Chapter Nine
Sloane
The master bedroom of The Monolith is an expanse of cold, polished concrete and white faux-fur. It's a space designed for a king who doesn't sleep—a room that feels more like a high-end vault than a sanctuary. Outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Atlantic, which has faded into a vast, black void punctuated only by the rhythmic, ghostly white foam of the breakers.
I am sitting on the rug at the foot of Vane's bed. Turns out the bastard wasn't lying when he said I'll have to sit on the floor.
My silk blouse is a ruin, a jagged tear running down the shoulder where his fingers had been too frantic, too demanding on the cliffs. My legs are tucked beneath me, the muscles already beginning to cramp from the adrenaline crash of The Hunt. According to the penalty Vane invoked, I am not a guest, nor an assistant. I am a silent, living monument to his victory.
Vane is propped up against the headboard, his laptop resting on his thighs. He's showered—the scent of expensive soap and cedar now replacing the raw salt and sweat of the garden. He's wearing nothing but a pair of dark silk pajama pants. The sight of his bare chest, the hard planes of his muscles mapped by the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp, is a distraction I can't afford. It's a reminder of the heat I just felt—and the way I let myself melt into it.
"The Tokyo opening is projected for a 4:00 AM start, Eastern Time," Vane says, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He doesn't look at me. He just types, the rhythmic click-click-click of the keys acting as a metronome for my exhaustion. "You will monitor the Nikkei index. If it drops below thirty-eight thousand, wake me."
"I am already awake, Sir," I say. My voice sounds thin, like old parchment.
"Stay that way."
He finally glances down. His eyes are unreadable, the ice having returned now that the physical fever of the cliffs has broken. "You look tired, Sloane. Efficiency drops with fatigue. Should I consider this a breach of the 'Total Competence' clause?"
"No, Sir." I straighten my spine, forcing the exhaustion back into the dark corners of my mind. I refuse to let him see me falter. "I am perfectly capable of monitoring a market while sitting on a rug."
"Good. Because if you close your eyes, the penalty doubles. And I think we both know your mother can't afford a week of my... displeasure."
I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper. He always brings it back to her. He uses her like a leash, tugging whenever I try to find a shred of my own agency. He doesn't just want my body or my time; he wants to remind me that I am bought and paid for.
I turn my eyes to the tablet in my lap. The glowing green and red lines of the Japanese stock market blur into a chaotic mess before my eyes.
The silence stretches for hours. Every time my head nods just a fraction of an inch, I hear the shift of his sheets or the sharp tap of a key, and I bolt upright again. I am a ghost in transit, watching the numbers move while the man who owns me breathes the same air, just out of reach.