"The one Kon had right before he bought a woman at auction and then grew her a rose garden. The one Drake had when he built Katriana an entire publishing house because she mentioned once that she liked books. The one Rafael had when he rewrote the entire Syndicate charter to include a clause protecting Persia's inheritance rights because she didn't know she had any." He leans his large frame against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"The look that says one of us is about to do something spectacularly stupid for a woman, and this time it's not me, brother."
I tilt my head to the side and don’t bother masking my irritation. "Get out of my office, Luca."
"It's the boardroom, technically." He pushes off the frame with a wink. "Good luck, brother. You are so going to need it."
The door closes. The boardroom goes silent again.
Thank fuck. I draw in a deep breath through my nose and let it out.
I reach into my breast pocket and pull out the red envelope. Hold it in both hands. Bring it to my face and breathe her in one more time.
Sloane Whitmore. Harrison's daughter. How the hell did I let this happen?
I set the envelope on the table and pull out my phone. My thumb finds Harrison's contact. Twenty years I've had this number saved. Twenty years of shared holidays and courtrooms and the trust that only comes from seeing each other at our worst.
Before I can figure out what to do about Sloane, I owe Harrison the truth. Twenty years of friendship. Twenty years of trust. It doesn’t matter that I didn't know who she was when I invited her to my penthouse.
But her wish reads like a woman drowning and that sits wrong with me. His daughter feels invisible. His daughter ran to a stranger on her birthday because she had nowhere else to go. And my mother was trapped in a life she never agreed to because no one paid attention until it was too late. I swore I would never let that happen to someone I cared about.
I press call.
Harrison picks up on the third ring. "Mass. What's going on? It's early for you."
My jaw tightens. The wish sits on the table in front of me. Tear-stained. Her perfume. Her handwriting. Her truth.
"We need to talk, Harrison. Face to face. Today."
A pause. The silence of a man who knows he's been caught but doesn't know how much. "About what?"
"About your daughter."
Seven
Sloane
Forty-five minutes. That's how long the fortress takes to rebuild.
I sit at my vanity and do what I do every morning. Bobby pins between my teeth, hot rollers cooling on the counter, fingers working the blonde waves into victory rolls so tight my scalp aches. The liner goes on sharp. Two flicks, even wings, steady hand. I'm impressed with myself considering the hand attached to my arm hasn't stopped trembling since I climbed out of a taxi at four in the morning with one shoe and tears on my cheeks.
Cherry lipstick last. I uncap the tube and lean into the mirror and paint my mouth the same shade of red as the heel sitting on Massimo Santoro's desk right now.
Don't think about him. Don't think about his hands or his mouth or the way he saidtesoroagainst your throat while he was inside you.
"Too late, Whitmore." I press my lips together and blot. "Way too late."
I pull on an emerald dress with a sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves. Fitted waist that falls to my knees. It’s hands down a dress that makes people look at the outfit instead of the woman wearing it. Red belt. Red earrings. And the backup heels because my originals are currently split between Massimo's foyer and my apartment, which is a metaphor I refuse to examine before nine AM.
The backup pair are close but not right. A half shade too dark, the leather stiffer, the heel a quarter inch higher than I like. I feel the difference with every step. My feet know they're wearing an imitation and I hate it.
The scar on my left forearm catches the light as I buckle the second strap. I roll my sleeve down to cover it. Some mornings I leave it out. Not today. Today I need every layer I can get.
I check my reflection. Victory rolls tight. Liner sharp. Lipstick fresh. Red heels on. The woman looking back at me is Sloane Whitmore, pin-up queen of Wicker Park. Absolutely no one would guess that twelve hours ago she was barefoot and naked in a man's penthouse learning what an orgasm feels like when someone actually gives a damn about the woman underneath him.
"There she is." I give myself a nod and grab my keys. "Go sell some dresses."
Midnight Boutique sits on a tree-lined block in Wicker Park, wedged between a coffee shop that roasts its own beans and a tattoo parlor whose owner flirts with me every time I walk past.