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)
Tomorrow we’ll return to Manhattan, to cameras and contracts and complications. But tonight I’ve glimpsed something in Sloane Whitmore I didn’t expect—a woman who values her work above all else, who sets boundaries even when it costs her. Someone who won’t be easily figured out or controlled. The realization doesn’t disappoint me. Instead, I find myself more intrigued than ever.
Chapter Ten Cole
The elevator doors slide open, and I watch Sloane’s first reaction to my penthouse. Her sharp intake of breath is barely audible, but I catch it. Through the wall of windows, Central Park stretches below us, its trees wrapped in thousands of white lights that make the snow glow.
“Welcome home,” I say, guiding her forward with a light touch at her back.
Sloane steps away from my touch, putting a deliberate few inches between us. She takes in the subtle holiday touches my designer integrated into the modern design—white amaryllis arrangements, crystal decorations that catch the city lights. The great room spreads before us, all clean lines and perfect symmetry. A massive fireplace anchors one end, its marble surround stretching floor to ceiling. Above it, an abstract canvas in shades of winter blue and silver draws the eye.
“This is where you live?” she asks. Her voice is carefully neutral, professional.
“Where you live as well,” I correct as she continues to walk around and study the surroundings.
“This is . . .” She shakes her head, her gaze sweeping from floor to ceiling.
She wanders around the space, trailing her fingers along the leather sectionals in the sunken living room, examining the dining area that could seat twenty, peering into the chef’s kitchen with its wall of copper pots gleaming in the light. Everything here was chosen specifically to impress, to show power without being gauche about it.
“The art collection . . .” She stops in front of a glass sculpture, tilting her head to catch how it plays with the light. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it,” I say, stepping closer. She subtly shifts her weight, maintaining the distance between us.
It’s turning awkward . . . chilly.
Clearing my throat, I add, “Wait until you see your workspace.”
She follows me down the hall, past my private office—door firmly closed—and into the east wing. The space opens up, ceilings rising to showcase more windows, more views of the city below.
“The entire wing is yours,” I explain, opening the double doors to her studio.
She freezes in the doorway. The space is exactly as I specified—floor-to-ceiling windows, custom workbenches, tools that would make master craftsmen weep. A separate area for sketching overlooks the park, and climate-controlled storage units line one wall.
“Those are beveled casting molds,” she says faintly. “Those aren’t even available to the public yet.”
“I know people.”
“Clearly,” she replies, all business now. She pulls a small notebook from her bag and begins making notes, as if conducting an inventory rather than receiving a gift. “This is . . . impressive.”
“Ms. Whitmore.” Knox appears in the doorway, iPad in hand. She turns, and I see recognition flash across her face.
“You were in Switzerland.”
“Knox Bishop, head of security.” He extends his hand, his handshake firm but not aggressive. “Among other duties, I oversee all safety protocols for the building. We need to discuss the standard security measures for all residents of the penthouse level.”
I watch Sloane’s face as Knox outlines the restrictions—no unauthorized guests, limited elevator access, twenty-four-seven security detail. Her expression stays neutral, but I see the tension in her shoulders.
“The cameras,” Knox continues, “are primarily focused on the work areas and entry points. Your private quarters remain surveillance-free, as agreed.”
“And the feeds go where exactly?”
“To our security team. And Mr. Asher’s private office.”
She looks at me sharply. I meet her gaze without apology.
“My bedroom . . .” she starts, then stops as the doors to her private quarters swing open.
The space is larger than her entire apartment was—a proper suite rather than just a bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows continue the view, with automated blinds for privacy. Her belongings are arranged exactly as they were in her old place but now given room to breathe. Her favorite reading chair sits in a window nook I had custom-built to match the dimensions of her old apartment’s bay window. Her books line built-in shelves, organized by color just as she had them.
The bedroom itself is done in the same colors she chose for her apartment—soft grays and deep blues—but with higher-quality everything. Her grandmother’s quilt drapes across a bed three times the size of her old one. Her photographs have been arranged in the same pattern she’d had them.
A door leads to a walk-in closet where her clothes hang in perfect order, with space for the wardrobe I plan to add. The bathroom features a soaking tub positioned to watch the sunrise, and her exact brand of shampoo already waits on the marble counter.