Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
The doors open to reveal a private dining room that makes me forget how to breathe. One entire wall is glass, showcasing the snow-covered Alps now lit by a nearly full moon. The other walls are aged wood panels that glow warmly in the light from iron chandeliers. A single table sits in the center, set with what has to be antique silver and crystal that catches the light like diamonds.
But it’s the man standing at the window that stops my heart.
He turns, and the world shifts beneath my feet. I know that profile, those shoulders, that way of owning every molecule of space around him. I’ve seen them before, stained with expensive scotch in a Manhattan bar.
Cole.
“Hello, Sloane.” His voice is exactly as I remember—that low rumble that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my spine. “I believe we’ve met.”
I open my mouth, close it, try again. “You’re Colsen Asher?”
“Yes.” No apology, no explanation. Just that intensity I remember, now cranked up to about a thousand.
I blink, my brain struggling to reconcile the stranger from the bar with the billionaire who’s apparently been orchestrating my life. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. “I don’t . . . I mean, you’re . . .” Words fail me completely.
Cole stays perfectly still, watching me process with those unnervingly intense eyes. The same eyes that had studied me so carefully at Tonic, that had shown such interest when I described my work. Oh. OH.
“The scotch,” I say suddenly, the memory hitting me like a physical blow. “At the bar. You were so interested in my designs. You kept asking questions about Midnight Frost . . .”
His lips curve slightly, and there’s something almost proud in his expression, like he’s pleased I’m putting it together. But that means . . .
“How did you . . .” I stop, my hand tightening on my portfolio. Another realization slams into me. “The collar piece. In the email. I never showed that to anyone except . . .” My voice trails off as implications start stacking up like building blocks, each one more unsettling than the last.
Chloe was the only person who’d seen those designs, but somehow he knew about them in detail.
“That night at the bar . . .” I finally manage, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking. “That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No.” He moves toward me, and I instinctively take a step back, my spine hitting the doorframe. “Very little in my world happens by accident.”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.
“You’ve been watching me.” My voice shakes with a mixture of fear and anger. “Following me. For how long?”
He doesn’t answer, which somehow makes it worse. I clutch my portfolio to my chest like a shield, mind racing. I should run. I should absolutely run right now. Call Chloe, call the police, call anyone.
“Would you like some wine?” He gestures to the table as if this is all perfectly normal. As if he hasn’t just revealed himself to be exactly the kind of stalker I’d joked about with Chloe.
Oh my god. I have a billionaire stalker.
“I’d like an explanation.” I’m surprised by the steel in my voice. “Because right now I’m trying to decide whether to run screaming or just start throwing things.”
“You won’t do either.” His certainty makes my blood boil.
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
“Because you want to know why.” He takes another step closer. I hold my ground this time, anger overtaking fear. “Why I chose you. Why I’ve gone to such lengths. Why I know about designs you’ve never shown anyone.”
“How do you know about those?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “The collar piece—I never showed that to anyone except my friend. If you’ve done something to her—”
“Your friend is fine.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Please, sit. Let me explain what I’m offering.”
“Offering?” I laugh, and it sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears. “You manipulated me. Stalked me. Lured me to another country. And now you want me to sit down for a friendly chat?”
“Yes.” Still so calm, so controlled. It makes me want to scream. “Because despite your very justified anger, you’re curious. You want to know how I knew about your midnight sketching sessions. About the designs you hide from Jasmine Walsh. About the darkness you keep trying to contain.”
My hands shake. He’s right. I do want to know. And I hate that he knows that about me too.
“Sit,” he says again. “Stay. Let me show you what I’m offering. If you still want to run afterward, I won’t stop you.”
I should leave. Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to is screaming at me to get out now. But as I slowly sink into the chair he holds, I realize I’ve already made my choice. God help me, I have to know what this is all about.