Chapter Four
Sloane
The drive to the Hamptons is four hours of suffocating, high-velocity silence.
The interior of the Maybach smells like new leather and Vane's signature scent—sandalwood and cold rain. It's a rolling vacuum. The bastard hasn't looked at me once since we crossed the bridge. He's just hunched over his laptop, the rhythmic click-clack of his typing sounding like a damn countdown.
I sit beside him, eyes fixed on the blur of the Long Island Expressway, my spine stiff as a board. Every bump in the road sends a dull ache through my hips—a delicious reminder of the "penalty" this man made me serve until two in the morning. I'm a ghost in transit.
The estate is a monolith of glass and white stone overlooking the Atlantic. They actually call it The Monolith, which is so typical of his ego. When we pull into the gravel driveway, the scale of the place makes me feel like an ant. Small. Insignificant. Exactly how he wants me.
The staff is nowhere to be seen. Vane is a control-freak prick who likes it that way. The fridge is stocked by a silent crew that vanishes long before he shows up. The linens are crisp, the air is salt-heavy, and the isolation is total. It's a gold-plated cage in the middle of nowhere.
"The rules of the office don't apply here, Sloane," Vane says, tossing his keys onto the marble kitchen island.
The clack of the metal hitting the stone sounds like a gunshot in the quiet house. He looks at me, his eyes tracking the way the salt air has already messed with my hair, making it curl at the temples. I feel totally exposed. In the city, I have my suit and my desk to hide behind. Here, I'm just a woman in a glass house with a bastard who thinks he owns the air I breathe.
"Here, the audit is more... comprehensive," he adds.
My heart starts acting like a frantic bird, slamming against my ribs. I stay by the door, my fingers digging into my palms until I nearly draw blood.
"What's the actual play here, Mr. Sterling?" My voice is steady, but I'm screaming 'go to hell' in every language I know. "What's the objective?"
"The objective," he says, stalking toward me. He stops so close I can feel the chill coming off him—the aura of a man who has never been told 'no' in his entire shitty life. "Is to find out exactly where your 'professionalism' hits a wall and your 'desperation' takes over. You've gotten way too good at wearing that mask, Sloane. I'm over it. I want to see what's underneath."
He reaches out, his fingers surprisingly warm as he unpins my hair. It spills over my shoulders, a messy curtain that feels like a total breach of protocol. I should hate him. I should hate his house. And I hate that my body still leans into his touch like a starved animal.
"Tonight," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, "we start The Hunt."