Chapter Twenty-eight
Sloane
The elevator ride down from the sixty-first floor feels like a descent into an open grave.
I can still feel the phantom weight of that gold fountain pen in my hand. The ink on the "indefinite" contract is probably still tacky—a permanent, black stain on my future. Vane dismissed me with a casual flick of his wrist, already back on the phone with Singapore, moving on to the next kill before my signature was even dry. He didn't offer me a ride. He didn't offer a security detail. He just threw me out into the storm he'd spent all night brewing.
As the doors hiss open into the lobby, the sound hits me like a physical blow.
It's a wall of pure noise—the cacophony of shouting voices, the rhythmic, metallic clack-whir of motor drives, and the aggressive shuffling of feet on the polished marble. The lobby of Sterling-Vance, usually a quiet temple of wealth, has been turned into a Roman coliseum.
"Ms. Vance! Over here!"
"Sloane! Did you record the audio for Sterling?"
"Is it true you're the one who took down Arthur?"
"Are you and Vane more than business partners? Is he paying for your silence?"
I step out into the gauntlet. The camera flashes are blinding—white-hot needles that sear into my retinas until everything is a blur of purple spots. I keep my head down, chin tucked, eyes fixed on the path to the revolving doors. I'm wearing the navy pinstripe suit, my "armor," but under the barrage of the press, I feel like I'm walking out there naked.
I can feel the heat of their bodies, the smell of rain-damp wool and coffee-breath as the reporters crowd the velvet ropes. Security guards are shoving them back, their blue uniforms a thin, pathetic line of defense against the mob.
"Look up, Sloane! Give us a smile for the girl who killed the Chairman!"
The words cut through me like a serrated blade. The girl who killed the Chairman. To the world, I'm a whistleblower, a hero who stood up to a corrupt executive. To Wall Street, I'm a kingmaker. But as I shove through the heavy glass of the revolving door, I know the goddamn truth. I am a sacrificial lamb who has been taught to love the knife.
The sidewalk is worse. The air is freezing, smelling of exhaust and wet pavement. I'm surrounded instantly. Microphones are shoved toward my face like black plastic clubs. I feel a hand on my shoulder—some reporter trying to spin me around for a shot—and the panic flares, hot and sharp. For a second, I'm back on the cliffs in the Hamptons. I'm being hunted.
But there is no Vane here to catch me. No "Audit" to survive. He is sixty-one floors up, watching the ticker, watching my "radioactivity" increase the value of his stock.
I find my car, my fingers shaking so hard I drop my keys on the wet concrete. I scramble for them, a camera shutter clicking inches from my ear, before I finally dive into the driver's seat. I slam the door and hit the lock just as the first wave of reporters hits the glass.
They're tapping on the windows, their faces distorted and ugly through the curve of the glass, shouting questions I've already blocked out.
I sit there, my breath coming in jagged, shallow gasps. I look in the rearview mirror. My reflection is a stranger's. My eyes are hollowed out, my skin the color of old parchment, my lipstick smeared. I am Sloane Vance, the executive proxy. I am the woman who just sold her soul to a monster so her mother could have a room with a view.
As I pull away from the curb, leaving the circus behind, the most terrifying realization hits me. The "No Emotion" clause was never meant to protect me from Vane. It was meant to protect me from the person I was becoming in his shadow.
And that person? She's a goddamn shark.