005

Skylar’s POV

I stare at my reflection for the hundredth time, adjusting my blouse like it’s going to fix the chaos in my head.

Second day in New York. Last day.

My flight’s at four.

And yet, a certain billionaire has other plans, texting me.

"Let’s talk over breakfast. – C.J. FORD"

The message still glows on my phone screen, sitting right above Carrie’s FaceTime window. Her curls bounce as she chews cereal, eyes half-amused, half-concerned.

“You’re seriously not going?” she asks, spoon waving in the air.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, tightening the strap of my heel. I am getting ready, but denial is easier. “He’s a married man, Carrie. Married. And not just to anyone, to Amy freaking Stone. The Oscar-winning actress. If someone takes a picture…”

Carrie snorts. “He’s Carter Ford. Nobody’s taking a picture. Trust me, men like that live above the rules.”

“Exactly my point.”

“Skylar, it’s breakfast, not a proposal. You could use a free meal before your flight anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re no help.”

“I’m your best friend, not your babysitter. Go meet the billionaire. Text me if he’s secretly weird. Or hot. Or both.”

She hangs up before I can argue. Typical Carrie.

I sigh and glance at the mirror again.

The cream silk blouse hugs my shoulders perfectly. My hair falls in soft waves, and for the first time in weeks, I look like a woman who has her life together, even if I don’t.

Still, the question lingers: What could Carter Ford possibly want to talk about over breakfast?

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of a sleek black car parked outside my hotel.

The driver opens the door before I can say a word. “Mr. Ford’s waiting, ma’am.”

Of course he is.

The car glides through Manhattan’s morning rush, sunlight glinting off glass towers. We stop at a private rooftop restaurant overlooking Central Park. Quiet. Elegant. A few tables are occupied.

A waiter leads me to a table tucked near the glass edge. And there he is.

Carter Ford.

He’s lounging back, a magazine covering his face. But the silver watch on his wrist gives his net worth away.

I take a breath, straighten my skirt, and walk up. His cologne hits first, clean, musky, a little sinful. Dior Sauvage, probably.

“Mr. Ford,” I greet, sliding into the seat opposite him.

He lowers the magazine slowly. “Oh, Miss Johnson.” His lips curve. His voice is smooth, deep American, with the faintest British inflection that shouldn’t sound as good as it does.

For a second, I’m back in that elevator, the press of his body, the way his mouth claimed mine, my fingers tugging at his hair before I could even ask his name. His hands on my thighs and my hands on his erect cock.

He breaks the silence. “Thank you for meeting me. I know it’s short notice.”

“Your text said you wanted to talk,” I reply, keeping my tone professional. “I assumed this was about work.”

His mouth tilts faintly. “Partly.”

A waiter appears as if summoned, pouring coffee into fine porcelain cups. The smell is divine, dark roast, expensive. I focus on it just to avoid his eyes, I can’t let him see I'm getting turned on from last month's flashback.

“About the elevator,” Carter begins, setting his cup down.

Okay. That’s what this is about. Right. He probably has flashbacks too.

“I owe you an apology,” he says evenly. “I should’ve told you I was married.”

I meet his gaze. “You should’ve,” I say flatly. “But it’s fine. I was emotionally unstable, you were…” I gesture vaguely. “…whatever that was. It wasn’t deep. You were just supposed to be a one-night mistake.”

His gaze sharpens with amusement. “Good to know I left an impression.”

Heat rises up my neck. “No, you didn’t.” My voice wavers, betraying me.

He chuckles softly, sipping his coffee. “I’ve done my homework on you, Skylar. You don’t have much waiting for you back in Atlanta. No job. No stability. Just… possibilities.”

My stomach tightens. “You ran a background check on me?”

He shrugs, as if it’s normal. “Consider it curiosity. Besides, my father likes you. So does Mrs. Lawrence. And I could use someone competent in my legal department. Someone I can trust.”

My breath catches. Someone he can trust? After a single elevator kiss?

“So you’re offering me a job?”

“Not just a job,” he says, leaning forward. “A future. One that pays better than anything your mother ever offered you.”

So he really did his homework.

I look down, tracing my finger along the rim of the cup. This is everything Carrie would want for me. Everything I should want.

But my instincts whisper something else. That it’s too easy. Too perfect. That the men who offer the world always want something in return.

I lift my gaze, studying him. “I heard nothing goes for nothing,” I murmur. “What’s your price?”

He tilts his head, a lazy smirk ghosting across his face. “Price?”

“What’s the price I’ll pay for this kind gesture?”

For a moment, silence hums between us. Then his lips curl, that devilish spark lighting up his eyes.

“Your body,” he says softly, “your mind… and your soul.”

I let out a small laugh, trying to play it off, but something about his tone makes my heart stop.

He doesn’t look like he’s joking.

And in that moment, with the morning sun gliding his jawline and his face looking so perfect, I realize something...

I might’ve just made a deal with the devil over breakfast.

Fuck me.