Chapter Fifteen
Vane
She's terrified.
I can see the way her pulse is jumping in her neck—a frantic little bird trapped under the skin. The sight of her in my shirt, standing in my pristine kitchen with her hair a salt-crusted mess, is a masterpiece of contrast. She looks like something I broke, and yet, the way she stands—shoulders back, chin up, analyzing the London exchange while her body is clearly screaming for rest—it's what makes her the only asset worth holding.
I mentioned the medical subsidies just to see the color drain from her face. It's cruel, perhaps. A lesser man would call it sadistic. But I call it "risk management." I need her to understand that the floor she slept on, the water I poured on her, the heat on the cliffs—it's all part of the same machine. There is no "work" and "life" in this house. There is only the contract.
"The car will be here at noon," I say, turning back to my tablet. "We're meeting Marcus Thorne at his club in East Hampton. He thinks he's selling me a vineyard. In reality, I'm going to take his textile mills and leave him the dirt."
"Thorne is aggressive," Sloane notes, her voice regaining its steady, clinical edge. "He won't respond well to a direct assault."
"Which is why you'll be there," I say, glancing at her over the rim of my cup. "You'll be the distraction. He has a weakness for 'competent' women who look like they've been worked a little too hard. He'll think I'm distracted by you. He'll think I'm soft."
I step closer, forcing her back until she's pressed against the cold marble counter.
"You're going to play the part of the exhausted, loyal assistant who is just one harsh word away from a breakdown. You're going to give him hope that he can use you to get to me. And while he's looking at you, I'm going to cut his throat."
I reach out, my hand grazing the collar of the shirt she's drowning in.
"Now, go upstairs. You have twenty minutes to fix your hair and put on the black dress I had delivered to your room. Make sure the bruise shows just enough to be suggestive, but not enough to be 'unprofessional.' This is part of the audit, Sloane. Don't fail me again."
I watch her walk away. She doesn't argue. She doesn't cry. She just climbs the stairs with a quiet, grim dignity that I find more erotic than any submission she's offered yet.
The audit is moving into phase two: The Public Performance. And I want to see if she can lie to the world as well as she lies to herself.