Page 21 of The Devil of Downtown

“Proper theater?” he asks. “Chekhov levels of despair, or are we talking something with a pulse?”

I smile. “If there’s music and dance involved, I’m usually sold.”

He tilts his head, lips twitching.

“Word of advice, though—don’t try dancing with Frank if you want to live to tell the tale.”

A laugh slips out of me.

Across the table, Dane’s gaze cuts towards us.

His eyes flick to me, then to Dominic, and back again—slow enough to register, brief enough to pass for nothing, like he’s checking something he doesn’t like the answer to, before he turns back to Stan and continues the conversation exactly where it left off.

But the moment lingers anyway.

Heat flickers low in my stomach. I drop my gaze to the table like I’ve been caught doing something far riskier than smiling.

The reminder lands hard.

Where I am.

A glass-walled restaurant suspended above London. People discussing acquisitions like the weather. I still half-expect someone to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I’ve wandered into the wrong life.

I think of Sloane. Of Elsie in her hospital bed. I wonder how she’s doing right now—whether she’s awake, whether she’s scared. I miss them both with an intensity that surprises me.

And then there’s Dane—contained at the center of it all, commanding without effort, unsettlingly fascinating. It’s like my focus keeps sliding back to him, no matter what I do.

Lunch finally drags toward its end. The conversation dwindles, splintering into smaller pockets—Stan talking numbers, Frank talking nonsense, Dominic making occasional asides that keep me from slipping.

Dane checks his watch.

“I have another meeting,” he announces to Stan. “We’ll pick this up later.”

Relief slides through me as the overnight flight fatigue catches up with me.

As we prepare to leave, Dominic turns to me. “Well, Sloane,” he says, hand reaching into his pocket to retrieve a business card. “It was nice meeting you.” He leans in again, his voice low. “After lunch, we can grab a coffee if you have some time.”

I glance at the card, then back at him, smiling. “Tempting,” I admit. “But I’m fairly sure my schedule’s already been claimed by someone with very strong opinions about my whereabouts.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “I suspected as much.”

I cast a glance out of the corner of my eye, and Dane is still deep in conversation with Stan Bexley, so I fall into step beside Dominic toward the elevator.

“Sloane.” I freeze as Dane grits out my name like a curse word. “I need to speak to you.”

“I’ll catch you later,” I mouth to Dominic. He smirks, shooting me a wink. “And you were so close to freedom,” he whispers before slipping away.

My mouth curves, but it vanishes the second I turn and meet Dane’s glare. Murderous doesn’t even cover it.

I drift toward the floor-to-ceiling windows while he wraps up with Stan, feeling like a schoolgirl waiting outside the principal’s office. From here, the city sprawls wide beneath me—London glittering while a storm brews at my back. I fixate on the skyline, trying to appear composed while my nerves fray.

Stan Bexley doesn’t seem to be faring much better. At the start of the morning, he was ruddy and confident; now he’s the color of wet ash. By the time Dane dismisses him, the man looks ready to swan-dive off that pointy building Dominic pointed out earlier. And judging by Dane’s expression, I might be next.

Stan offers me a solemn nod as he passes, leaving me to face Dane alone

Dane doesn’t speak right away. He shrugs into his jacket, smooths his cuffs—every movement unhurried. The longer he takes, the tighter my chest winds. When he finally looks at me, the force of it steals the air from my lungs.

“I didn’t bring you here to flirt with my clients.” His tone is scathing. A verdict, not an accusation.