Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ivy
I’ve been performing all my life. I make a living pretending to be someone else—slipping into roles, costumes, the bright lights of the stage.
Pretending I’ve got my shit together. That I’m talented enough.
Pretty enough. Slim enough. Tuning out the voices that never fail to whisper I don’t measure up.
But as I stare up at the name Black Capital emblazoned across the entrance in impenetrable steel, the glass tower slicing into the clouds like it rules the whole damn city, I realize I’ll have to give the performance of a lifetime if I’m going to pull the wool over Dane Black’s dusky eyes.
Black Capital was built in Dane’s mold. Ruthless. Untouchable. The crown jewel of Wall Street’s power brokers. A titan that chews through companies and spits out empires. My sister is living proof that you don’t just work at Black Capital—you survive it.
I’ve never paid Dane Black much thought, apart from the occasional thirst-trap headlines plastered across social media’s most eligible bachelor lists.
Him shirtless, cut muscles glistening as he conquers yet another Ironman for fun.
Him in a hand-stitched tux, a striking beauty draped on his arm, his jawline as cutthroat as the man himself.
To the world, he’s charisma, discipline, and raw power wrapped in a perfect package.
To me, Dane Black represents everything I despise. The arrogance of privilege. The entitlement of a man born into power who treats life like a game he can’t lose.
Sloane still talks about Black Capital’s airline bet.
When a European budget carrier announced a flashy expansion, every analyst swore it would soar.
Dane didn’t buy it. He shorted the stock so aggressively that people thought he’d lost his mind.
Weeks later, oil prices spiked, the airline crumbled under debt, and Dane walked away with billions, while the company’s CEO was forced out.
That was the moment everyone learned: if Dane Black bets against you, you’re already finished.
It’s the kind of story Sloane repeats with awe. I hear it as a warning.
Sloane likes to remind me—usually when I’m ranting about the brutal hours he demands—that it hasn’t always been easy for him.
His fiancée and mother were killed in a car accident a few years back.
It’s her favorite comeback, and one she knows I can’t argue against without sounding like a heartless bitch.
From what she says, he never really recovered.
Just... switched off. Buried himself in building Black Capital higher, harder, colder.
And until today, none of it mattered to me beyond how it affected Sloane. I just wish she didn’t work somewhere she feels the need to hide Elsie, like being a single mom is something to be ashamed of.
With a sigh, I pull Sloane’s blazer tighter and step through the revolving doors, her instructions echoing in my head, her hastily scrawled notes the only weapon in my armory.
Inside is like stepping into another world.
The lobby gleams like a shrine to the mighty dollar.
People glide past in designer suits, moving with purpose, phones pressed to their ears, polished brogues and Louboutins clicking across marble floors.
I straighten my shoulders, attempting to radiate a confidence I don’t feel.
I’m barely inside the door before the first hit lands.
“Morning, Sloane,” a man I don’t recognize says, like we’re old friends.
I nod, my stomach tightening, and slip into the closing elevator.
Inside is no better. A middle-aged man in a gray suit leans back against the wall, openly ogling my chest in a way that screams office perv.
“Busy day today, Sloane,” he says, eyes lingering where they have no business being. “The London acquisition is gathering pace.”
“It is,” I manage, a hot flush creeping up my neck.
“Between you and me,” he adds, stepping closer, his gaze still glued south, “assistants rarely last long with him, so you must be... exceptional.”
I’m not sure if he’s referring to my breasts or Sloane’s work ethic. Either way, there’s no sign of the day getting any better.
I clear my throat and plaster on a smile that feels brittle. “Thank you,” I squeak, praying the elevator hurries the hell up before he asks me something I can’t fake.
The elevator glides open onto the executive floor, and for a moment, I freeze. It’s quieter up here; the silence only adding to the dread. Glass walls frame corner offices; assistants tap efficiently at keyboards, their voices kept low and professional.
Sloane’s directions loop through my head—straight past reception, left at the glass conference room, second desk on the right—simple enough, if my legs weren’t trembling like I’m about to audition for the wrong show entirely.
“Morning, Sloane,” a woman with a perfect blowout greets me as she sweeps past, not waiting for a reply.
Another man in shirtsleeves gives me a quick nod, as if we’ve worked together for years.
I force a smile, clutching my bag tighter, praying I don’t mess up the simple act of finding a desk.
But true to her meticulous nature, Sloane’s desk is exactly where she said it would be, positioned outside heavy oak double doors, the name Dane Black glinting at me ominously from a polished brass plate.
Sloane’s desk—my desk—is as orderly as expected. The archetypal charts and lists she’s been compiling since she could pick up a pen adorn the area in perfect symmetry.
There’s no picture of Elsie, nothing personal at all, and the absence makes my chest tighten, quietly reinforcing my resolve not to screw this up for her.
I log in with Sloane’s password, and the screen flickers to life.
The desktop is a battlefield of folders, but one blinks at me like a bomb about to go off: LONDON.
I click it.
Spreadsheets. Briefing notes. Names and faces of board members. Articles about public outrage. Rival bidders. A crisis communication plan.
The target: The Bexley Group. One of Britain’s oldest media empires—newspapers, TV, radio. They’ve been bleeding money for years, struggling to adapt to the digital age. Black Capital sees weakness, which means Dane Black sees opportunity.
My eyes skim a line in one memo: Projected valuation: ￡3.4 billion. Hostile takeover likely. UK Parliament is expected to push back.
I jot down a few notes like I’ve got the slightest clue what I’m doing before scrolling to the company headshots of the Black Capital senior executive team, which includes the elevator perv, also known as Kieran Forster, Head of Communications.
I’m so preoccupied with memorizing names and faces, I almost don’t hear the ding of the elevator.
But it’s the sudden silence that stops me in my tracks, like the stillness that comes just before disaster strikes.
Conversations sputter and die, chairs scrape as spines straighten, and the air itself seems to tighten.
Dane Black strides out like he’s king of the whole damn world, and my stomach almost drops out of my ass.
He’s ridiculously gorgeous. Unfairly so.
Tall. Broad. An exquisitely cut dark-gray suit.
Thick dark hair that complements his tan skin perfectly.
Every inch of him radiates authority so potent it makes my skin prickle.
The kind of man who makes your brain hit a system error.
For a beat, I’m like one of those cartoons—eyes bulging, jaw slack—teetering on the edge of tipping over.
He’s barking orders into his cell phone; the deep timbre of his voice sliding straight through me. His eyes flick to me for a beat, and I immediately avert my gaze, pretending to be busy, praying he doesn’t stop to talk. Thankfully, he saunters past, offering a clipped “Good morning, Sloane.”
Panic jolts through me as I squeak, “Good morning, Sir.”
He pauses, just for half a breath. His head doesn’t turn, but something in him tightens. Then he continues walking, disappearing into his office without comment.
My heart slams against my ribs. Shit—maybe she doesn’t call him sir.
I fumble for my phone and type under my desk.
ME
FFS, just called him sir. He looked weird. What the hell do you call him?
SLOANE
Damn, Mr. Black is fine.
I’m halfway through typing, “How’s Elsie?” when his door flies open. I’m so on edge I drop my phone on the floor.
“Sloane, inside,” he clips, watching me with cold indifference as I scramble on the floor for my phone, shoving it back onto the desk, mentally cursing Sloane for thinking I could pull this off.
I swear, when Elsie’s recovered, I’m sending Sloane to one of my auditions.
I scoop up my notepad and straighten, hoping I look composed and not like I just lost a fight with the floor.
As he steps aside to let me pass, I catch a trace of his incredible scent.
Why is everything about this man engineered to lure you in?
As if he could crush you into oblivion and you’d still smile and say thank you.
His office is as grand as expected. The size of a five-star presidential suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline as though he’s got the entire city balanced neatly in the palm of his hand.
Dane returns to his desk and flips through a stack of papers, his movements precise as if there isn’t a second of his day wasted.
“London,” he says without looking up. “Status.”
Adrenaline pulses through me as my brain searches desperately for a coherent response.
“Uh-yes,” I stammer, fumbling for my notebook and flipping it open like it holds the secrets to life and the universe.
He finally lifts his gaze, dark green eyes locking onto me with unsettling intensity.
“I don’t need a yes, Sloane. I need answers.”
Shit. Shit. I glance down, mentally picturing the folder on my desk.
Thankfully the years of memorising dance counts and audition scripts kicks in.
“They’re—um—the board is pushing back. Parliament is involved.”