Chapter Seventeen
Vane
Twenty minutes.
I'm standing in the foyer, adjusting the cufflink on my left wrist, when the silence of the house starts to grate on my nerves. Sloane is never late. She's a clockwork creature. If she's not standing three paces behind me by the time the car pulls up, it means she's either making a point or she's dead.
I head up the stairs, my boots heavy on the runner. I don't bother knocking; I don't pay for her privacy. I try the handle to her suite, but the lock clicks. Locked.
A muscle in my jaw tenses.
"Sloane," I say, my voice low. "You're thirty seconds over. The car is in the driveway. Get out here."
Silence. Then, a muffled clatter of something plastic hitting the bathroom tile.
"Sloane. If I have to break this door, I'm billing your mother's clinic for the repair. Don't test me today."
The lock finally clicks. The door creaks open just a few inches.
She's standing there, swallowed in a white hotel robe that makes her look half her actual size. Her face isn't just pale—it's grey. She looks sick. Her eyes are squeezed shut for a second before she forces them open, and for the first time since the cliffs, I don't see fire in them.
I see humiliation. Pure, raw shame.
"I need... I need a moment, Vane," she whispers. Her hand is clamped over her stomach, her knuckles white.
I don't wait for an invite. I shove the door open and step into the room. The scent of the ocean is gone, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of blood and the smell of spilled aspirin. I see her ruined white blouse crumpled on the floor like a dead thing.
I'm a man who lives on data. I read markets. I read people. I look at her—the way she's shaking, the cold sweat on her lip, the way she won't look me in the eye—and the realization hits me like a physical blow.
It isn't a "breach." It's biology. She's not a machine; she's a woman, and her body is currently tearing her apart from the inside out.
"You're unwell," I say. It's not a question.
"I'm fine," she snaps, that old defiance flaring up for a split second before a fresh cramp doubles her over. She gasps, lunging for the dresser to stay upright. "I just... I didn't pack... I didn't think..."
She stops, her face burning. She won't say the words. Even now, she's trying to be the "Neutral Asset."
I look at the black dress on the bed. I look at the clock. Marcus Thorne is expecting me in thirty minutes. That meeting is worth forty million dollars and a foothold in the European market. Any other assistant would be fired. Any other tool would be replaced.
But looking at her, I don't feel like calculating ROI. I feel a strange, territorial heat. This woman let me hunt her, let me soak her in ice water, and she didn't blink. And now, she's trying to fight her own damn DNA just to make me coffee.
"Sit down," I growl.
"I can do this," she insists, her voice trembling. "Just give me ten minutes. I'll wear the dress. I'll be your distraction."
"I said sit down, Sloane."
I walk over and grab her shoulders. She's freezing. I guide her to the edge of the bed and push her down until she sits. I don't know why, but I find myself kneeling in front of her. It's a position I don't take for anyone, but in this room, it feels right.
"You're useless to me if you're about to pass out in a vineyard," I say, trying to keep the bite in my voice. "Thorne will see the pain and think he found a weakness. I'm not letting my leverage look like a liability."
I pull out my phone.
"Who are you calling?" she asks, her eyes wide with panic. "The clinic? Vane, please, it's just—"
"I'm calling the driver," I bark, cutting her off. "He's going to the pharmacy. And then he's getting something to eat that isn't black coffee."
She stares at me, her mouth slightly open. Like I've started speaking a language she's never heard.
"You're... cancelling Thorne?" she whispers.
"I'm postponing," I lie. We both know Thorne is an ego-maniac; he won't wait. "I'll tell him I've decided to buy his rival instead. That'll keep him panicking for twenty-four hours while you get your head on straight."
I stand up, looming over her. She looks like a ghost in that robe.
"This isn't a favor, Sloane," I say, my voice dropping to that low, predatory hum. "This is maintenance. I don't use broken tools. I want you at a hundred percent when I decide to finish what we started last night."
I walk to the door, stopping with my hand on the frame.
"Heating pad is in the linen closet. If I see you out of this bed before the sun goes down, I'm adding another month to your debt. Understand?"
I don't wait for her to answer. I shut the door and walk down the hall, the silence of the house settling back in. My heart is thumping too hard against my ribs.
Forty million dollars.
I just traded forty million dollars for a heating pad and some ibuprofen.
I get to the bottom of the stairs and pour a glass of water, staring out at the grey Atlantic. I am Vane Sterling. I don't do "empathy." I don't do "care." But as I watch the waves, I realize that the "No Emotion" clause wasn't there to protect her from me.
It was to protect me from her. And I just blew it to pieces.