I step into the doorway.
She stops two feet from me, her gasp cutting through the charged air between us. The blood drains from her cheeks so fast I watch the color leave, and her blue eyes blow wide and every wall she just held up in that room cracks down the center.
Her blonde hair is pinned in those structured rolls she loves, and her cherry red lips make me forget where I am for half a second. A fitted emerald dress hugs her frame from her collarbones to just below her knees. Everything about her is beautiful and striking enough to distract you from noticing how hard she's fighting underneath it.
But I know what she looks like without all of it. I’ve kissed nearly every freckle. I’ve memorized the sound she makes when she letsgo completely. And I want to do it again. I want to reach out, take her in my arms and tell her she has a new shield. I’ll stand between her and any fucker alive trying to use her or harm her.
The sudden tightness in my chest releases.
The distance between the woman standing in front of me and the woman who was in my bed last night is so small my chest aches.
"Sloane." Her name comes out of my mouth low and careful. I want to saytesoro. I want to reach for her and pull her against my chest and tell her I know. I know who she is. I know what she did. I know why she ran. And it changes nothing.
But Harrison is behind her and Lorenzo is behind her and this is not the moment. So I say her name the only way I can without giving us both away and I let my eyes say the rest.
She doesn't hear it. Or she can't. "Excuse me." She pushes past me and her shoulder hits my chest. The brief contact runs through my body, hot and sharp, every nerve firing at once. My hand reaches for her arm on instinct, my fingers brushing over her skin just long enough to feel the warmth of her before I force myself to let go. She keeps moving. Her heels crack against the marble, fast and hard, and she doesn't look back.
The faint trail of Chanel lingers in the air where she passed and I breathe it in before I can stop myself.
Every instinct I have screams at me to follow her. I don't. Not yet. I have business to finish first.
I turn to the study.
Harrison stands behind his desk, whiskey glass in hand, his face carrying the expression of a man who knows he just lost something he can't get back. The study smells like old leatherand cigar smoke and the sharp bite of whiskey, and the cold fireplace sits dark against the far wall, logs stacked but unlit. Lorenzo Ferraro stands by the window with his hands in his pockets and a look of mild inconvenience on his face, the afternoon light cutting across his jaw and his tailored suit.
I instantly hate the man. Not the word I usually reach for. I assess. I evaluate. I form measured opinions based on evidence. Not this time. The man is already on my shit list and I plan on leaving him there.
"Mass." Harrison sets his glass down on the leather blotter, the crystal thudding dully against the worn surface. "I wasn't expecting you this early."
"Clearly." I step into the study and widen the door behind me. My eyes cut to Lorenzo and I jut my chin toward the exit. "Give us the room."
Lorenzo's eyebrows rise a fraction. He looks at Harrison for confirmation but his attention swiftly falls back to me. At least he has the sense to know who the real threat is.
"Lorenzo, give us a minute." Harrison waves a hand toward the door.
Lorenzo buttons his suit jacket with slow, deliberate fingers, nods at Harrison, and walks toward me. He stops a foot away and extends his hand. "Massimo Santoro. Your reputation precedes you."
I look at his hand. I don't take it.
"Leave the fucking room."
His jaw tightens. The smile disappears. For half a second the mask slips and what's underneath is cold, calculating. He dropshis hand, adjusts his cuffs, and walks out without another word. The door closes behind him and the air in the room loosens.
Harrison and I are alone.
I stand on the opposite side of his desk and look at the man who has been my closest friend for twenty years. He looks like hell. The suit hangs loose on his frame and the skin beneath his eyes is bruised from what I suspect is exhaustion and too many mornings like this one.
The whiskey glass has been filled and emptied too many times today, the crystal smudged with fingerprints. The lines around his eyes have deepened since I saw him last month and there's a tremor in his hand that wasn't there before, a fine shake that rattles the ice against the glass when he lifts it.
My eyes catch the pencil marks on the doorframe behind him. Faint lines and dates scratched into the wood in Harrison's handwriting, barely visible unless you know where to look. Sloane's height measured every birthday. The last one reads14, 4'11"and the marks stop there. One year before the night in the hallway. She was still growing. She was still a child.
"What the hell are you doing, Harrison?"
He sits down heavily, the old wingback groaning under his weight. Rubs both hands over his face, his palms scraping against the beard on his jaw. "It's not what it looks like."
"From the outside looking in, it looks like you're selling your daughter to settle a debt. Tell me how I'm wrong."
Harrison's jaw flexes and his hand tightens around the empty glass. "You don't understand the situation." His eyes drop to his desk, unable to hold my gaze.