Page 134 of The Devil of Downtown

I haven’t slept.

Eight hours staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment I told her to leave. Somewhere in the middle of it, a notification camethrough that Bexley was ours, and it didn’t even register a flicker of emotion.

The acquisition cleared before dawn. Billions changed hands while I was lying there, wondering how the hell a man could gain an empire and still feel nothing.

The exhaustion sits under my skin like a live wire, sharpening everything while hollowing me out. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I ended it. Less than twenty-four hours since I told Ivy there was nous. I tell myself it was necessary, inevitable, the only way to contain the fallout.

Already, I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through another day without her.

Whether I like it or not, she makes everything better. The silence. The chaos. Me.

I keep my expression neutral as the CFO speaks, nodding where expected, asking the right questions, but my attention fractures every few seconds. My gaze drifts, against my will, to the far end of the table where Sloane is sitting. She hasn’t looked up once. Her posture is upright, shoulders drawn tight, jaw set in a way that tells me she’s in business mode. I know it’s pointless, but my eyes keep flicking to her, as if her presence might tell me something her sister hasn’t.

“We’ll need confirmation from legal by noon,” Julian says. “If this blows sideways, we’re talking eight figures in penalties alone.”

“Then it won’t blow sideways,” I say without hesitation. “That’s why we’re here.”

The meeting continues. Projections. Scenarios. Controlled risk.

I’m in the middle of outlining an exit strategy when I hear it—a faint vibration against the polished table. Once. Then again.

Sloane’s phone.

She doesn’t reach for it at first. She keeps writing, ignoring the vibration as it continues, more insistent now, and something tightens at the base of my skull.

I break eye contact with the board member across from me just long enough to register that Sloane’s pen has gone still.

There is another buzz, and this time she glances down.

The change is immediate. The color drains from her face so fast it’s almost startling. She lets out a gasp, and the sound cuts through the room like something breaking.

“Sloane?” someone says quietly.

She’s already standing.

“I’m—” Her voice falters, then firms with visible effort. “I’m so sorry; will you excuse me, but I need to take this.”

She doesn’t wait for permission.

Her chair scrapes back as she turns and hurries out, one hand pressed to her mouth, her phone clenched tightly in the other.

A cold weight drops into my chest. Instinct hits before logic can intervene.

I’m already pushing back my chair.

“Dane,” Julian snaps, half rising. “Where the hell are you going? We’re in the middle of—”

“I know,” I say, already moving. “Hold it.”

I don’t slow.

I’m out the door before anyone can stop me.

I catch up to her just outside the conference room, my stride too fast, my pulse already skidding out of control like it knows what’s coming before I do.

“Sloane.”

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s heard me, her heels striking the floor with sharp, unforgiving precision.