Chapter 5 #2
We move out together, the board spilling onto the sidewalk like a school field trip in expensive shoes. Dominic drifts naturally to my side, matching my pace as if it never occurred to him to do otherwise.
Behind us, the ruddy-cheeked director is already talking, his voice pitched at full volume.
“...and I told them, if you want loyalty, you don’t squeeze people until they squeal like a piggy—”
He laughs at his own line. No one joins in.
Dominic glances back and leans closer.
“Brace yourself. He gets louder after noon.”
I tilt my head. “Which one is he?”
“Frank,” Dominic says dryly. “My father’s favorite headache. Thinks charm is a substitute for judgment.”
“Oh dear,” I whisper. “So this is his charming phase, or his unbearable one?”
Dominic’s mouth quirks. “They operate as one.”
I stick close to Dominic as we walk, acutely aware of how alien this setting still seems, how easy it would be to look out of place if I drifted. So far, Dominic has been a blessing. Someone I can hide behind.
Ahead, Stan is in survival mode, hands carving the air as he outlines something to Dane. Dane listens with that lethal calm of his, like he’s already several moves ahead and doesn’t need to rush anyone to catch up.
Inside, the elevator doors slide shut, and we rise fast, my ears popping faintly as the numbers climb.
Frank fills the space with a story about a lunch in Monaco that appears to have no ending, complete with a yacht flex, a lengthy explanation of why proper lunches used to last four hours, and the firm belief that nothing important should ever be rushed—especially progress.
Dominic leans in halfway through, covering his mouth with his hand.
“He tells this every time,” he says, voice low. “The location changes. The ego doesn’t.”
When the doors open, the private dining suite unfolds in light and glass, an uninterrupted view of London spanning wide behind it. For a split second, my feet itch to carry me straight to the windows and gawp. I smooth my expression and remind myself to pick my jaw up off the ground.
We’re guided to a long table near the windows. I take the first open seat without hesitation. Dominic takes the one beside me like this was always the plan.
Across from us, Dane removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, settling between Stan and Frank. He looks entirely in control. Apart from the faint dark circles under his eyes, you’d never guess he crossed an ocean overnight or slept in fragments on a private jet.
Gilded menus are set down in front of us, the kind that assume you know what you’re doing. I skim mine once, then again more carefully.
I angle it toward Dominic.
“Be honest,” I whisper. “Is this one food or a practical joke?”
He glances over, scans the line, and lets out a quiet laugh.
“Avoid it. Tiny portion. Aggressive garnish.”
I wince. “You lost me at tiny portion.”
He smiles. “What are you thinking instead?”
“Something that won’t humiliate me.”
“Smart.” He taps the page. “Middle of the menu. That’s where they hide the things people actually finish.”
Frank seizes the wine list the way a drowning man notices a rope.
Stan waves the server over with broad enthusiasm, ordering wine like he’s panic-buying toilet paper.
Frank nods his approval and takes charge of the bottle when it arrives, topping up his glass with the focus of a man convinced answers live somewhere near the bottom.
Dane doesn’t touch his.
“So,” Stan says, settling back, glass in hand, “tell me what this looks like from your side.”
“I already have,” Dane replies. “This morning.”
Stan grins. “You painted a bleak picture.”
“A realistic one.”
Dominic shifts slightly. “He’s not exaggerating. We’ve been slow to move.”
Frank waves it off. “You’re young. You don’t remember the last time everyone wrote us off.”
Dane’s gaze sharpens. “Markets don’t care about nostalgia. They care about trajectory.”
Frank laughs, loud and pleased with himself.
“Christ, you Wall Street boys love your language.”
“I prefer numbers,” Dane says. “Metaphors are for people without data.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression neutral.
Frank, buoyed by the wine and the friction, turns his attention toward me like he’s found a more entertaining angle.
“Well,” he says, leaning back, glass dangling loosely between his fingers, “at least you brought some atmosphere with you.”
I lift my brows. “I’ll add it to my résumé.”
Across the table, the corner of Dane’s mouth twitches, not a smile, more a flicker of surprise at the direction I took it.
Nice one, Ivy. That wasn’t very Sloane of me.
Dominic mutters, barely audible, “He’s aiming for charming.”
“He missed,” I murmur back.
Frank grins wider and lets out a booming laugh of his own.
“I’m just saying—” he gestures loosely between Dane and me, “does she come with the deal, or is that extra?”
Dominic winces. A few polite laughs surface, then die out as Dane looks up.
Dane doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.
His gaze lifts to Frank. Frank’s smile falters before Dane even speaks.
“Disappointing, Frank.”
His mouth curves into a brief, cold smile, like he’s simply returning the ‘joke’.
“If that’s how you negotiate, you’ve just undercut yourself.”
Color creeps up Frank’s neck as the humor drains from his face. Stan clears his throat and latches onto timelines with visible urgency.
Dane shuts it down so decisively that I take a second to realize he didn’t let Frank turn me into the punchline, and my heart gives a small, foolish leap I’m not ready to examine.
Conversation resumes, but the balance has shifted. Frank is quieter now; his refills lose their enthusiasm.
Dominic murmurs, “Someone finally found how to operate Frank’s off switch.”
I sneak a glance across the table. Dane hasn’t changed position. He doesn’t need to. One look at him is enough to remember who runs this table.
Dominic leans closer.
“So,” he says, voice light, “what do you do when you’re not surviving lunches like this?”
I hesitate, then answer low, almost under my breath.
“I like going to the theater,” I say, the closest thing to the truth that comes to mind.
His brows lift.
“Proper theater?” he asks. “Chekhov levels of despair, or are we talking something with a pulse?”
I smile. “If there’s music and dance involved, I’m usually sold.”
He tilts his head, lips twitching.
“Word of advice, though—don’t try dancing with Frank if you want to live to tell the tale.”
A laugh slips out of me.
Across the table, Dane’s gaze cuts towards us.
His eyes flick to me, then to Dominic, and back again—slow enough to register, brief enough to pass for nothing, like he’s checking something he doesn’t like the answer to, before he turns back to Stan and continues the conversation exactly where it left off.
But the moment lingers anyway.
Heat flickers low in my stomach. I drop my gaze to the table like I’ve been caught doing something far riskier than smiling.
The reminder lands hard.
Where I am.
A glass-walled restaurant suspended above London. People discussing acquisitions like the weather. I still half-expect someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I’ve wandered into the wrong life.
I think of Sloane. Of Elsie in her hospital bed. I wonder how she’s doing right now—whether she’s awake, whether she’s scared. I miss them both with an intensity that surprises me.
And then there’s Dane—contained at the center of it all, commanding without effort, unsettlingly fascinating. It’s like my focus keeps sliding back to him, no matter what I do.
Lunch finally drags toward its end. The conversation dwindles, splintering into smaller pockets—Stan talking numbers, Frank talking nonsense, Dominic making occasional asides that keep me from slipping.
Dane checks his watch.
“I have another meeting,” he announces to Stan. “We’ll pick this up later.”
Relief slides through me as the overnight flight fatigue catches up with me.
As we prepare to leave, Dominic turns to me. “Well, Sloane,” he says, hand reaching into his pocket to retrieve a business card. “It was nice meeting you.” He leans in again, his voice low. “After lunch, we can grab a coffee if you have some time.”
I glance at the card, then back at him, smiling. “Tempting,” I admit. “But I’m fairly sure my schedule’s already been claimed by someone with very strong opinions about my whereabouts.”
He chuckles, unfazed. “I suspected as much.”
I cast a glance out of the corner of my eye, and Dane is still deep in conversation with Stan Bexley, so I fall into step beside Dominic toward the elevator.
“Sloane.” I freeze as Dane grits out my name like a curse word. “I need to speak to you.”
“I’ll catch you later,” I mouth to Dominic. He smirks, shooting me a wink. “And you were so close to freedom,” he whispers before slipping away.
My mouth curves, but it vanishes the second I turn and meet Dane’s glare. Murderous doesn’t even cover it.
I drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows while he wraps up with Stan, feeling like a schoolgirl waiting outside the principal’s office.
From here, the city sprawls wide beneath me—London glittering while a storm brews at my back.
I fixate on the skyline, trying to appear composed while my nerves fray.
Stan Bexley doesn’t seem to be faring much better.
At the start of the morning, he was ruddy and confident; now he’s the color of wet ash.
By the time Dane dismisses him, the man looks ready to swan-dive off that pointy building Dominic pointed out earlier.
And judging by Dane’s expression, I might be next.
Stan offers me a solemn nod as he passes, leaving me to face Dane alone
Dane doesn’t speak right away. He shrugs into his jacket, smooths his cuffs—every movement unhurried. The longer he takes, the tighter my chest winds. When he finally looks at me, the force of it steals the air from my lungs.
“I didn’t bring you here to flirt with my clients.” His tone is scathing. A verdict, not an accusation.
Hot fury charges through my veins at the insinuation. For a second, I forget who I’m supposed to be and let Ivy explode out of her cage.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Black,” I bite out, chin raised, voice laced with mock sincerity. “I wasn’t aware. I’ll cancel the sex marathon I penciled in for later.”
I regret the words the second they leave my mouth.
Dane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He just stands there for a beat, like he’s deciding what to do with me.
Then he moves.
Not in a rush. Not in anger. In control.
My breath catches, my heel drifting back a half-step before I can stop it.
The distance between us shrinks until the glass behind me feels less like a view and more like a trap.
By the time he stops, he’s close enough that I have to tip my chin to keep meeting his eyes.
“You better be joking.” His jaw locks, the words forced out like he’s keeping something far worse behind his teeth.
“Are you being serious right now?” I snap, clinging to my bravado even as something hot and stupid hums through me.
“Deadly.”
“Well, maybe you need to redefine your definition of flirting,” I spit.
His gaze drags slowly over my face before settling back on my eyes. One hand settles against the glass beside my head, the other lifting, a finger slipping beneath my chin to tilt my face up.
The touch is light. Almost intimate. Heat slides down my spine before I can stop it.
“I’ll be happy to explain,” he says quietly.
“Don’t smile at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even fucking breathe on him.”
The corner of his mouth shifts—not quite a smile.
“Or I’ll rip his eyeballs from his head and shove them down his throat.”
Sweet Jaysus. Remind me never to make an enemy of this guy.
“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter, biting my lips closed as I try to ignore the reckless voice in my head daring me to slam my mouth on his.
His finger slides along my chin, drawing my face closer until the warmth of his breath brushes my lips.
“What’s ridiculous,” he says softly, “is you thinking you have any say in this.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I clap back with a syrupy sweetness that I pray hides my racing breaths. “I’ll try to control myself in the future.”
His gaze flicks to my lips again before his eyes slide closed, chest rising as he drags air through clenched teeth. He holds it, then exhales as though pulling himself together by sheer will.
Finally, he steps back, one hand raking through his hair; the cold veneer snapping into place so neatly it almost feels like I hallucinated the whole thing.
“I have a meeting now,” he says flatly, refusing to look at me. “The driver will take you to the hotel. An important document is being delivered this afternoon—reception will call and hand you the key card to my suite. Put it in the safe. Combination is 1807.”
With that, he sweeps out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to compile the world’s most humiliating checklist:
Panties: wrecked.
Nipples: on high alert
Dignity: MIA, presumed dead.
Pathetic crush on boss: spiraling out of control.
“Two days,” I mutter, peeling myself off the glass, cheeks puffing as I blow out a shaky breath. “I just have to survive two days.”
I roll out my shoulders as the elevator glides back down to reception. I’ve no idea what just happened. But the truth pricks at me no matter how much I try to swallow it down.
I wanted him to kiss me.
In my head, I already had.
Jesus.
I need therapy.