Chapter Fifty
Sloane
Four days.
It has been exactly ninety-six hours since Vane Sterling threw his body in front of a .38 caliber round meant for my heart. Ninety-six hours since the man who viewed the world as a series of cold, bloodless transactions proved that my life—and the life I'm carrying—was the only asset he couldn't afford to lose.
The penthouse is hauntingly silent tonight. No flickering stock tickers. No shouting news anchors. Just the low, rhythmic hum of the city seventy floors below and the overwhelming, almost funeral scent of the white lilies Vane has placed in every room. They are a floral apology for a lifetime of thorns, but they smell like a beginning.
I am standing on the balcony, the freezing New York wind whipping my hair across my face, stinging my eyes. My hand is resting flat against my stomach. Below the silk of my robe, our child continues to grow, oblivious to the fact that he was nearly orphaned before his cells had even finished dividing.
I feel… different. The "Ghost" hasn't vanished, but she's no longer haunted. For the first time in three years, I don't feel like I'm standing on a trapdoor waiting for the lever to pull.
"The wind is picking up, Sloane. The doctor said your blood pressure needs stability, not a goddamn chill."
I turn. Vane is leaning against the doorframe. He looks human in a way that still unsettles me. He's wearing a black silk shirt, the top buttons undone, the left sleeve pinned back where the heavy bandage on his shoulder creates a bulky, ugly silhouette. He looks tired—bone-deep exhausted—but his eyes are burning with a protective heat that makes my chest ache.
"I'm fine, Vane," I say, though I step back inside, the warmth of the climate-controlled air hitting my skin. "I was just thinking about the first day. The day I walked in here in a sweatshirt and signed that 180-day contract."
"A different life," he murmurs, reaching out to catch my hand. His grip isn't the crushing, dominant hold it used to be. It's a tether. He's making sure I'm still there, still real, still breathing. "A lifetime of mistakes ago."
He pulls my hand to his lips, his dark stubble grazing my knuckles. The scent of him—expensive cologne mixed with the sharp, clinical smell of antiseptic—fills my lungs.
"Come to the library," he says, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating frequency. "I've finished the final audit of the Arthur accounts. I've liquidated his holdings in the Caymans. Every cent he stole from your mother's care fund, plus interest, is back in the trust."
"Is it over then?" I ask, looking into the eyes of the man who took a bullet for me. "The war?"
Vane pulls me closer, his good arm wrapping around my waist, drawing me into the heat of his body. He winces slightly as his shoulder shifts, but he doesn't let go.
"The war with Arthur is over," he whispers against my temple. "But the Audit is just beginning. We have a company to rebuild, a name to scrub clean, and a child who needs to grow up knowing that his father isn't the monster the newspapers say he is."
I look at him—the bruises on his face, the bandage on his shoulder—and I realize that we aren't the same people who signed that contract. We are two wrecked souls who found a way to bridge the gap.
"The markets open in eight hours, Mr. Sterling," I whisper, my hand sliding up to the back of his neck.
"Then we have eight hours to be human," he replies, and for the first time, he doesn't look at his watch.