The text came at 8:00 AM, three days after Frankie's scare.
Cole: The board knows about you. They're demanding a meeting. Today. 2 PM. Can you be ready?
Sloane was up to her elbows in croissant dough. She wiped her hands on her apron and typed back with one thumb.
Sloane: Ready for what?
Cole: To prove you're real.
Sloane: I am real.
Cole: They need to see it. The engagement. The connection. They think I fabricated you to secure the inheritance.
Sloane: That's exactly what we did.
Cole: I know. That's the problem.
She stared at the phone. Three days ago, he'd said I love you in Frankie's kitchen. Three days of stolen kisses in the bakery before dawn. Three days of him showing up at 5 AM in that pink apron, learning to knead, learning to crack an egg without getting shell in the bowl. Three days of almost.
But they hadn't gone further. Not yet. He was still scared. She was still waiting.
Now this.
Sloane: What do I wear?
Cole: Something that says "I eat billionaires for breakfast."
Sloane: I'm a baker. I eat croissants for breakfast.
Cole: Same thing. Different tax bracket.
She laughed despite her nerves. Jade appeared from the back office, a coffee in each hand.
"Why are you laughing like a maniac?"
"The board wants to meet me."
Jade handed her a coffee. "The board of Thorne Holdings? The wolves who eat junior associates for lunch?"
"Those wolves."
"And you're laughing?"
"If I don't laugh, I'll cry." Sloane took a long sip. "He needs me to prove I'm not a gold digger. That I'm actually in love with him."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Then what's the problem?"
Sloane set down her coffee. "The problem is that I'm a baker from a failing bakery in a bad part of Seattle. And they're billionaires who went to Harvard and Yale and probably have summer homes in the Hamptons. I don't belong in their world."
Jade grabbed her shoulders. "Listen to me. You are Sloane Bennett. You kept a business alive for fourteen months after your Nana died. You nursed her through cancer while running that bakery alone. You have more strength in your pinky finger than any of those suits have in their entire bodies." She squeezed. "You belong wherever you decide to stand. Now go stand in that boardroom and make them wish they'd been nicer to people."
Sloane hugged her. "What would I do without you?"
"Eat sad toast and wear mismatched shoes. Now go shower. You smell like butter."
---
At 1:45 PM, Sloane stood outside the Thorne Holdings building in downtown Seattle.
It was a tower of glass and steel, forty stories tall, with a lobby so polished she could see her reflection in the floor. She wore a black sheath dress – conservative, professional – with nude heels and her grandmother's pearl earrings. Her hair was straightened and pulled back in a low bun. Her makeup was minimal.
She looked like she belonged.
She didn't feel like she belonged.
Cole met her in the lobby. He wore a charcoal suit, a white shirt, no tie. His eyes swept over her – once, twice – and something hot flickered in them.
"You look like a CEO," he said.
"I look like a fraud."
"You look like my fiancée." He offered his arm. "Ready?"
"No."
"Good. Let's go."
The elevator ride was silent. Cole's hand found hers. His thumb traced circles on her palm. When the doors opened on the fortieth floor, he leaned down and whispered in her ear: "Whatever they say, don't react. Let me handle it. Just be you."
"I don't know who 'me' is in a boardroom."
"Yes, you do. You're the woman who made me feel something after thirty-six years of feeling nothing. That's more powerful than any quarterly report."
The doors opened.
The boardroom was a long table of dark wood, surrounded by leather chairs, with a wall of windows overlooking the Seattle skyline. Twelve people sat around the table – men and women in expensive suits, their faces carved from stone.
At the head of the table sat a man Sloane recognized from the news. Marcus Webb, Cole's CFO. He was older, maybe fifty, with gray hair and kind eyes. He smiled at her.
The others did not smile.
Cole pulled out a chair for her – not at the head, but to his right. She sat. He sat. The room watched.
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Bennett," said a woman at the far end. Blonde, sharp cheekbones, a necklace that probably cost more than Sloane's bakery. "I'm Patricia Vance. Head of acquisitions."
"Vance?" Sloane asked.
"My married name. No relation to Cole's family." Patricia's smile didn't reach her eyes. "We're all very curious about you. You appeared quite suddenly in Cole's life."
"I appeared because his aunt ate my pain au chocolat and cried."
The room went quiet.
Sloane continued. "Frankie came to my bakery. She said my grandmother's recipe tasted like her mother's. She told Cole. He came to see me. We fell in love." She looked at Cole. "It's not complicated."
"Everything about Cole is complicated," Patricia said. "He doesn't fall in love. He doesn't even date. And now, six weeks before his aunt's inheritance vests, he suddenly has a fiancée?" She leaned forward. "Forgive me if I'm skeptical."
"You're skeptical because you don't know me."
"Then enlighten us."
Sloane took a breath. She thought of Nana. Of the bakery. Of the way Cole looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.
"My name is Sloane Bennett. I'm twenty-eight years old. I own a bakery called Nana's Kneads in the South End. I inherited it from my grandmother, who raised me after my parents left. She died fourteen months ago. I've been keeping the bakery alive on my own since then." She looked around the table. "I don't have a trust fund. I don't have a law degree. I don't have a summer home in the Hamptons. What I have is a rolling pin, a recipe for pain au chocolat, and a man who showed up at my bakery at 5 AM and asked me to help him remember how to feel."
Patricia's expression didn't change. But Marcus smiled wider.
"And the contract?" Patricia asked. "We know about the contract."
Sloane's heart stopped. She looked at Cole.
His face was calm, but his hand under the table gripped her knee. "The contract was my idea. I offered her money to pretend to be my fiancée. She refused. Twice. She only said yes when I agreed to be honest with her. To show up. To try."
"And did you?"
Cole looked at Sloane. "Yes."
Patricia folded her hands. "Then you won't mind if we ask Ms. Bennett a few questions. Alone."
Cole's jaw tightened. "That's not—"
"It's fine," Sloane said. She squeezed his hand under the table. "I'll answer their questions."
Cole hesitated. Then he stood. The rest of the board filed out – all except Patricia and Marcus and two other men Sloane didn't recognize.
The door closed.
Patricia smiled. It was not a friendly smile.
"Let's start with an easy one," she said. "How much debt is your bakery in?"
Sloane blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Cole paid off your debts as part of the contract. We have the receipts. So I'll ask again – how much?"
Sloane's face burned. "Seventy-three thousand dollars."
"And how do you plan to pay that back? If the contract ends, the money is a gift. But gifts come with expectations, don't they?"
"The only expectation is that I continue baking. That's all I've ever wanted to do."
"And if Cole loses his company? If the board votes to remove him because of this... distraction? What then?"
Sloane stood up. Her chair scraped against the floor. "Then I'll support him. The way he's supported me. Not with money – with flour and butter and early mornings and a warm place to sleep." She looked Patricia in the eye. "You see a transaction. I see a partnership. You see a contract. I see a promise. You see a gold digger. But I've been digging in flour my whole life, and I've never once wished for gold."
The room was silent.
Marcus laughed – a deep, genuine laugh. "I like her."
Patricia shot him a look. "This isn't about like."
"It's exactly about like," Marcus said. He stood and walked over to Sloane. "I've known Cole for twenty-five years. We were in foster homes together. I've seen him at his worst – hungry, scared, beaten. And I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." He offered his hand. "Welcome to the family, Sloane."
She shook it. His grip was warm.
Patricia sighed. "Fine. But if this blows up—"
"It won't," Sloane said.
"It better not." Patricia stood and walked to the door. "We'll be watching, Ms. Bennett. Both of you."
She left. The other two men followed.
Marcus lingered. "He's scared, you know. Not of the board. Of losing you." He glanced at the door where Cole had disappeared. "Don't break him. He's been broken enough."
"I don't plan to."
"Good." Marcus left.
Sloane stood alone in the boardroom, her heart pounding, her hands shaking.
The door opened again. Cole walked in.
His face was unreadable. He walked toward her slowly, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
"I heard everything," he said.
"Of course you did."
"You stood up to Patricia Vance. No one stands up to Patricia Vance."
"She's not scary."
"She's terrifying."
"She's a bully. I've dealt with bullies before." Sloane crossed her arms. "Your board thinks I'm a gold digger."
"My board can go to hell."
"Cole—"
He stepped closer. His hands framed her face. "You said you'd support me. With flour and butter and early mornings."
"I meant it."
"You said you see a partnership. A promise."
"I meant that too."
He kissed her. Hard. His body pressed hers against the boardroom table. Papers scattered. His hands slid down her back, gripping her hips.
"I love you," he said against her mouth. "And I'm done waiting."
"Done waiting for what?"
"Done pretending that I can keep my hands off you. Done pretending that the contract matters. Done pretending that I don't want to take you home and spend the rest of the night learning every inch of your body."
Sloane's breath caught. "Cole—"
"Say yes." His voice was rough. Desperate. "Say you'll come home with me. Not because of the contract. Because you want to."
Sloane looked into his eyes. The whiskey color was dark with desire. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding against her chest.
"I want to," she said. "I've wanted to since the first morning you walked into my bakery."
"Then come home with me."
She nodded.
He took her hand and led her out of the boardroom, past the staring assistants, into the private elevator. The doors closed. The car descended.
Cole pressed her against the elevator wall.
"We have forty floors," he said.
"That's not enough time."
"Then we'll start now and finish later."
He kissed her neck. Her jaw. The spot behind her ear that made her gasp. His hands slid under her dress, gripping her thighs.
The elevator doors opened to the parking garage.
Cole pulled back, breathing hard. "My car. Now."
They ran.
---
His penthouse was a blur of glass and steel and a bed that smelled like cedar and him.
He undressed her slowly – unzipping her dress, letting it fall to the floor, tracing his fingers over her shoulders, her collarbone, the curve of her breasts. She undressed him just as slowly – unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, pressing her palms to his chest.
His scars were silver in the dim light. She kissed each one.
"This one?" she asked, touching a thin line on his ribs.
"Foster home number three. Belt buckle."
She kissed it.
"This one?" A circular scar on his shoulder.
"Cigarette. Foster home number five."
She kissed it.
"This one?" The long jagged scar down his spine.
"Basement. The worst one. A broken bottle."
She kissed it. Then she turned him around and looked into his eyes.
"You're not broken," she said. "You're beautiful."
"No one has ever called me beautiful."
"Then no one has ever looked."
He carried her to the bed.
The rest of the night was a language they learned together – whispered and gasped and moaned into each other's skin. It wasn't perfect. It was better than perfect. It was real.
Afterward, tangled in sheets, Sloane traced patterns on his chest.
"Cole?"
"Yeah?"
"The contract. What do we do about it?"
He kissed her forehead. "We tear it up. We tell Frankie. We tell the board. We tell everyone."
"And your company?"
"I'll figure it out." He pulled her closer. "You're more important than any company. You're more important than anything."
Sloane closed her eyes. For the first time in months, she slept without dreaming of flour and debt and empty chairs.
She dreamed of him.