The sunlight in New York doesn't gently wake you up; it stabs at your eyes through uncurtained windows.
Sloane Sterling woke up with a kink in her neck and the cold realization that she was not alone. The "nook" she had claimed was essentially a wooden shelf with a thin cushion. Every bone in her body ached, but the discomfort was quickly eclipsed by the sight of a white dress shirt draped over the only chair in the room.
Arthur Hayes was already awake.
He was standing in the tiny kitchenette, his back to her. He had managed to find a mirror—likely a shaving mirror from his suitcase—and had propped it up against the sink. He was currently tying a Windsor knot with such aggressive precision that it looked like he was trying to strangle the silk.
"The shower is cold," Arthur said without turning around. His voice was raspier than usual, a morning edge that sent an unwanted shiver down Sloane's spine. "And the water pressure is an insult to civil engineering."
Sloane sat up, rubbing her eyes and trying to smooth down her sleep-mussed hair. "Good morning to you, too, Hayes. I see you've already made yourself at home in the three square feet of counter space we have."
Arthur finally turned. He was fully dressed, looking every bit the high-flying associate, except for his feet—he was wearing hotel slippers. "I've been up since five. I did twenty minutes of emails and a light workout. If you want the bathroom, you have exactly twelve minutes before I reclaim it to brush my teeth. I have a 7:30 pre-meeting."
Sloane scrambled out of the nook, her pride bristling. "I have a 7:15 conference call with the London office. Move."
They brushed past each other in the narrow hallway. It was a brief contact—the rough wool of his suit against her silk camisole—but it felt like a static shock. They both recoiled instantly, wearing identical expressions of distaste.
"Don't touch my suit," Arthur muttered, though he looked more shaken than annoyed.
"Don't stand in the middle of the 'hallway' like a decorative pillar," Sloane snapped, slamming the bathroom door.
Inside, the reality of her situation hit her. The bathroom was the size of a broom closet. She looked in the mirror and winced. She looked like a woman who had spent the night fighting a marble lamp and losing. Her designer makeup kit was sprawled on the toilet lid—the only flat surface available.
She worked in a blur, applying her "war paint." Concealer for the dark circles, a sharp wing of eyeliner, and a bold, intimidating red lipstick. She stepped into her charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse. When she looked in the mirror ten minutes later, Sloane Sterling was back. The "Ice Heiress" was ready.
When she emerged, Arthur was standing by the door, checking his reflection in the window glass. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the red lipstick.
"Going for the 'blood of my enemies' look today?" he asked, his tone mocking but his gaze intense.
"It's a classic for a reason," Sloane replied, grabbing her tote. "Now, listen. We leave at different times. I'll take the service stairs; you take the elevator. If we are seen exiting this building together, I will tell HR you're stalking me."
Arthur snorted, reaching for his briefcase. "Stalking you? Sterling, I wouldn't follow you to a free lunch, let alone home. But for once, we agree. If the partners think I'm 'fraternizing' with a Sterling, they'll assume I'm trying to sleep my way to the top. My reputation is built on merit, not... connections."
Sloane flinched at the jab. The "Sterling" shadow was already falling over her morning. "My 'connections' currently consist of a scammed lease and a roommate who wears hotel slippers. Trust me, Arthur, no one is envious of my life right now."
She reached for the door handle, but Arthur's hand got there first. For a moment, they were trapped in the small entryway, chest to chest. The scent of his expensive sandalwood cologne mixed with her floral perfume, creating a heady, suffocating atmosphere.
Arthur's gray eyes dropped to her lips again, then snapped back to her eyes. The rivalry was there, but beneath it was a new, dangerous spark of curiosity.
"I'll give you a five-minute head start," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But don't think this means I'm playing nice at the office. That promotion is mine."
"We'll see about that, Hayes," Sloane whispered.
She yanked the door open and vanished into the hallway, her heels clicking a rhythmic, angry beat against the floor.
The morning was cold, the subway was crowded, and her bank account was empty. But as she walked into the lobby of Sterling & Cross fifteen minutes later, she held her head high.
"Good morning, Ms. Sterling," the security guard nodded with a look of hushed reverence.
"Good morning," she replied, her face a mask of stone.
She walked toward the elevators, feeling the familiar weight of a hundred gazes. She could almost hear the whispers. *There she is. The golden girl. Must be nice to have the world at your feet.*
If only they knew that the "golden girl" was currently wondering if she could afford a bagel for lunch, and that her biggest rival was currently using her favorite moisturizing soap in a studio apartment they were both too broke to leave.
The elevator doors opened. Sloane stepped in and turned around, only to see Arthur Hayes stepping into the lobby. He caught her eye just as the doors began to slide shut.
He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He simply adjusted his tie and looked away.
The war had officially moved from the apartment to the office. And Sloane Sterling had no intention of losing.