Page 5 of The Devil of Downtown

“Elsie boo,” I whisper, brushing a damp curl away from her cheek. “Hurry up and get better; my life genuinely depends on it.”

She manages a small smile. It’s enough.

“Okay,” I say, straightening. “Sloane, keep your phone on you at all times.”

“I will,” she promises. Her attention shifts as a nurse appears with a tray of medicine, already stepping into mother mode.

I take that as my cue.

I’m halfway down the corridor before I hear her again.

“Ivy,” she calls.

I turn to see her leaning out of the doorway, eyes bright.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Ditto,” I say, lifting a hand as I force myself to turn away. If I stop, I won’t leave.

Outside, leaving without Sloane and Elsie feels strange, like a part of me is missing. I sink into the back seat of a taxi as the city flashes by, letting my head fall back against the worn leather, closing my eyes.

But it doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself I’ll be fine.

One thought settles deep and refuses to budge.

Sloane is putting far too much faith in me.

Because from what I've heard, there’s only ever one winner when you go up against Dane Black.

Chapter two

Ivy

I’ve been performing all my life. I make a living pretending to be someone else—slipping into roles, costumes, the bright lights of the stage. Pretending I’ve got my shit together. That I’m talented enough. Pretty enough. Slim enough. Tuning out the voices that never fail to whisper I don’t measure up.

But as I stare up at the nameBlack Capitalemblazoned across the entrance in impenetrable steel, the glass tower slicing into the clouds like it rules the whole damn city, I realize I’ll have to give the performance of a lifetime if I’m going to pull the wool over Dane Black’s dusky eyes.

Black Capital was built in Dane’s mold. Ruthless. Untouchable. The crown jewel of Wall Street’s power brokers. A titan that chews through companies and spits out empires. My sister is living proof that you don’t just work at Black Capital—you survive it.

I’ve never paid Dane Black much thought, apart from the occasional thirst-trap headlines plastered across social media’smost eligible bachelor lists. Him shirtless, cut muscles glistening as he conquers yet another Ironman forfun. Him in a hand-stitched tux, a striking beauty draped on his arm, his jawline as cutthroat as the man himself. To the world, he’s charisma, discipline, and raw power wrapped in a perfect package.

To me, Dane Black represents everything I despise. The arrogance of privilege. The entitlement of a man born into power who treats life like a game he can’t lose.

Sloane still talks about Black Capital’s airline bet. When a European budget carrier announced a flashy expansion, every analyst swore it would soar. Dane didn’t buy it. He shorted the stock so aggressively that people thought he’d lost his mind. Weeks later, oil prices spiked, the airline crumbled under debt, and Dane walked away with billions, while the company’s CEO was forced out.

That was the moment everyone learned: if Dane Black bets against you, you’re already finished.

It’s the kind of story Sloane repeats with awe. I hear it as a warning.

Sloane likes to remind me—usually when I’m ranting about the brutal hours he demands—that it hasn’t always been easy for him. His fiancée and mother were killed in a car accident a few years back. It’s her favorite comeback, and one she knows I can’t argue against without sounding like a heartless bitch. From what she says, he never really recovered. Just... switched off. Buried himself in building Black Capital higher, harder, colder.

And until today, none of it mattered to me beyond how it affected Sloane. I just wish she didn’t work somewhere she feels the need to hide Elsie, like being a single mom is something to be ashamed of.

With a sigh, I pull Sloane’s blazer tighter and step through the revolving doors, her instructions echoing in my head, her hastily scrawled notes the only weapon in my armory.

Inside is like stepping into another world. The lobby gleams like a shrine to the mighty dollar. People glide past in designer suits, moving with purpose, phones pressed to their ears, polished brogues and Louboutins clicking across marble floors. I straighten my shoulders, attempting to radiate a confidence I don’t feel.

I’m barely inside the door before the first hit lands.