Chapter Fourteen
Sloane
Darkness doesn't fade into light in Vane Sterling's world; it is conquered by it.
I am pulled from the heavy, grey depths of a dreamless sleep by a sound that has become the soundtrack to my nightmares: the sharp, percussive ring of an encrypted satellite phone. My eyes snap open, but my body refuses to follow. I am pinned to the mattress by a fatigue so profound it feels like my blood has been replaced with lead.
The room is flooded with the cold, unforgiving light of a Hamptons dawn. The sun is a pale, white disk hanging over the Atlantic, offering no warmth, only visibility.
"I don't care about the logistics, Miller. I care about the results."
The voice is inches from my ear. I shift my head, my cheek grazing the silk pillowcase, and find myself staring at Vane's back. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, his spine a rigid line of lethal intent. He's already dressed—a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful tendons of his forearms. He looks like he's had ten hours of sleep and a gallon of adrenaline, not a night spent playing psychological games with a broken assistant.
It's only then that I realize the weight on my skin has changed. I'm not wearing my ruined, salt-crusted blouse. I am drowning in a sea of heavy, expensive cotton that smells of cedar and cold spice. Vane's shirt. He changed me while I was dead to the world—an act that should feel like care, but feels like a final, total occupation of my privacy.
"If the board wants to pivot, let them," Vane snaps into the phone. "But remind them that I hold the voting blocks for the pension fund. If they move against the acquisition, I'll liquidate their personal holdings before the lunch bell rings."
He ends the call with a definitive tap and turns. His eyes find mine instantly. There is no "good morning."
"You're two minutes behind the briefing schedule, Sloane," he says, his voice as sharp as a razor. "The coffee in the kitchen is cold. Fix it."
The Ritual of Submission
I force myself to sit up. The movement causes a flare of white-hot pain in my lower back. The oversized shirt hangs off my shoulders, the hem hitting mid-thigh, a glaring white flag of his victory. My hair is a matted mess. I look like a shipwreck survivor; he looks like the man who sank the ship.
"I... I'll be down in five minutes, Mr. Sterling," I rasp, my throat feeling like it's been lined with sandpaper.
"You'll be down in three. And don't bother changing. I find the 'disheveled' look suits the current state of our negotiations. Wearing my clothes might remind you whose time you're currently wasting."
He stands and walks toward the door. He knows I'll follow. He knows that every second I delay is a second he adds to the "penalty" ledger.
I stumble out of bed, my feet hitting the cold concrete floor. I look in the en-suite mirror and don't recognize the woman staring back. She's wearing a billionaire's shirt like a shroud. Her eyes are haunted, her lips are swollen from the cliffs, and her spirit looks like it's been put through a paper shredder.
Three minutes.
I sprint down the grand staircase. Vane is standing by the marble island, tablet in hand. I move to the industrial espresso machine. My hands are shaking as I grind the beans. I steam the milk to exactly 150 degrees—the temperature he demands. I don't use a thermometer; I've learned to feel the heat through the stainless steel pitcher.
I set the cup down in front of him. A perfect, bone-white ceramic vessel.
"The London exchange opened at a loss," I say, my professional mask snapping back into place. "The sterling is weak. It might be the right time to increase the pressure on the Manchester accounts."
Vane takes a sip, his eyes never leaving the screen. He doesn't thank me.
"Manchester is a diversion," he murmurs. "I want you to pull the offshore files for the Sterling-Vance trust. Specifically, the accounts linked to the medical subsidies."
My heart stops. The medical subsidies. That's the account that pays for the clinic.
"Is there... a problem with the funding, Sir?" I ask, my voice betraying a sliver of terror.
Vane finally looks up. He leans in, the scent of the coffee and his cold, metallic cologne swirling around me. He reaches out, his thumb dragging across the bruise on my jaw—the one he put there, a brand displayed against the stark white of his own shirt.
"There is only a problem if you make one, Sloane," he whispers. "The audit is about consistency. You were weak last night. You drifted. If you want the funding to remain 'consistent,' I suggest you find a way to be more... resilient today."