Page 20 of The Devil of Downtown

Dane’s gaze sharpens. “Markets don’t care about nostalgia. They care about trajectory.”

Frank laughs, loud and pleased with himself.

“Christ, you Wall Street boys love your language.”

“I prefer numbers,” Dane says. “Metaphors are for people without data.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression neutral.

Frank, buoyed by the wine and the friction, turns his attention toward me like he’s found a more entertaining angle.

“Well,” he says, leaning back, glass dangling loosely between his fingers, “at least you brought some atmosphere with you.”

I lift my brows. “I’ll add it to my résumé.”

Across the table, the corner of Dane’s mouth twitches, not a smile, more a flicker of surprise at the direction I took it.

Nice one, Ivy.That wasn’t very Sloane of me.

Dominic mutters, barely audible, “He’s aiming for charming.”

“He missed,” I murmur back.

Frank grins wider and lets out a booming laugh of his own.

“I’m just saying—” he gestures loosely between Dane and me, “does she come with the deal, or is that extra?”

Dominic winces. A few polite laughs surface, then die out as Dane looks up.

Dane doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.

His gaze lifts to Frank. Frank’s smile falters before Dane even speaks.

“Disappointing, Frank.”

His mouth curves into a brief, cold smile, like he’s simply returning the ‘joke’.

“If that’s how you negotiate, you’ve just undercut yourself.”

Color creeps up Frank’s neck as the humor drains from his face. Stan clears his throat and latches onto timelines with visible urgency.

Dane shuts it down so decisively that I take a second to realize he didn’t let Frank turn me into the punchline, and my heart gives a small, foolish leap I’m not ready to examine.

Conversation resumes, but the balance has shifted. Frank is quieter now; his refills lose their enthusiasm.

Dominic murmurs, “Someone finally found how to operate Frank’s off switch.”

I sneak a glance across the table. Dane hasn’t changed position. He doesn’t need to. One look at him is enough to remember who runs this table.

Dominic leans closer.

“So,” he says, voice light, “what do you do when you’re not surviving lunches like this?”

I hesitate, then answer low, almost under my breath.

“I like going to the theater,” I say, the closest thing to the truth that comes to mind.

His brows lift.