Chapter 5 Untitled Chapter

Fury burned through Sloane's veins as she scrubbed a stain that wouldn't come out. The shop was quiet. Seth was at home with Mrs. Cooper, the neighbor who'd been checking on him while Sloane worked.

Ryan tapped her arm. "Sloane. Look."

She looked up.

Two huge men in black suits stood outside the entrance. A black Maybach was parked at the curb like it owned the street. They were staring into the shop like they were waiting for something.

They were blocking the entrance. Customers had to walk around them.

Sloane dropped the rag, marched outside, and got in their faces.

"Excuse me," she said sharply. "You can't park here. You're obstructing my business."

One of the men dipped his head. "Apologies, Ms. Brown."

She froze. "How do you know my name?"

The other man spoke. "We were asked to bring you in. By our boss."

"Your boss? Who the hell is your boss?"

"Elias Voss, ma'am."

Her stomach dropped.

She didn't have time for this. She needed to focus on Seth. She needed to find forty-three thousand dollars. She definitely didn't need a rich asshole sending his goons to her shop.

But she would go. And she would tell him to leave her alone. To his face.

"Give me a second," she said.

She went back inside, took off her apron, and told Ryan and Abigail she'd be back soon. Then she got into the car.

The Maybach drove past Manhattan.

Sloane watched the city disappear through the window. Skyscrapers turned into trees. Traffic turned into open roads. They were heading north, away from everything she knew.

"I thought we were going to his office," she said.

"To Mr. Voss's residence," the man said.

Her stomach tightened. She didn't like this. She didn't know where they were taking her.

They passed mansion after mansion, huge houses she'd only seen in movies. Gates. Guardhouses. Long driveways that disappeared into trees.

Then they pulled up to a gate. One of the men pressed an intercom. The gate opened.

The mansion was all stone and glass and silence. The grounds stretched endlessly, manicured gardens that looked like they'd never been touched by human hands. A fountain stood in the middle of the driveway, water spraying in perfect arcs.

She stepped out of the car and stared.

The men directed her inside. The front doors were twice her height. The floors were marble. A chandelier hung above her head like a frozen waterfall. Art on the walls. Everything was too big, too perfect.

She was so busy staring that she didn't notice him standing right in front of her.

"Like what you see?"

She jumped.

Elias Voss stood a few feet away, leaning against a doorway. He wasn't wearing a suit this time. Black shirt, two buttons undone at the chest, revealing a hint of the tattoo she'd glimpsed at the gala. His blue eyes were watching her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

She bit her lower lip without meaning to. Then she looked away.

"Hello, Sloane," he said. "Sit."

He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. Something dark. Probably whiskey. Everything about him looked expensive.

She hated the way he said her name, like he owned her. And she hated how he said "sit," like she was a fucking dog.

"It's Ms. Brown to you," she said. "Only my close friends call me Sloane."

He made a tsk sound with his mouth. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he set the glass down and spoke.

"I will not repeat myself again. Sit."

His voice was stern this time.

Sloane huffed and dropped onto the couch. "What do you want from me? What is so important that you dragged me away from my work?"

He picked up a document from the table and slid it toward her. "Read it."

She scanned the pages. Legal words. Small print. Her head was spinning.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Keep reading."

She got to the middle of the first page and stopped. Her hands started shaking.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

Elias tilted his head. "I do not joke, Sloane."

"Stop calling me that."

"Ms. Brown, then." He said it slowly, like he was tasting each syllable. "Read the rest."

She forced herself to continue. Non-disclosure agreement. Contract. Payment terms. One night. One million dollars.

She looked up at him. Her mouth was dry.

"One night," he said, answering the question she hadn't asked. "With me. In exchange, you receive a million dollars wired to any account you choose."

"You want to buy me."

"I want to fuck you." He said it casually, like he was ordering coffee. "There's a difference."

She stared at him. Her face went hot. Then cold. Then hot again.

"Is there?" She stood up. The contract fell to the floor. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly the same."

He stepped closer. "You clearly need the money, Ms. Brown. Your brother needs the money. One night with me, and all your problems disappear. Every debt.

She wanted to look away. She wanted to run. But his eyes held her in place.

"How do you know all of this?" she asked. "About my debts."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "I have people. People who find things out. Your financial situation is not exactly a secret, Ms. Brown. Banks deny you loans. Hospitals send you collection notices. Your shop barely breaks even." He paused. "You are drowning. I am offering you a life raft."

"A life raft with strings attached."

"Every raft has strings."

Sloane felt something inside her snap. The frustration of watching her brother die while rich men in mansions tried to buy her body. It all came rushing out.

"What is wrong with you rich people?" Her voice was shaking. "Throwing money at everything and expecting people to do your bidding. You arrogant prick. I would never stoop so low to sell myself to anyone. Especially not to someone like you."

He didn't flinch. "Everyone has a price."

"Not me."

"Everyone," he repeated. "You just haven't heard yours yet."

She grabbed the contract from the desk and threw it at his chest. Papers scattered everywhere.

"You fucking bastard."

She stormed toward the door. Then she turned back.

"And stay the fuck away from me. Don't send your men to my shop again. Leave me alone."

She left.

The doors slammed behind her.

Elias didn't move. He stood there, papers at his feet, whiskey in his hand. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.

She'd cussed him out again. Thrown papers at him. Called him a bastard and an arrogant prick.

He should have been angry.

He wasn't.

She'd be back. They always came back. And he'd make sure she did.