What a Massive Idiot
Sloane
There’s a very specific moment at night when rationality packs its bags and paranoia moves in.
I was trying not to think about Cohen.
Honestly.
I saw him today.
And God help me… he was even more gorgeous and infuriating than usual.
At least we had a productive workday. No interruptions.
And I was genuinely, aggressively committed to forgetting his stupid face. I even started reading a Scandinavian architecture essay to bore my brain to sleep.
But then my phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
A hundred times.
The WhatsApp group “Elm Hollow Spies” (admin: Francis Grande) had detonated.
Francis: ?? RED ALERT.
Francis: Suspicious sighting. Becker’s Porsche just tore out of Voss’s driveway like the devil was chasing it.
Aunt Tina: At this hour? But the shops are closed! He can’t buy more lingerie!
Miss Lacey: Sweetheart, at this hour the only thing you buy is trouble. Or you’re on your way to… create trouble.
Francis: Heading toward the state road. Toward The Velvet Room in Foxglove Hills.
Joyce: The Velvet? Isn’t that the club… the one where the models go?
The phone slips out of my hands and lands on the pillow.
The Velvet Room.
I bolt upright, ripping the face mask off with a damp towel without even checking the mirror.
I swear I’m not the kind of woman who behaves like this.
But… I can’t stay here.
I can’t sit on this couch imagining him walking into that club, ordering a drink, smiling at some long-legged girl with easy intentions.
I have to know.
I need to look him in the face and see whether he’s the Cohen from the porch or the Cohen from the tabloids.
I yank on the first things I find: black leggings, an oversized sweater, snow boots. Grab my keys. Step into the freezing night.
This isn’t jealousy.
I chant it in my head as a thousand scenarios flash by.
This isn’t jealousy.
It’s professionalism.
Self-preservation.
My father was clear:
No more screwups.
No more scandals.
Cohen has to stay in line if he wants back on the team—and if we want this reality show to not become a national joke before it even airs.
We worked hard. I worked hard.
And now? The first chance he gets, he bolts into the night to party with some model at the Velvet?
Snow crunches under my boots as I stalk toward my SUV.
“Not this time, Becker,” I growl, starting the engine. “I’m not letting you ruin all my work just because you can’t keep your zipper shut.”
The Velvet Room isn’t a club.
It’s a black hole made of dark bricks and tinted glass, surrounded by a velvet rope separating mortals from the chosen (or the desperate).
The purple neon sign buzzes in the cold like a lure for bad decisions.
I spot Cohen’s Porsche immediately—parked diagonally across two spaces like whoever drove it bailed out mid-roll.
I slam my car door shut, December air slicing my cheeks like glass. My fury keeps me warm.
I expected to find him inside.
I’d rehearsed the speech during the drive: I would bribe a bouncer, kick open the VIP room, find him with a model on each knee and that infuriating grin on his face.
But reality hits me like a punch.
Cohen is outside.
In front of the VIP entrance.
But he’s not going in.
A bouncer the size of a vending machine blocks the door, arms crossed over a chest made of steel.
Cohen is frantic.
Running a hand through his hair, pacing backward like a caged animal, then surging forward again.
And he’s wearing only a T-shirt.
No jacket. No scarf.
Just black cotton against five degrees below zero.
He’s shaking. I can see the tremors from here.
I stomp across the slushy parking lot.
“Congratulations, Becker!” I shout, my voice slicing through the night.
He spins around.
I expect annoyance. Arrogance.
But what I see is panic.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the hazel. He’s pale, sickly pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and two days of beard.
“Sloane,” he breathes. His exhale blooms into a desperate white cloud. “Go home.”
“Like hell I will!” I snap, stepping right in front of him. I shove him back with a hand on his chest, resisting the urge to punch him. His skin is freezing through the shirt, but the muscles underneath are wound tight as cables.
“You’re pathetic! My father was crystal clear: no scandals. No screwups. And here you are, outside the sleaziest club in the county, trying to get in for another one of your nights—”
He’s not even listening.
His gaze keeps darting over my shoulder, toward the door, like I’m invisible.
“Move,” he growls—except his voice cracks. “I need to get inside. That gorilla won’t let me through because I’m not on the list. I—I need to—”
I shove him again, harder.
“Of course they won’t let you in! You’re a walking liability! And guess what? I’m done with you! WHO’S INSIDE, HUH? Your ‘princess’? Is that who you’re so desperate to reach? Did she promise you a night you won’t forget—”
Cohen breaks.
He grabs my shoulders.
Not violently—like a drowning man clinging to the nearest lifeline. His fingers dig into my coat, trembling.
He looks into my eyes and there it is:
Terror.
Raw, savage terror.
“Stop,” he whispers, voice shattering. “I told you… it’s not…”
He shakes his head, breath coming in short, painful bursts.
“It’s my sister, Sloane. It’s Grace.”
The world stops.
Traffic.
Music from inside the club.
The wind.
All of it disappears.
“What?” I whisper.
“She’s my sister,” he repeats, and a single frustrated tear freezes on his cheek. “She’s eighteen. She called me half an hour ago. She was sobbing. She could barely talk—slurring—I think she’s drunk out of her mind or someone gave her something.”
Cohen releases my shoulders like his strength has evaporated. He scrubs his palms over his eyes, doubling over, shaking uncontrollably.
“She said she was here, that she didn’t feel good and wanted to go home. Then the line dropped. She’s inside, Sloane. She’s in there alone, with those predators, and I’m stuck out here like an idiot who can’t get past a bouncer. I… I promised I’d protect her…”
My stomach drops to the pavement.
Nausea hits fast and sharp.
His little sister.
All my paranoia, my jealousy dressed up as ‘professional concern,’ my accusations…
I feel small.
Dirty.
Like the world’s worst human.
I look at Cohen—the man I assumed was just an egotistical player—now shaking in fear because he can’t reach the person he loves most.
“Cohen,” I say, steadying my voice even though my hands are shaking.
He lifts his head.
His eyes are red, bloodshot.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits—soft, broken, terrifyingly honest. “If I try to force my way in, they’ll call the cops. I’ll be in cuffs before I find her. But I can’t leave her. I can’t.”
Instinct takes over.
I am Sloane Heart.
I solve problems for a living.
And this man—this brilliant, infuriating, terrified idiot—needs me.
“They’re not calling the cops,” I say, grabbing his hand.
It’s ice-cold, limp in mine.
I squeeze his fingers, interlacing them to anchor him.
“And you are going inside.”
He looks at me, confused, uncomprehending.
“I tried paying him. I tried threatening him. I—”
I straighten, flip up the collar of my coat, lift my chin.
“Did you forget who I am, Becker?”
I tug him gently, pulling him out of his frozen panic.
“I’m the owner of Cupid’s Agency. I plan the most exclusive events in three counties. I know the owners of this club. I matched that bouncer’s cousin last year and he still owes me a favor.”
I meet his eyes.
Ground him.
Promise him.
“Let’s go get her.”