"A union." Her voice is flat. "You mean a marriage. You know, it's okay to spell out your ill intentions plainly."
My steps falter. What the fuck did I just hear?
A man's voice I don't recognize responds. Smooth, controlled, every syllable placed with a precision that puts my teeth on edge. "I mean a partnership. One built on mutual respect, shared interests, and the consolidation of two powerful families."
Lorenzo. That's Lorenzo Ferraro in the flesh. And he's in there with Sloane right now talking about her like she's merchandise to acquire.
Blades of rage slice into my heart.
I came here to tell Harrison the truth about his daughter and me. But that confession just dropped to the bottom of the priority list because what I'm hearing through this door is worse than anything I came to say.
I move down the hallway. Quiet. My shoes barely register on the marble because twenty years of working with dangerous men teaches you how to move through a house without announcing yourself. The afternoon light filters through the tall windows at the end of the hall, casting long shadows across the floor that stretch toward the study door, which sits open about four inches. I press my shoulder against the wall beside the doorframe and listen.
"Dad. What is this? I don't even know this man and you want me to marry him?" Sloane's voice. Controlled but cracking at the edges, the way glass sounds right before it breaks.
Harrison's response comes with the clink of ice against glass and the sharp smell of whiskey drifting through the gap. He's drinking. "I've kept you apart from the dealings of my business. It's time for that to change and for you to stop your silly boutique business and step into your intended role. For the family. We have debts, Sloane. Significant ones. The Ferraro alliance resolves them. He’s a good man."
My fists clench at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. A fierce, gut-wrenching need to step in and protect her nearly forces me through the door, but I hold myself in place. If I step through that door right now, I'm going to break Lorenzo Ferraro's jaw in front of his would-be future father-in-law, and there isn't a contract in the world that covers that liability.
Did I hear her father call her business silly? That’s new. He’s the one who set it up for her, pushed her into being herself in the first place. We didn’t spend a lot of time talking about his daughter, an oversight, looking back. Had I focused on her, I’m sure…
Sure of what? I mentally chastise myself. Asked for her hand in marriage?
Probably.
Now that I’ve seen Sloane, I can’t unsee her. I let my work blind me. Now that I've seen her, I can't look away. I want her.
She’s mine, damn it.
I spent the morning reading Luca's file on the “good man” in that room and nothing about Lorenzo Ferraro qualifies.
"How long?" Sloane's voice drops lower, quiet and dangerous. My pride for her grows. Not many stand up to Harrison, but his daughter seems to have no problem putting the aging man in his place.
"How long have you been planning this?" she asks again.
"Six months. You happy now? Can we get on with this?"
Six months. He's bartering his daughter to a Ferraro and never once mentioned it. I restructured his trust three weeks ago. I reviewed his financial disclosures last month. He sat in my office and drank my whiskey and asked about contract amendments and never once opened his mouth about this.
"You should have told me." Her voice is steady. I know what she sounds like when she's falling apart and this isn't it. This is the armor doing its job, every pin and brushstroke and layer of cherry lipstick holding her upright while the ground gives way beneath her.
"I'm telling you now," Harrison pushes back roughly.
"No. You're presenting me with a done deal and calling it a conversation."
That's my girl.
The thought hits me before I can stop it and I press my shoulder harder against the wall and close my eyes for a second, the cool plaster against my arm.
Listening to her father sell her has every muscle in my body pulling toward that door.
Lorenzo's voice cuts through, smooth and unbothered. "You'll warm up to me, Sloane. They always do."
My jaw locks. My blood pressure spikes so hard I feel the heat climb up the back of my neck. They always do. This man just told a woman to her face that her refusal is temporary and irrelevant.
Then Sloane's voice goes cold and hard in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Fuck that and fuck you. You don't respect me, why should I respect you?" A beat. Then lower, quieter, laced with a fury that vibrates through the door and settles into my bones. "I need air. I'll call you when I'm ready to talk, and I am not ready to talk."
I hear movement. The scrape of heels on rug, then the sharp click of heels on marble. She's heading for the door. I could step back, move down the hall, let her leave without knowing I'm here. That would be the smart play. The professional, measured, appropriate thing to do.