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)
Cole nods again, his jaw tightening in a way that tells me not to push further. I can see the pain in his eyes, and suddenly a thousand questions flood my mind. How did he know her? Were they close? What really happened to her? But I don’t ask. Instead, I reach across the table and briefly touch his hand.
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his own glass slowly between his fingers.
His eyes drop to my wrist, and his expression shifts. “You’re not wearing the frost bracelet.”
I follow his gaze to my bare wrist and sigh. “It’s not finished yet.”
“Not finished?” His voice takes on an edge. “I thought I was clear that I needed it completed by tonight.”
I set my fork down. “Look, the stones weren’t working with the setting. I needed to reconfigure the entire clasp mechanism. It wasn’t ready.”
“Sloane.” The way he says my name is both caress and warning. “We have deadlines for a reason. The frost bracelet is central to the winter collection. When I say I need something by a specific date, it’s not a suggestion.”
I feel my hackles rise. “That’s not how creative work happens. I can’t just force it because of some arbitrary deadline you’ve set. The piece speaks to me when it speaks to me.”
“Arbitrary?” His jaw tightens. “The New Year’s launch isn’t arbitrary, and neither is the timeline leading up to it. Every piece needs to be completed, photographed, and cataloged. There’s PR, marketing, distribution—”
“I know how a product launch works,” I cut in. “I’ve been doing this for years. And I’ve never missed a deadline that actually mattered.”
Cole’s eyes narrow. “This one matters, Sloane. More than you know.”
For the first time, I notice the tension in his shoulders, the slight crease between his brows. This isn’t just business-as-usual Cole. He’s genuinely stressed about the timeline.
“Why?” I press, leaning forward. “Why is this date so important? What aren’t you telling me?”
He takes a slow sip of his wine. “The date is nonnegotiable. That’s all you need to know.”
“No, it’s not.” I push my plate aside. “If I’m going to be a part of this, I need to understand the business side too. I’m not just some . . . some monkey with a soldering iron, churning out pretty baubles on command.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “A monkey? Is that what you think I see you as?”
“I don’t know what you see me as,” I counter. “But it’s clearly not as a full partner in this venture. You keep me in the dark, dictate deadlines without explanation, and expect me to just fall in line.”
“I brought you in for your creative vision,” he says, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Your talent. Your unique perspective. I’m not looking for a business partner. I’ve been down that road before. I’m looking for an artist who can deliver on time.”
“Deliver on your schedule, you mean.” I stand up, my appetite completely gone. “Well, guess what? Art doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way.”
“Everyone works according to deadlines, Sloane. That’s how the world functions.”
I hate how he says my name when he’s pissed.
“Not my world.”
“It is now.” His tone is final. “You signed a contract.”
The mention of the contract stings more than I want to admit. Because he’s right. I did sign it. I needed this opportunity. I needed his backing, his resources, his connections. Without them, my designs would still be sketches in a portfolio that no one would ever see.
“Fine.” I toss my napkin onto the table. “I’ll go work on your damn bracelet. Right now. Will that make you happy?”
“Ecstatic.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I turn to leave, then pause. “You know, I may need your money to make this happen, but you need my creativity just as much. Your capital is worthless without my vision to turn it into something real.”
“Artistic genius that never makes it to market is just wasted potential.”
His words hit harder than I want to admit. Without another word, I head for the stairs, already mentally sketching the modifications I’ll need to make to that fucking bracelet tonight.
Behind me, I hear another glass shatter against the floor.
Back in my studio, I channel my frustration into creating something new. Four hours of work and the bracelet transforms into something else entirely—twin cuffs connected by a platinum chain.
I make them cold and sharp, with jagged crystals that catch light like actual frost. The silver metal has a matte finish that looks like ice against skin. The clasp I’ve been fighting with becomes a locking mechanism that can tighten the chain between the cuffs.
It’s not just jewelry anymore. It’s power. Control. The kind that makes your pulse quicken.
I’m admiring my work when the knock comes at my door. I know it’s him.
“What?” I call out, not looking up.