Chapter Three
Sloane
“What do you want from me, Chickadee?” I bite, looking up from my computer.
Chicora Deangelo, my executive assistant, stands firmly in front of my desk, her arms crossed. She looks at me like I’m a damn child, but then again, I’m sure to her, I am.
She is old enough to be my mother, but sometimes I think she forgets she’s not.
“Well, for starters, you could maybe not fire every single assistant I send your way and make more work for me.”
I sigh as I place my hands in my lap, swivelling my chair to give her my full attention.
“I wouldn’t need to fire any of them if you sent me capable assistants in the first place.”
Chickadee’s expression does not move nor does it betray any emotion. She holds her ground, as she always does. And we have this conversation more often than I wish to admit.
But it’s not untrue. The assistants she hires are not capable of meeting my needs. It’s that simple. Why should I pay these people if they aren’t doing what I need them to do in the first place? If I have to hand-hold, I might as well do this shit myself.
Which is exactly what I’ve told her a million times since the company expanded into this building at the beginning of the year.
I built this company from the ground up myself. I was the one taking the risks and pushing for investors and making the calls and scheduling the meetings for the last few years before Veil got the recognition and the success it deserved. I’m more than capable of running my business myself.
But I digress.
Chicora thinks I work too much, and I need to delegate some duties. I don’t disagree, but I love my job. Truly.
Veil has been my dream since college, but honestly, it’s been longer than that.
It’s been my whole life, I think. All I’ve ever wanted is to keep people safe, and because of me—because of the glitch I discovered while working with my ex, now I can.
And if I keep myself busy, trapped inside my work, I can keep myself safe from the monster inside of me.
That’s what Chickadee doesn’t understand. I need my work. I need to be in control, or else…
“Portia was more than capable. She had a Masters from MIT, Sloane.”
I try not to react to her informality. After all, Chickadee is the only one of my staff who I permit to call me by my first name, and that’s only because of our mutual respect and long-standing relationship.
I’ve known her since I was a teenager. She used to be friends with my mother, before she died.
I fidget with the frame of my watch. It’s not the informality as much as the tone. The judgment.
As if I’ve disappointed her.
But Chickadee doesn’t understand the complexities of my needs. She doesn’t understand what she doesn’t know, and I don’t intend on giving her that kind of access to me. Friend of my mother’s or not.
I learned after my ex, it’s best not to give anyone access they don’t deserve.
“Portia could not figure out how to work the espresso machine,” I drawl.
“A woman with a Masters in mechanical engineering should be able to make coffee.”
Chickadee’s eye twitches, the only sign that I’m getting under her skin. I smirk. Good, maybe she’ll leave me in peace so I can do my fucking job.
“You did not seriously fire the woman because she didn’t make your coffee correctly.” Chickadee pinches the bridge of her nose as she sucks in a breath.
“Of course not,” I say matter of factly. She lets out a sigh. “I fired her because she didn’t bring me my coffee.”
Chickadee lets out a frustrated growl, and I swivel back to my computer.
She’ll get the message. Eventually.
“Sloane Alexander Pierce,” she huffs. “If you do not stop this foolishness—”
I ignore her, checking my email for what might be the hundredth time today. I swear, it’s like a compulsion. I can’t help myself. My fingers need to be moving, or they get twitchy.
And if they get too twitchy, the monster starts to get hungry, and I’m not exactly intent on feeding him anytime soon. Not now, with all I’ve built.
He was great when I was with my ex. That hunger, that need drove me more than I want to admit, and it helped me get to where I’m at, but now…
After what happened with Robert, my ex, I can’t trust anyone, and I certainly can’t trust myself. Which is why I need to keep moving, keep working…
“Sloane!” she bites, that motherly tone grating on my nerves and making me turn around without question, which I hate.
I hate anyone having power over me in any way. It makes me feel weak and inferior, and I am neither of those things. For fuck’s sakes, I’m Sloane Pierce. I’m one of the richest men in the world right now. I don’t bow to anyone.
Except Chickadee, apparently.
“What?” I snap. “What will you do? I could have you fired, too, you know!”
Chickadee raises one eyebrow at me. If she is bothered, she doesn’t show it.
I swear, she has the resting bitch face of a stone-cold killer, sometimes.
“Do you want to end up like your father, Sloane?” she asks, and immediately the blood drains from my face. How dare she.
How fucking dare she bring him up now, here…
“That’s not fair, Chicora. You know that I’m nothing like him.”
My heart pounds like a freight train, panic lacing through me as I try to fight the memories of him. What’s left of them, anyway.
“You are so much like him, it’s not even funny,” she says carefully, shaking her head.
“I’m not a coward,” I recant.
“You can’t do this alone, Sloane,” she says, taking two steps forward.
“Watch me,” I bite.
She comes around to the side of my desk. I have half a mind to move away from her, to turn my back on her, but the stupid little voice inside me craves the closeness.
She’s all I have left.
She’s the closest thing I have to family. She might be the only person left in my life I can trust. At least, when it comes to my business and my past.
“You need help,” she says softly. It’s the way she says it. Like she’s not just talking about someone to bring me my coffee and schedule my meetings.
Like somehow she knows deep down what I can’t say even if I wanted to.
Like she knows I’m slipping, even though she doesn’t know the darkness that claws at me from the inside, begging to be set free.
“I’m fine,” I say, but even I can hear the sharpness in my voice. The lie.
She knows it, and I know it, too.
“You are not. When is the last time you left this office?” she asks. “When was the last time you went on a date?”
I shake my head. I’ve never told Chickadee about my preferences.
Even when I was with my ex, most people knew him as my business partner, not my partner.
And I was fine with that, mostly, given the nature of our relationship.
No one needed to know that I like men, and that I like making them submit to me.
Least of all my investors and my staff. And maybe there was a part of me that kept that part of my life secret because I knew I’d get here faster if I pretended to be someone I wasn’t, and that’s exactly how I got here.
That’s exactly how the self-made billionaire bachelor playboy Sloane Pierce became a household name.
But it’s not the truth, and it’ll never be the truth. I can’t afford to be honest.
Not even with Chickadee.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “I don’t have time for a relationship, Chickadee, and I don’t need some woman to be fulfilled.”
What I need is something I can’t have. Ever.
“I’m not saying you need to be in a relationship, sweetheart. I’m just saying if you don’t loosen the reins, you’re going to end up miserable and alone.”
Her words settle on me, and I hate that they make my stomach flip. I hate the anxiety that festers because a part of me worries she’s right.
It’s been nearly eight months since Robert and I broke up, and I fired him.
I should have known not to mix pleasure with business, but I thought then that I could trust him.
I was stupid. Relationships are nothing but collateral. Leverage that can be used against you.
Robert taught me that, for better or for worse. I let my guard down once, I am not going to do it again.
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with my hiring an assistant,” I tell her firmly. “You are out of line, Chickadee.”
She lets out a heavy sigh.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says carefully. I look up at her familiar brown eyes, her stern face. Sometimes I swear she looks like my mother, even though they aren’t related.
Maybe it’s the harsh expression or the wrinkles or the overbearing need to make me hear her. Her stubbornness to not let me ignore her.
“What’s that?”
“I have a candidate for the open position. His name is Oliver Green.”
I sigh as she holds my gaze.
“I told you, I don’t need—”
“Give him three months, Sloane. Three, that is all I’m asking. If you still feel like he’s incapable of meeting your expectations, then he will be the last one you fire.”
Her tone is serious and makes me sit up straighter.
“Oh, really? And what of all this extra work for you?”
“Do this for me. Give him a chance, and I will back off. About the job, about your personal life…”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, her eyes filling with tears. I sit up straighter. I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry. Chicora never cries… least of all in my presence.
“Then I will put in my resignation, because I will not watch you work yourself to death, Sloane. I will not watch you wither away, like I had to watch him.”
Her words strike me in the chest, hard.
It’s not the words themselves, but the sincerity. The raw truth.
She means what she says, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I can’t do my job without her. Training someone else to take her place would take months, and I know they wouldn’t do the job half as good as Chickadee.
Not to mention the time and money it would take to hire someone, and in the meantime I’d likely be doing the work of three people.
It’s not practical.
I can’t afford to lose her, but I hate that she is putting me in this position.
Forcing my hand.
I hate to be forced into anything and she knows it. So I know she’s more than serious.
I let out a deep, heavy breath of my own, speaking through gritted teeth.
“When does he start?”