Chapter 2 #2
I force myself to meet his assessing stare, deciding fake confidence is my only option.
A flicker crosses his face. Not approval. Not anger. Just calculation.
“Names of the opposition?” he continues, every question landing like a test I’m failing.
I square my shoulders, keeping my tone even. “Working on compiling that, Mr. Black.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts gears with terrifying ease.
“I want the flight to London moved forward to tonight. Prep the jet for wheels up by 9:30 pm sharp. Contact Bexley’s legal team, confirm dinner tomorrow, Claridges.” He rattles it off like machine-gun fire.
Internally, I do a happy dance. Come this evening, he’ll be en route to London; I’ll be free, and the pressure will be off Sloane.
“Press coverage,” Dane says, dragging me back. “Latest editorial that’s painting me as the villain this time?”
“How long have you got?” I quip, only to be met with terrifying silence.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Sloane doesn’t do jokes. Especially not in the workplace. And certainly not with Mr. Sunshine here.
I swallow another giant slice of tension and press on. “The Times and the Financial Times,” I stutter. It’s a guess. I saw those names in the folder, at least.
He leans back in his chair, eyes raking over me, hands folding behind his head, his broad chest pulling tight against the buttons of his shirt.
An unwanted image of him shirtless at the Ironman—sweat-slicked, muscles carved from stone—crashes into my head, and I dig my nails into my palm until it stings.
Pull yourself together, woman.
“And what’s the angle?” he pushes.
“Um...that you’re too aggressive,” I hedge. “That Black Capital is...” I search for the right phrase, heart pounding, “... a wrecking ball.”
“Accurate.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth ticks upwards. It’s not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one.
I exhale, careful not to sag in relief. Although it’s mildly alarming that the first hint of approval he’s given me comes from comparing him to large-scale destruction. If I’d known that was the way to his heart, I could’ve come armed with a whole construction manual.
He leans forward, elbows on the desk, the glint of a Patek watch catching the early morning sunlight.
“Traders’ floor. Ten minutes.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
His brow lifts just slightly. Gah, why does it seem like he knows? As if he’s one second away from picking up the phone and having security escort me out.
“Elevator. Traders’ floor. Ten minutes,” he repeats, impatience threading his tone. I swear this man speaks in bullet points, as though affording me fully formed sentences is beneath him.
“Oh, of course, traders’ floor,” I repeat, almost adding, it’s a date, but judging by my last attempt at humor, I clamp my mouth shut before I sabotage Sloane further.
His gaze holds mine a fraction too long, sharp enough to make me squirm. Still holding eye contact, he drags his tongue over the tip of his thumb, then finally looks down, flipping to the next page in his stack of papers as if I’ve already ceased to exist.
My grip tightens on the notebook. God help me—why is that the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?
I seriously need to get out more.
“Is there any reason you’re still standing there, Sloane?”
“Uh—no, sir, I mean, Mr. Black,” I mumble, backing out of the office, bumping into the doorframe like a klutz. I half-jog back to my desk, collapsing into my chair like I’ve sprinted a mile instead of crossing twenty feet of carpet.
I close my eyes and allow myself to have a thirty-second mental breakdown before I grab my phone and fire off a text.
He wants a MF jet??? For later this evening.
Sloane
Call Falcon Aviation and request the standard jet crew. The number is in my contact list folder.
I spend the next nine minutes navigating the world of booking private jets and trying to get my head around the Bexley takeover before his door flies open and he’s marching toward me, slipping his suit jacket on in one smooth motion.
He doesn’t look at me, just beckons me with his finger in a silent command like I’m his pet Labrador.
Why doesn’t he put a leash on me and be done with it?
Great, now my mind has veered into really kinky territory.
I push to my feet, and follow, acutely aware of how tightly wound I feel, like every nerve is stretched thin. How has he wrung every emotion possible out of me in the last twenty minutes while he remains infuriatingly unaffected?
The only thing I haven’t done yet is cry.
Something tells me that’s still on the table.
The elevator doors slide shut, and the air instantly feels too close in the confined space.
He leans back against the mirrored wall, arms folded, watching me with that unnerving composure that makes silence feel like an interrogation.
“Did you return the call from the MP’s office in London last night?” His tone is mild, almost casual, but there’s a bite underneath it.
“I—no. I flagged it for this morning. It’s under control.” A flash of defiance slips into my tone.
“See that you do,” he says, his gaze lingering as though he’s not just measuring my answer but me, like I revealed a tiny crack in my armor and given him a glimpse of Ivy.
I press back against the wall as if the extra inch of distance could protect me from his scrutiny.
I’ve faced rigorous dance teachers many times, ones that expect nothing short of perfection, but there’s something about Dane that makes me feel exposed, like no matter how many walls I build, he’ll knock them down without breaking stride.
As the elevator comes to a halt, I can already hear the mayhem before the doors open.
The chaos of the trading floor hits like a slap as the doors slide open—shouts, flashing screens vomiting numbers faster than my eyes can follow, a dozen conversations colliding at once.
Phones ringing. Someone swearing. The stench of coffee, bad cologne, and testosterone.
Just before he steps out, the faintest curve touches his mouth. “Welcome to feeding time at the goddamn zoo.”
It’s so unexpected, I laugh. A genuine laugh. Not the careful, controlled one Sloane would give, something real.
He glances at me, half-surprised, his gaze dipping to my mouth before jumping back, and for an instant, something flickers as though I’ve knocked him a fraction off balance. Then it vanishes just as quickly, sealed behind that cold mask he wears so easily.
Dane strides forward, and everything shifts. Heads snap up; the din sharpens. It’s not quieter, but more focused, as if the entire floor realigns around him.
“FTSE futures. Where’s London on Bexley?” His voice is cool, precise, carrying without strain.
“Down two percent,” someone fires back. “Liquidity tightening.”
“Options volume spiked this morning,” another adds.
“Lean heavier short,” Dane says smoothly. “Hedge sector exposure. I want risk on my desk by close.”
He’s a force to be reckoned with as he patrols the area, everyone bending to his demands.
He doesn’t pause, doesn’t acknowledge the ripple he causes.
And it’s easy to see that it is a command that’s been earned through respect, not fear.
Although judging by the way people straighten when he passes, perhaps a sprinkle of fear, too.
I follow him, thankful to be out of the firing line, clutching my notepad like a shield.
Shoulders back, chin up. Pretend you belong here.
Pretend you understand even half of what’s being said.
As I observe him studying a screen, analyzing numbers that may as well be hieroglyphs, I find myself wondering about the fiancée he lost. What kind of woman it takes for him to get down on one knee?
From what Sloane tells me, he’s never short of girlfriends.
A never-ending carousel of unearthly beauties.
And at thirty-seven, twelve years my senior, he doesn’t seem interested in settling down.
I’m so busy mapping out the complexities of his dating history that I almost jump out of my skin when his deep baritone pulls me back down to earth.
“Sloane. Can you write that down?”
“Of course, Mr. Black,” I say, trying to ignore the smirk of the trader behind him, who is fully aware I was mentally vacationing in La La Land.
Thankfully, Dane keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, spouting out words like leverage scenarios, while I scrawl another five giant question marks and a couple of WTFs in the notepad.
For the next twenty minutes, I make sure I’m listening to every word, writing everything down, praying that it will make up for whatever I missed.
I’m beginning to wonder if the man ever tires when a voice cuts through the noise: “Brother dearest.”
I turn to see a younger version of Dane sprawled against a desk, tie loosened, grin wicked. Another iteration of the same mold, but with a Playboy’s polish instead of a warlord’s edge.
Julian Black. Head of investments. Dane’s younger brother.
I’d recognize him anywhere—I spent half the night cramming the senior exec headshots like flashcards.
The resemblance is unmistakable: dark hair, a jaw made to break hearts, the same green eyes shot through with hazel.
But where Dane’s stare is all steel and calculation, Julian’s gleams with easy mischief.
A wolf from the same bloodline, only this one looks like he knows how to enjoy the hunt.
“Julian,” Dane says, eyes still fixed on the screen spitting out red and green. “I thought you were in Hong Kong chasing the Westbridge investors.”
“They’re playing hard to get. But I’ll wear them down.”
“Must be losing your touch.” Dane quirks a brow, finally sparing him a sidelong glance.
Julian snorts, brushing it off with the ease of someone who’s never had to doubt himself. Must be nice, being born a Black.