Chapter 7

POV: Declan

"You think this is funny, Andrew?" Declan asked, his voice low enough to stay beneath the club's bass line.

Andrew Pierce took his hand off Bridget’s lower back, his fingers twitching toward his pockets. "Declan. I didn't know she was with you tonight."

"You didn't ask," Bridget said. She slid off the barstool, her fingers looping around the stem of her martini glass. "Besides, Declan doesn't mind. Do you, Declan?"

Declan didn't look at the glass. He looked at the manager standing three feet away, whose face had gone completely gray. "Clear the level."

"Mr. Shaw, the private lounge is already—"

"Clear it," Declan said.

The manager didn't ask a second question. Within two minutes, the bar was empty, the host stands deserted, leaving only the sound of ice melting in discarded glasses.

Sloane stepped out of the private elevator. She didn't rush across the polished floor. She stopped exactly one step behind Declan's right shoulder, her small leather clutch held flat against her black wool skirt.

Bridget watched her approach, her lazy confidence shifting into something sharper. "You brought her."

"You left a table with four primary investors," Declan said. "People noticed."

"I was bored," Bridget said, setting her glass down hard enough to slosh gin over the rim. "The silver-haired woman was talking about municipal bond adjustments. It was exhausting."

"The terms of the allocation required your presence until ten," Declan said.

"Terms," Bridget muttered, turning to the mirror behind the bar to touch her hair. "Everything with you is a line in a ledger. Maybe if your replacement choice had any actual personality, you wouldn't need to chase me down."

Declan looked at Sloane. Her face was perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the neon sign humming above the bottles.

"Sloane is the only reason the morning papers don't have a record of your liabilities," Declan said.

Bridget gave a short, dry laugh. "Sloane? She’s been in your house for five minutes and now she thinks she runs the foundation. I saw the calendar you gave her, Declan. Charity luncheons, board meetings, and not a single night in your bedroom. What exactly are you paying her for?"

"Bridget," Sloane said, her voice quiet. "Come home. We will handle the board statement in the morning."

"Handle it?" Bridget turned on her, her mouth twisting. "Of course you want to handle it. You love playing the martyr, Sloane. It’s the only reason Mother keeps you around the office."

Declan watched Sloane's fingers curl once into the fabric of her skirt before she forced them straight. She didn't flinch. She didn't answer.

"Pierce," Declan said, turning his head slightly.

Andrew Pierce stood up straight. "Declan, look, nothing happened."

"If I hear one word about this lounge from Pierce Media," Declan said, "your father’s acquisition contract stays on my desk unsigned until the third quarter. Leave."

Pierce didn't reach for his coat. He walked straight to the service stairs and disappeared.

Declan faced Bridget again. "You will get into the second sedan downstairs. You will not call anyone, and tomorrow morning you will sign the medical affidavit regarding a sudden migraine. If you deviate from that sequence, the trust allocations your sister negotiated today are voided by noon."

Bridget opened her mouth, her eyes flashing. "You can't just—"

"I didn't give you permission to negotiate," Declan said. "Go."

Bridget looked at Sloane, waiting for a reaction, but Sloane simply stepped aside to clear the path to the elevator. With a sharp kick of her heels against the slate floor, Bridget marched into the car.

The drive back to the lower ward was silent until the car crossed the bridge.

"Why are you protecting her?" Declan asked, staring straight ahead at the driver’s partition.

Sloane kept her eyes on the dark harbor glass. "Because if the deal collapses, my family pays for it."

"The Madden estate is already bankrupt, Sloane. There is nothing left for me to take."

"You're looking for the commercial assets," Sloane said, turning her head to meet his gaze. "You didn't look at the medical files."

"What medical files?"

"Jamie," she said, her voice dropping into a flat, steady rhythm. "He has a congenital valve defect. His placement at the Boston clinic is tied directly to the Shaw Industries executive health trust. If the merger fails, his name comes off the surgery list for next month."

Declan let the silence fill the space between them as the car turned onto the cracked asphalt of her street. "Your mother didn't mention a dependent during the initial disclosure."

"Margaret doesn't like to list liabilities when she's trying to sell an asset," Sloane said.

The car stopped outside the house. The porch light was off, but the small lamp in the front hallway threw long shadows across the driveway. Declan followed her to the door, his shoes quiet on the gravel.

Through the thin wood of the front door, Margaret's voice carried clearly into the night air.

"Do you have any idea what your sister signed away today so you could run around the financial district with Andrew Pierce?"

A brief pause followed. Bridget must have been standing in the foyer.

"You will stay in your room until the dinner with Vance tomorrow evening," Margaret said, her tone cutting through the floorboards. "And you will apologize to Sloane before you leave this house. If she walks away from Declan Shaw before the first wire transfer clears, you will be the one explaining to the doctors why Jamie can't have his procedure."

The sound of a door slamming rattled the glass frame above the entryway.

Sloane pushed the door open, her keys clicking against the brass lock.

Margaret was standing by the stairs, her wool robe pulled tight around her neck. Her expression smoothed over in less than a second, the sharp lines of her face adjusting into a practiced smile. "Declan. I didn't expect you back here tonight."

"I brought your daughters back," Declan said, stepping into the narrow hallway.

"Bridget had a sudden reaction to the climate in the restaurant," Margaret said quickly, her eyes moving to Sloane. "She was just telling me how much she regretted leaving the table early."

"I heard what she was telling you," Declan said.

Margaret’s smile remained fixed. "Then you know we are doing everything possible to ensure the stability of the arrangement."

"Sloane," Declan said, ignoring her mother completely. "Pack your bags."

Sloane stopped at the base of the banister, her hand resting on the old wood. "The contract states I remain here until the public ceremony next month."

"The contract was based on the assumption that your sister wouldn't leak the merger before the papers were filed," Declan said. "You move into the tower tonight."

Margaret stepped forward, her hand reaching out toward Declan's arm before she caught herself. "Mr. Shaw, the neighbors will notice if she leaves with luggage at midnight. The optics—"

"The optics are currently sitting in my car," Declan said. "Sloane. You have ten minutes."

Sloane looked up the stairs toward Jamie’s dark doorway, then back at Declan. "I need to check his medicine before I leave."

"Go," Declan said.

He waited in the hallway while Margaret retreated into the kitchen without another word. Ten minutes later, Sloane came down the stairs carrying the two smaller suitcases he had seen earlier that afternoon. She had changed out of the black wool dress into a grey sweater that looked three sizes too large for her thin frame.

The drive back to Shaw Tower was louder than the first—the rain had started again, heavy drops striking the roof of the sedan.

Declan didn't look at her until the car entered the underground garage. "Your father's old ledgers didn't include the offshore routing numbers you used tonight."

Sloane kept her phone face down in her lap. "My father didn't know about those accounts."

"Then who built them?"

"I did," she said, looking at him through the dim light of the cabin. "When I was nineteen. I knew how he spent money, Mr. Shaw. I knew exactly when the house would start falling apart."

Declan reached for the door handle as the driver killed the engine. "You're smarter than the woman I signed for."

Sloane didn't move toward her door. "That makes me more dangerous to you, not less."

Declan stopped, his hand resting on the leather trim, studying the dark circles under her eyes. "We'll see about that tomorrow night."

He got out of the car, leaving her alone in the back seat, her fingers tightening around the handle of her suitcase as the elevator doors began to chime above them.