Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Dane
Julian leans back in his chair. “Where have you been? I was starting to think HR signed you up for that sensitivity course. You missed lunch on Sunday. Dad was spitting nails. You know it was to announce his engagement?”
I stretch out on the brand new couch in Julian’s office, sinking into leather that still smells factory-fresh. My gaze wanders past the glass wall to the city below—miniature people marching to work like wind-up toys.
“What’s with the therapy couch?” I mutter. “You moonlighting as a shrink now?”
“Stop being evasive,” Julian says. “First, you bail on lunch, then you vanish to some conference while we’re trying to close the Bexley deal—something I only found out about through Sloane.”
The name lands like a hit to the ribs.
Sloane.
Just hearing her name sparks a fire in my blood. A fire that’s been raging since that kiss. Since those blue eyes sucked out my soul as I watched them break apart for me, then shut down like it never happened.
“I needed some R her face still a mask of serenity.
I sit behind my desk, steepling my hands as I try to work out how the fuck I’m going to say this. As I sit here, pulse thudding in my ears, she merely scans the paperwork on my desk as if double-checking for errors.
Jesus Christ.
How have I somehow become the needy bitch in this scenario?
“About London, Sloane.”
Her head tilts slightly, confusion knitting her brow. “Did I miss something?”
I clear my throat. “I’m prepared to put it behind us—if that’s what you want.”
She looks at me blankly, like she has no idea what I’m referring to.
“I see,” she says, a slight wobble in her tone, the first flicker of anxiety she’s shown.
“I’m sorry,” she adds carefully. “I wasn’t myself in London. There was a lot going on, but if I disappointed you, I can assure you everything will be back to normal now.”
I stare at her, half-stunned, half-impressed.
“If there’s nothing else, Mr. Black,” she says, already halfway to the door, “I’ll get started on rearranging that meeting.”
“No,” I bite out. “That’s all.”
I watch her return to her desk, expecting some kind of reaction when she sits down, and she thinks my eyes are off her, but she dives straight back to her work, not even one furtive glance my way.
And for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what game I’m playing.
Because I know when someone’s faking indifference. There are always tells—small muscle shifts, flickers in the eyes, the micro-pauses between words. I’ve seen them all, in business and in bed.
But she’s giving me nothing.
I welcome the distraction when my phone rings, my sister’s name flashing on the screen.
“Charlotte, if this is about the engagement party, I’m ending the call now.”
“Well, hello to you too,” she says, mock outrage softening into laughter.
“Ugh, stop being a grump, Dane. Mitzy just wanted me to let you know if you’re bringing a date, could you tell them so they have a rough idea of numbers?”
“Since when has Mitzy been so interested in my dating life?”
To be fair, the way Mitzy throws me heated stares across a room explains the interest in my dating life. But I’m not unpacking that with my sister.
“Yes, I’ll bring the best divorce lawyer I know,” I deadpan. “Planning ahead seems wise.”
“Dane!” Her tone is scolding, but she can’t disguise the laugh breaking through.
“Okay, Charlotte,” I sigh. “If in the meantime, I find someone I hate enough to inflict my family drama on, I’ll be sure to let Mitzy know, happy?”
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
“So, how’s everything?” She asks. “Are you doing okay?”
I would be if it wasn’t for a certain someone who’s been under my skin since London. I glance through the glass, and she’s currently pounding her keyboard with the focus of a grand chess master.
“I haven’t hit the bottle or found a girlfriend called Mitzy, so I guess I’m hanging in there.”
She snorts. “Well, don’t wait until the party to check in. Let’s grab dinner when I’m in New York, just you, me, and Julian.”
“Done,” I say. “Look, I’ve got a call I need to join. Talk soon, kid.”
“Don’t call me—”
I end the call with a faint smirk. She’ll text to finish that sentence, anyway.
I suppress a groan and join the conference call, which seems to go on endlessly. I have just about enough time to inhale a sandwich before there’s a knock on my door and Sloane pops her head in, clutching her iPad.
“It’s time for the Bexley Progress meeting, Mr. Black.”
“Damn, is it that time already? Give me a second.”
I slip on my suit jacket and walk with her to the conference room. She’s the only person I know who can walk and write on her iPad at the same time. Then it occurs to me. The day we hit the trading floor before London, she was using a notepad. Not her iPad. She goes nowhere without the iPad.
Why the hell did she switch that day?
The thought lingers, but I push it aside. It’s insignificant. I’ve got bigger things to focus on—or at least I should.
“Stan Bexley’s secretary just sent me an email,” she says, breaking through my thoughts. “She wants to know if we can add another participant to the list of attendees for the upcoming meeting during their stay in New York.”
“Depends on who,” I say.
“Apparently, it’s Mr. Bexley’s younger son. She hasn’t confirmed his name yet.”
“His younger son,” I repeat, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten his name already?”
My head snaps to hers, a cold unease settling. Considering the amount of attention Dominic lavished on her, she can’t possibly have forgotten his name. For someone who could recite the names of all the board members and their wives’ Pilates instructors, it’s not something she’d slip on.
Her cheeks color. The first real crack in her composure, which is just as well, I was beginning to think she isn’t human.
“Of course not. Long day,” she murmurs, picking up her pace toward the conference room.
I follow, eyes narrowing slightly.
It’s small, but it’s there.
The tiniest fracture in an otherwise flawless performance.
By the time I step into the conference room, the entire senior team is already in place.
Julian’s there, leaned back in his chair, scrolling his phone, tie slightly askew.
Maria’s seat is empty, predictably. She’ll blow in two minutes late, talking a hundred miles per hour into her phone.
Kieran Foster, head of communications, is mid-story about himself again, hands wafting through the air as if the world’s hanging on every word.
The others—finance, strategy, legal—sit with the silent patience of people who’ve learned how to outlast him.
The conversation dies the second I enter.
“Morning,” I say, taking my place at the head of the table. “Let’s make this quick.”
Maria flies through the door, muttering apologies, and I wait until she’s seated before I continue.
“We’ve made headway with the Bexley acquisition. The owner has given verbal approval pending board review, and Westminster’s response to the committee briefing was favorable. Maria, you’ll coordinate the release once the statement is cleared. No leaks until then.”
Maria nods briskly. “Understood.”
We move through the agenda—projected returns, site logistics, and a brief update from finance. Kieran Foster takes the floor halfway through, all smooth charm and overdone enthusiasm.
“Can I say,” he begins, gesturing like he’s on stage, “the way your London appearance was handled, Dane, really solidified confidence in the board. The coverage was spot on.”
Maria’s lips twitch, Sloane’s fingers keep moving, and I fight the urge to check the clock.
“Appreciate that, Kieran. Let’s move on,” I reply, steering him back to numbers, the one place his optimism can’t spin a headline.
We finish running through the last of the logistics, the usual back-and-forth on deadlines, funding sign-offs, and regulatory follow-ups. The kind of meeting that leaves your head buzzing and your patience thin. Phones vibrate as everyone trickles out. I’m almost out the door when Kieran calls out.
“Oh, Sloane—meant to say, I saw you on Thursday at Mount Sinai. I tried to wave, but you didn't see me.”
Sloane goes perfectly still, her complexion draining as if someone pulled the plug.
“That’s not possible,” I say before she can open her mouth. “She was in London.”
She nods quickly, eyes flicking to me with something I can’t quite read. “Yes. Must’ve been someone else.”
Kieran blinks, baffled. “Really? I could’ve sworn it was you. Guess I was mistaken.”
Sloane recovers with a too-bright smile. “Luckily, I haven’t had to go to the hospital in a long time.”
It’s an innocent enough statement on its own, except I remember Sloane saying almost the opposite when she arrived for the flight: Sorry, I’m late, I just came from the hospital.
I smooth my expression before we walk back to my office.
But my mind’s already spinning.
Because Sloane is lying.
I leave my door slightly ajar when I return to my desk, swiveling slowly in my chair, watching her throw herself into the next task.
I knew something was off—but now I’m certain. The more I watch, the more I see. She moves differently. Speaks differently. Reacts differently. The spark that used to flare between us is gone, replaced by something muted and careful.
Then it hits me.
It’s not that Sloane’s changed.
It’s that she’s back to how she was before London. Before that smile in an elevator nearly wrecked me.
I try to dismiss it—paranoia, overthinking—but once the thought takes root, it won’t let go.
Her cell rings. On instinct, I lean forward, pretending to check an email while my focus narrows to her voice.
“Hey, Jennie,” she says. “Thanks for calling back.” A soft laugh. Then —
“I’m throwing a small celebration for Ivy this Saturday. Chanté’s, at eight. Could you spread the word to her friends?”
There’s a pause, and she frowns.
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let Brody back into her life, but if you think...”
She nods as she listens to her speak.
“I’m just so happy she got the part in the show, and grateful for everything she does for Elsie and...”
Her voice drops, but I swear I hear it, one word that freezes the air around me.
London.
My blood turns cold.
If she said what I think she did, then I already know where I’ll be Saturday night.
And this time, I’m not walking away until I have answers.
Shame.
I warned her about playing games.
Now she’s about to learn what happens when I play back.