Chapter 4 Chapter 4

POV: Sloane

"You're late."

I had just spent the past hour having a panic attack on a concrete sidewalk. I had hijacked a catering cart and risked arrest just to get inside this room.

And Julian Blackwood was looking at me like an assistant who had forgotten his coffee.

My brain stalled.

I stared at him. The man had just financially buried me alive, and he was sitting there acting like I was the one inconveniencing him.

I abandoned the catering tray right where it was. My legs moved before my common sense could kick in, carrying me past the empty leather chairs until I reached the head of the table.

Up until yesterday, I had considered this man my personal saviour. Now, I just wanted to throttle him.

I stopped right at the edge of his desk, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Was framing me for grand larceny really the easiest way to reject a check, Mr. Blackwood?"

He let his eyes drop to my hands.

My fists were clenched so tight it hurt. My fingers were shaking. A flush of adrenaline was burning up my neck. I was vibrating with the need to whack this man with a water bottle, and he was sitting there as still as a statue.

"You cashed a cashier's check just to flag it as stolen," I said, my voice rising. "That is sociopathic. You are a sociopath."

He didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched so tight it felt like a wire wrapping around my throat.

His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before slowly tracking back up to my eyes. It was a deeply unsettling, unhurried assessment. Like a predator deciding exactly how he wanted to play with his food.

It was a twisted thing.

His stormy grey eyes narrowed. "Deposited your check? Ms. Caldwell, you humour me." His tone had the consistency of pure velvet. "My security team flagged the transaction, Sloane. For your own protection."

I let out a harsh laugh. "My protection."

Was he being serious right now?

"Of course." He tilted his head, his eyes slowly mapping the rumpled fabric of my white button-down like my very existence was a tragedy. "Fifty thousand dollars suddenly moving into my accounts? Handed over by a very emotional girl? It looked rash."

He let out a soft sigh, leaning forward to rest his arms on the desk. His eyes glimmered with intrigue.

"People from your background often make the worst financial decisions when they feel cornered. You panicked. And I helped you hit the pause button before you did something you would regret. I did you a favour, Ms. Caldwell."

I saw red.

People from my background.

He was intentionally pushing every single button I had. He wanted me to lose my temper.

Before I could open my mouth to scream at him, he pulled open a desk drawer. He took out a sleek black folder and slid it towards me.

It stopped right at my fingertips.

"I'll clear the fraud flag." He waved two fingers in a lazy, sweeping motion, the way you'd swat away an annoying fly.

"I'll unfreeze your accounts. I'll even make a call to the publisher and ensure that awful reality-TV memoir you're currently ghostwriting gets published under your actual name."

A cold thread wound down my spine.

He had looked into me. Deeply. He knew about Vanessa. He knew exactly what strings to pull.

"In exchange," he continued, "you are going to sign that."

I looked down at the folder. "What—?"

"A six-month contract." His voice turned all business. "You will be the official Mentee in Residence for the Julian Blackwood Foundation. You will attend the galas. You will smile for the cameras. And you will stand right next to me while I ring the IPO bell next month."

The pieces finally clicked together.

The upcoming IPO. The rumors of his changing behavior. He was bleeding goodwill in the press, and I was the perfect little band-aid.

He never gave a shit about the fifty grand. This man lived his whole life behind a perfectly curated mask, and right now, the seams were tearing. He needed to buy my sob story to polish his reputation, and he intended to keep me on a very short, very public leash to do it.

I pushed the folder back across the desk.

"No."

Julian stopped.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no." I met his stare, refusing to back down a single inch. "Keep the money. Keep the frozen account. I will eat instant ramen for the rest of my life before I let you parade me around like a corporate puppet."

I didn't give a shit.

I wish.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. I could hear my own pulse in my ears.

Then, the Julian charm bled out of his expression, replaced by something so cold and utterly hollow it left me completely still.

He stood up.

The movement was so fast that my breath caught in my throat.

It was there and then that I realized that I had underestimated Julian Blackwood at the event yesterday.

Because he was a massive man.

He towered over the desk, the sheer presence of him sucking all the oxygen out of the room.

I took a step back, a sudden, irrational spike of panic hitting my chest. It didn't make sense. I had watched interviews of Julian Blackwood for years. He was soft-spoken. Gentle.

The man looming over me didn't feel like Julian at all. He felt like a stranger who had stolen his face.

"This is not a negotiation."

His voice was a gravelly scrape that sent a treacherous prickle of heat across my skin.

"You walked into my building. You interrupted my boardroom. You belong to the Blackwood Empire now, Sloane."

His grey eyes were terrifying up close. They held the merciless colour of a winter storm—the kind that tore houses apart and left absolutely nothing but wreckage behind.

"Sign the paper. Or I will make sure the only thing you ever write for the rest of your life is an apology letter to me."