Chapter 6

POV: Sloane

“Be ready in thirty minutes.”

Sloane read the message again, the blue light of the screen throwing the narrow kitchen walls into sharp relief.

The car arrived forty-seven minutes later.

She was standing by the stove when the headlights swept across the frosted kitchen window, cutting through the dimness. Jamie sat at the table, his fingers tracing the edge of his placemat. The brown medicine bottle sat undisturbed beside his plate. Untouched.

"The car is here," Sloane said, her voice flat.

Jamie looked up, his thumb rubbing against the side of his index finger. "Are you coming back tonight?"

Sloane paused, her hand resting on the back of his chair. "Of course I am."

"Bridget said you were going to his house," Jamie said, his eyes dropping back to his plate. "She said you were staying there."

"Bridget doesn't know the schedule," Sloane said gently. "Eat your dinner, Jamie. Take the medicine."

"Will he be there?"

"Yes."

"Is he going to ask about the letters on the table?"

"No," Sloane said, smoothing down his hair. "He doesn't care about the letters. I’ll be back before the radiators go cold."

The deadbolt clicked before Sloane could reach the hallway. Bridget walked in, the cold night air rushing in behind her, wearing a silk slip dress. Her eyes went straight to Sloane's outfit—the plain black wool dress, the low heels, the small leather clutch.

"Where are you going?" Bridget asked, dropping her keys onto the mail table.

"Investor dinner," Sloane said. "Declan sent a car."

Bridget's expression sharpened, her small mouth tightening at the corners. "Why was Declan here earlier, Sloane? Mother said he came inside."

"He came to ask about the supplier resolution."

"I handled the supplier issue."

"You changed the venue and moved the timeline forty-eight hours before the press release," Sloane said, keeping her voice low. "That isn't handling. That’s creating a structural deficit."

Bridget stepped closer, the scent of expensive perfume cutting through the smell of old wood. "Why are you suddenly acting like you own this wedding?"

"Because someone has to make sure it actually happens."

"I'm the bride."

"Then act like it," Sloane said. "Come to the dinner tonight. Sit next to him. Answer the financial questions he’s going to ask about the merger allocation."

Bridget gave a short, dry laugh, turning toward the mirror. "I have another commitment."

"Cancel it."

"I can't."

"Then stop complaining about how I stabilize the foundation."

Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs, her wool robe pulled tight around her throat. She looked down at them, her gaze moving from Bridget to Sloane.

"The car is idling," Margaret said. "Go, Sloane. It is one dinner. Do you want Jamie’s clinic placement delayed before it even begins?"

Sloane looked up at her mother. "You knew Bridget wouldn't be here."

"I know the car is waiting," Margaret said. "And I know Declan Shaw doesn't ask twice."

Sloane turned her back on them. "Take care of Jamie's medicine."

"Just go, Sloane," Bridget muttered, already reaching for her phone.

Sloane walked out the front door without looking back.

The restaurant occupied the top floor of a Shaw-owned high-rise overlooking the financial district. Declan was already seated when the host led her to the corner booth. Four investors flanked him, two on each side. Declan didn't stand when she approached.

"You're late," Declan said, pointing to the empty chair directly beside him.

"Your driver doesn't know the cross-streets in the lower ward," Sloane replied, sitting down.

Declan’s eyes held on her for two long beats. Then he turned to the silver-haired woman on his left. "Bridget Madden. Bridget handles the family's philanthropic allocations."

The woman leaned forward, her diamond brooch catching the light. "I understand the merger timeline has been accelerated by twelve days. How are you preparing the primary foundation for the transition, Miss Madden?"

"The foundation is fully audited through the end of last quarter," Sloane said, her voice steady. "The transition team has been briefed on all active grants. We are maintaining the original disbursement schedule through November to avoid any compliance issues with the state board."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You handle the audits personally?"

"I review everything that has a signature on it," Sloane said.

Declan reached for his water glass, his movements deliberate. "Miss Madden ensures our filings leave no room for interpretation."

The man to Declan's right—a senior partner at a commercial lending firm—leaned in. "Where did you study contract law, Miss Madden? Your father’s old filings didn't mention an external degree."

"I didn't study it," Sloane said. "I read."

"You read three-hundred-page commercial filings for entertainment?"

"I read everything that affects my family's liabilities," Sloane said.

The lender smiled thinly. "A rare trait in a Madden."

"Times change, Mr. Vance," Sloane said.

Declan leaned slightly closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. The heat of him was sudden against the air-conditioned chill of the room. "You keep solving problems that don't belong to you," he murmured near her ear.

Sloane turned her head an inch, meeting his dark eyes. "And yet here we are."

"Who are you really?"

Sloane didn't blink. "I am the person keeping this dinner from falling apart, Mr. Shaw."

"That's a deflection."

"That's a fact."

"We'll see," Declan said, pulling back as the server arrived.

Halfway through the main course, Sloane’s phone vibrated inside her clutch. She ignored it. Then it vibrated again. And a third time. She slipped her hand into the leather bag beneath the table, shielding the screen with her palm.

Bridget had posted to her private story. A mirror shot at a lounge downtown—a club owned by an associate of Elliot Vance. The location tag flashed under purple neon lights.

Sloane closed the screen and looked up. Across the table, Declan was staring down at his own phone. His face hadn't changed, but his breathing stopped for one full second.

"Is something wrong, Declan?" the silver-haired woman asked.

Declan put his phone face down on the tablecloth. "Nothing that can't be resolved before midnight. Excuse us."

The investors disappeared into the private elevator. Sloane stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the city lights forty stories below.

"We're leaving," Declan said behind her.

Sloane didn't turn around immediately. "The dinner went well. They will sign the allocation papers tomorrow."

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't perform," Declan said, his voice dropping. "The dinner is over."

"I'm just summarizing the results."

"I see the results," he said, walking toward the doors.

They rode the elevator down in total silence and stepped into the back of the black sedan. Declan didn’t look at her as the car pulled away. He stared straight ahead at the driver’s headrest.

"Take me to your sister," he said.

Sloane went entirely still against the leather seat. "Bridget is at home."

"No," Declan said. "She isn't. Give the driver the address of the lounge on Fourth."

"Declan, let's go back to the house and discuss this with Margaret."

"Give him the address, Sloane."

She froze. It was the first time he had used her real name. "How long have you known?"

"Since I looked at the handwriting on the supplier report," he said, still staring straight ahead. "Bridget signs her name with a loop. You sign with a stroke. Now give him the address."

Sloane swallowed, leaning forward to the partition. "Fourth and Commercial. The lounge with the black awning."

The driver nodded, swinging the sedan hard into a u-turn.

Sloane pulled her phone out, keeping her hand hidden beneath the fold of her black wool skirt. She opened her banking application, her thumb moving across the screen with rapid precision.

"What are you doing?" Declan asked without turning his head.

"Checking my brother's account," she lied.

"You're moving money," he said.

"It's family money."

"It's a shell account," Declan corrected, his voice flat. "And my legal team monitored that IP address three minutes ago. Stop typing."

Sloane let her hand fall, keeping her phone tight in her palm. "Twenty-three thousand dollars. It’s not enough to break the contract."

"It's enough to prove you're looking for an exit," he said. "Why?"

"Because you're driving us into a club where Elliot Vance's people are waiting," Sloane said, her voice rising slightly. "If Bridget is there with him, the merger leaks before the morning papers hit the stands."

"Then we stop it," Declan said.

"And if we can't?"

"Then your brother stays in Boston and you stay in the tower until I say otherwise," he said.

The sedan slowed, its tires crunching over the wet pavement outside the neon-lit entrance of the lounge. Declan reached for the door handle. He didn't look back at her as he pushed it open.

"Get out."