Page 7 of The Devil of Downtown

SLOANE

Damn, Mr. Black is fine.

I’m halfway through typing, “How’s Elsie?”when his door flies open. I’m so on edge I drop my phone on the floor.

“Sloane, inside,” he clips, watching me with cold indifference as I scramble on the floor for my phone, shoving it back onto the desk, mentally cursing Sloane for thinking I could pull this off. I swear, when Elsie’s recovered, I’m sending Sloane to one of my auditions. I scoop up my notepad and straighten, hoping I look composed and not like I just lost a fight with the floor. As he steps aside to let me pass, I catch a trace of his incredible scent. Why is everything about this man engineered to lure you in? As if he could crush you into oblivion and you’d still smile and say thank you.

His office is as grand as expected. The size of a five-star presidential suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline as though he’s got the entire city balanced neatly in the palm of his hand.

Dane returns to his desk and flips through a stack of papers, his movements precise as if there isn’t a second of his day wasted.

“London,” he says without looking up. “Status.”

Adrenaline pulses through me as my brain searches desperately for a coherent response.

“Uh-yes,” I stammer, fumbling for my notebook and flipping it open like it holds the secrets to life and the universe.

He finally lifts his gaze, dark green eyes locking onto me with unsettling intensity.

“I don’t need a yes, Sloane. I need answers.”

Shit. Shit. I glance down, mentally picturing the folder on my desk.

Thankfully the years of memorising dance counts and audition scripts kicks in.

“They’re—um—the board is pushing back. Parliament is involved.”

I force myself to meet his assessing stare, deciding fake confidence is my only option.

A flicker crosses his face. Not approval. Not anger. Just calculation.

“Names of the opposition?” he continues, every question landing like a test I’m failing.

I square my shoulders, keeping my tone even. “Working on compiling that, Mr. Black.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts gears with terrifying ease.

“I want the flight to London moved forward to tonight. Prep the jet for wheels up by 9:30 pm sharp. Contact Bexley’s legal team, confirm dinner tomorrow, Claridges.” He rattles it off like machine-gun fire.

Internally, I do a happy dance. Come this evening, he’ll be en route to London; I’ll be free, and the pressure will be off Sloane.

“Press coverage,” Dane says, dragging me back. “Latest editorial that’s painting me as the villain this time?”

“How long have you got?” I quip, only to be met with terrifying silence.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Sloane doesn’t do jokes. Especially not in the workplace. And certainly not with Mr. Sunshine here.

I swallow another giant slice of tension and press on. “The Times and the Financial Times,” I stutter. It’s a guess. I saw those names in the folder, at least.

He leans back in his chair, eyes raking over me, hands folding behind his head, his broad chest pulling tight against the buttons of his shirt. An unwanted image of him shirtless at the Ironman—sweat-slicked, muscles carved from stone—crashes into my head, and I dig my nails into my palm until it stings.

Pull yourself together, woman.

“And what’s the angle?” he pushes.

“Um...that you’re too aggressive,” I hedge. “That Black Capital is...” I search for the right phrase, heart pounding, “... a wrecking ball.”