roasting turkey instead of burning... everything.
Knox does a final sweep of the floor before his shift ends. “You’re all set. New team’s coming up in five minutes for the night shift.” He pauses at the elevator. “I’m heading home. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Knox. I’m sorry for all the commotion today.”
He grins. “Maybe stick to jewelry design.”
I’m still laughing as the elevator doors close. I head to my room to change—I bought a new red dress for tonight, wanting to look festive for our first Christmas Eve.
That’s when I hear the elevator again. Too soon for the new security team.
Too soon for Cole.
When I step into the hallway, it’s not Cole’s security team waiting for me.
I freeze in the hallway, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone before I remember it’s still in the kitchen.
The space suddenly feels too small, too confined, as I recognize the two broad-shouldered men flanking a third figure—the Russians from the Met gala, their expressions as cold and impassive as I remember.
But it’s the figure between them who holds my attention.
He’s a slight man, dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit that seems to absorb the light around him.
His silver hair is perfectly styled, his smile pleasant and practiced—like a politician’s, or a shark’s.
Everything about him screams old money and influence, right down to the signet ring on his right hand.
“Hello, Sloane,” he says, his voice carrying a slight accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Julian Voss.”
My throat goes dry. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, played out countless scenarios of finally meeting the man who’s been haunting the edges of my life. But standing here now, I realize none of my imagined confrontations prepared me for the reality of him.
“I must say,” he continues as he bends down to scoop up Havoc, who had bounded over to investigate the newcomers, “what a delightful puppy.” His manicured fingers scratch behind Havoc’s ears, the gesture almost gentle. The sight of my dog in his arms makes my stomach turn.
Something in my expression must show, because his smile widens slightly. I glance toward the security panel near the elevator, its light blinking red instead of the usual green. Somehow, they’ve disabled it.
“The new security team won’t be joining us,” Voss says, reading my thoughts. “I hoped we could have a private conversation.
“You remind me of Claire, you know. She had the same... fire.” His gaze drops to my throat. “Your designs are so close. Not exact, but close.”
One of the Russians steps forward, grabbing my arm with bruising force. I struggle instinctively, managing to land one solid kick to his knee before the second man pushes me against the wall, hand at my throat.
“Careful,” Julian says sharply. “She needs to be intact.”
I think of Knox, already headed home, and Cole, stuck in his meeting across town. My mind races, trying to calculate options, escape routes, anything.
I see the movement too late. The Russians step forward in perfect synchronization, and before I can scream, one of them presses a cloth against my face. The world begins to blur at the edges.
The last thing I see is Voss carefully setting Havoc down, the puppy’s tail still wagging as my vision goes dark.