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)
“Holy shit,” Chloe breathes. “That’s—”
“A lot.”
“Put it on,” Chloe insists. “I need to see it.”
I stare at the dress, torn. “I don’t know. He’s so controlling already. If I wear exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it . . .” I pick up the note again. “Who does he think he is, telling me what to wear?”
“The same man you were teasing with a camera show this morning,” Chloe points out. “Come on, just try it on. For me.”
“It feels like giving in,” I say, but my fingers are already running over the fabric. The dress is gorgeous. Exactly what I would have chosen for myself. And the necklace . . .
“Submitting can be fun sometimes.” Chloe grins. “Besides, didn’t he say something about not asking twice? On second thought, maybe don’t wear it. I wanna know what he’ll do . . .”
I bite my lip, remembering his text. The thought of pushing him further is tempting, but something tells me this isn’t a boundary I want to test. Not tonight.
“Fine. Reverse psychology for the win,” I say, and we both laugh.
I send Chloe a photo once I’m dressed, endure her squealing about how perfect everything is, and promise to tell her everything tomorrow. My hand trembles slightly as I fasten the necklace, the diamonds cool against my skin.
At eight sharp, Cole knocks on my door. His eyes land on the necklace, lingering there long enough that I forget to breathe.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice low with something that’s not quite approval. Something darker. When I do, his fingers brush the nape of my neck, adjusting the clasp. “Perfect,” he murmurs against my ear. “You decided to listen after all.”
I turn to face him, trying to keep my voice steady. “Was there really a choice?”
“There’s always a choice, Sloane.” His hand slides to my lower back, the pressure firm and possessive. “You just made the right one. Ready to see where I’m taking you?”
He leads me down a narrow staircase I didn’t even know existed. The temperature drops as we descend. At the bottom of the stairs, a wine cellar stretches before us. Antique crystal sconces cast intimate light across walls lined with vintage bottles. A heavy wooden table dominates what looks like a tasting area, its surface reflecting the warm glow from above. The space feels both opulent and intimate, like a secret tucked away beneath the bustle of the city.
“Where are we?” I ask, taking in the rows of bottles that seem to stretch endlessly into the shadows.
“My private collection.” Cole’s voice is different down here—softer but somehow more intense. “Welcome to my favorite room in the building.” He moves through the space with easy familiarity, trailing his fingers along bottle labels, at home among the vintage wines in a way I haven’t seen him anywhere else.
“This Bordeaux,” he says, selecting one, “took three years to acquire. The owner refused to sell until I convinced him I’d appreciate it properly.” He glances at me. “I can be very persuasive when I want something.”
“Three years for one bottle?” I glance at him, remembering how skillfully he’d negotiated our own deal. “I can believe it. I’ve seen your powers of persuasion firsthand.”
His eyes darken at that. “Have you?”
“Though I’m curious what methods you used on the wine seller.”
“Some secrets I need to keep.” He runs a finger along the bottle’s label. “For now.”
He pours the wine with the precision of a man who’s done this a thousand times before. Every movement becomes deliberate, practiced. His fingers brush mine when he hands me the glass. His body shifts closer as he explains the vintage, using words I’ve only heard on cooking shows. His eyes follow my lips as I taste it.
A bottle on the far wall catches my attention—one he mentioned earlier. I step closer to examine it, my fingers hovering near the label without quite touching. My hands feel clumsy, my movements too big for this delicate space. The wine in my glass sloshes dangerously close to the rim with each breath, and I find myself overthinking every small motion. Which of course is exactly when disaster strikes.
The wineglass slips. Time seems to slow as I watch it fall, my brain helpfully supplying a montage of every clumsy moment I’ve ever had. The crash when it hits the floor makes me jump.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, mortified. “The wine—I can’t believe I just—” I look at the spreading puddle of red against stone. “I need something to clean this up. Where’s the—”
He catches my wrist as I start looking around. His thumb traces circles against my pulse point. “Sloane.”
I try to pull away. “No, really, if we hurry we can save the—”
Cole releases my wrist, picks up his own glass, and deliberately lets it fall. The crash echoes through the cellar.