Page 9 of The Devil of Downtown

I press back against the wall as if the extra inch of distance could protect me from his scrutiny. I’ve faced rigorous dance teachers many times, ones that expect nothing short of perfection, but there’s something about Dane that makes me feel exposed, like no matter how many walls I build, he’ll knock them down without breaking stride.

As the elevator comes to a halt, I can already hear the mayhem before the doors open. The chaos of the trading floor hits like a slap as the doors slide open—shouts, flashing screens vomiting numbers faster than my eyes can follow, a dozen conversations colliding at once. Phones ringing. Someone swearing. The stench of coffee, bad cologne, and testosterone.

Just before he steps out, the faintest curve touches his mouth. “Welcome to feeding time at the goddamn zoo.”

It’s so unexpected, I laugh. A genuine laugh. Not the careful, controlled one Sloane would give, something real.

He glances at me, half-surprised, his gaze dipping to my mouth before jumping back, and for an instant, something flickers as though I’ve knocked him a fraction off balance. Thenit vanishes just as quickly, sealed behind that cold mask he wears so easily.

Dane strides forward, and everything shifts. Heads snap up; the din sharpens. It’s not quieter, but more focused, as if the entire floor realigns around him.

“FTSE futures. Where’s London on Bexley?” His voice is cool, precise, carrying without strain.

“Down two percent,” someone fires back. “Liquidity tightening.”

“Options volume spiked this morning,” another adds.

“Lean heavier short,” Dane says smoothly. “Hedge sector exposure. I want risk on my desk by close.”

He’s a force to be reckoned with as he patrols the area, everyone bending to his demands. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t acknowledge the ripple he causes. And it’s easy to see that it is a command that’s been earned through respect, not fear. Although judging by the way people straighten when he passes, perhaps a sprinkle of fear, too.

I follow him, thankful to be out of the firing line, clutching my notepad like a shield. Shoulders back, chin up. Pretend you belong here. Pretend you understand even half of what’s being said. As I observe him studying a screen, analyzing numbers that may as well be hieroglyphs, I find myself wondering about the fiancée he lost. What kind of woman it takes for him to get down on one knee? From what Sloane tells me, he’s never short of girlfriends. A never-ending carousel of unearthly beauties. And at thirty-seven, twelve years my senior, he doesn’t seem interested in settling down. I’m so busy mapping out the complexities of his dating history that I almost jump out of my skin when his deep baritone pulls me back down to earth.

“Sloane. Can you write that down?”

“Of course, Mr. Black,” I say, trying to ignore the smirk of the trader behind him, who is fully aware I was mentally vacationing in La La Land.

Thankfully, Dane keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, spouting out words like leverage scenarios, while I scrawl another five giant question marks and a couple of WTFs in the notepad.

For the next twenty minutes, I make sure I’m listening to every word, writing everything down, praying that it will make up for whatever I missed.

I’m beginning to wonder if the man ever tires when a voice cuts through the noise: “Brother dearest.”

I turn to see a younger version of Dane sprawled against a desk, tie loosened, grin wicked. Another iteration of the same mold, but with a Playboy’s polish instead of a warlord’s edge.

Julian Black. Head of investments. Dane’s younger brother. I’d recognize him anywhere—I spent half the night cramming the senior exec headshots like flashcards. The resemblance is unmistakable: dark hair, a jaw made to break hearts, the same green eyes shot through with hazel. But where Dane’s stare is all steel and calculation, Julian’s gleams with easy mischief. A wolf from the same bloodline, only this one looks like he knows how to enjoy the hunt.

“Julian,” Dane says, eyes still fixed on the screen spitting out red and green. “I thought you were in Hong Kong chasing the Westbridge investors.”

“They’re playing hard to get. But I’ll wear them down.”

“Must be losing your touch.” Dane quirks a brow, finally sparing him a sidelong glance.

Julian snorts, brushing it off with the ease of someone who’s never had to doubt himself. Must be nice, being born a Black.

“Speaking of losing your touch,” Julian shoots back. He pushes off the desk and straightens his tie, smirk widening.“How about you swing by the club this weekend? Leandra has been asking after you.”

The muscle in Dane’s jaw ticks once, but he doesn’t bite. He scrolls through another screen, ignoring the bait. My mind, however, is already buzzing with the name. Leandra. She probably walked straight out of the same factory as the Black brothers, a big, fat check in every box labeled ‘perfect’.

Julian catches me watching and grins, “Still alive, Sloane. I thought my brother would have buried you under a mountain of paperwork.”

I paste on a sweet smile, my tone veering into Stepford wife territory. “Oh no, Mr. Black isfartoo kind for that.”

Julian’s grin deepens, clearly catching the undercurrent, but it’s Dane’s reaction that freezes me. His gaze snaps to mine, the heat of it hitting me before he shuts it off. It tingles across my skin, like he’s cutting straight through the sugar to Ivy underneath.

“Speaking of paperwork,” Dane bites, his stare so chilling I take a step back. “Get back to the office and finish the Bexley report. I want it on my desk before I leave.”

“Yes, Mr. Black,” I reply like the perfect assistant, pleased to have an excuse to escape. The trading floor buzzes around me as I scurry to the elevator, a storm of voices and ringing phones, but none of it registers. Not when I can sense his eyes tracking me like he’s trying to decide whether I’ve been hiding someone he’s only now starting to see.