Sloan’s attitude had finally pushed her over her limit, but when she’d smarted off in return, she’d felt a surge of adrenaline. Matching wits with him energized her, made her feel alive like she hadn’t in her entire life.
She smiled as she trekked down the hallway toward Sloan’s office, remembering a similar walk several months ago. Now, instead of dreading seeing him, she couldn’t wait. Instead of resenting her attraction to him, she reveled in it.
Turning a corner, she spied Patrick standing in the doorway to her office. He gestured for her to hurry.
“Ziara, get in here.”
Ziara rolled her eyes. Patrick tended toward the melodramatic, but she accelerated in anticipation of seeing Sloan. Even when he acted like a bear, he was a lovable bear.
At the thought, her body froze, her heart seeming to stop, then start again twice as fast. She could almost feel the shell encasing her heart give one last crack before bursting into a million tiny pieces. Left behind was a pure red, bigger, more feeling muscle that beat with the certain knowledge of her feelings for Sloan.
How did she even know what she felt? It wasn’t that she’d ever been in love before. Or loved anyone at all that she could remember. Maybe her mother at some point, but she retained few memories from her early childhood. She remembered very little before her tenth birthday. After that Ziara supposed she’d lost hope of it ever being returned, so whatever love she might have had died a painful death.
The only love she’d ever felt had been for her job.
Maybe that’s how she knew this was love—she’d never felt like this before, about anyone. She’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. So alive.
Patrick practically vibrated with irritation. “Come. On.”
Ziara jumped, then picked up speed as she moved toward him. “What?” she hissed.
Patrick started dragging her across the office before she could even finish the word. “You have to stop him—”
Her heels skidded as she halted just inside Sloan’s office. He stood in what she thought of as his “thinking” position: facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, head down as he contemplated those scurrying below him, his shoulders broad and square, hands clasped loosely behind his back. The surveyor of his domain.
After a moment, she took in various boxes littered around the room, file drawers gaping, the top of his desk wiped clean.
Her head swiveled from one end of the room to the other, not comprehending the chaos before her.
“He’s leaving.”
Ziara turned to find Vivian, the jolt of shock racing through her brain down into her body. “What?” She heard her voice but never felt her lips move.
“He’s leaving.” Vivian’s tiny smile smacked of smug superiority. “Even though this means he’ll lose everything, he’s decided ‘everything’ is no longer worth his time.”
“That’s not what I said at all, Vivian,” Sloan growled, though he didn’t turn from the window.
Vivian practically purred in her victory. “But it’s what you meant, isn’t it, dear?”
“I told you, I have another project that needs urgent attention. There’s only so much of me to go around.” His voice sounded tight, no hint of emotion seeping through.
What? Ziara’s brain could barely process what was happening. Another project? What about his father’s legacy? His connection?
Her gaze fell on the drafting table in the corner where she’d watched Sloan, his golden head bent forward in the lamplight, hair long enough to obscure his face. Those drawings weren’t the work of someone who didn’t care, someone who could simply walk away.
Pivoting slowly, she faced Sloan, who stood just as he had when she came into the room, completely oblivious to anything happening around him.
At first he didn’t move, but his back straightened, becoming more rigid. Something she hadn’t dreamed possible. His hands tightened around each other. Could he feel the weight of her stare between his shoulder blades?
She waited for some sign that the man she loved at least gave a damn about something, about the people involved here. Unlike Vivian. “Was it all just some kind of game?” Ziara asked. “Didn’t it mean anything to you?”
He twisted, marching down on her like a bull, forcing her to retreat. “You don’t get to ask questions, got it?”
He turned to Vivian, facing her with a mixture of anger and despair like nothing Ziara had ever seen. “You got what you wanted, Vivian. Now get out. If I see you again, I might just change my mind.”
Vivian’s voice rumbled in the background, but Ziara couldn’t make out the actual words. It didn’t matter. Only Sloan mattered. The sound of the office door shutting with harsh finality shook her composure.
She was left in the room with someone she didn’t know, didn’t recognize underneath the stone cold facade. Oh, she should recognize him, remembering Sloan’s first confrontation with Vivian. But that harsh strength had never been used against her.
Never.
With the numbness slowly creeping over every part of her body, she remained frozen as he approached once more.
“I hope this is all worth it for you, Ziara.”
She shook her head. “What?”
“All the lies and deception. Why would you pretend to be something you’re not? Why would you present yourself as this—” his hand gestured down her body, encased in a conservative black suit “—professional, moral woman, when deep down, that’s not who you really are at all?”
Ziara felt her head start to spin. The words coming from his mouth had an eerie similarity to thoughts that had whirled through her brain for ten years. She’d told herself that she was a better person, a stronger person, than the trash heap she’d crawled out of— But sometimes it seemed she hadn’t shaken it at all.
How had he learned her secret?
Her voice a little shaky, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sloan.”
Reaching out, he pulled a thick strand of hair from her loose updo, twisting it around his fingers like he had hundreds of times before today. Only this time, his touch had an edge to it, a slight pull on the roots that communicated his anger. “Really? Are you sure, Ziara? Didn’t you know this would get to me a lot quicker than dressing like a tramp?” he asked, stepping close enough for her to feel his breath across her forehead. Those icy blue eyes gave no mercy, showed no love. In light of her own recent revelation, his lack of emotion hurt all the more.
Why was he doing this?
“I met someone yesterday,” he murmured, the usually seductive tone now hard as a rock. “I met your mother, Ziara. Are you sure you have nothing to tell me?”
She almost choked, but forced out, “My mother?”
“Oh, I understand why you wouldn’t
