CHAPTER 7: Sloane Leaves the Sofa

Sloane stood too quickly.
Her heels clicked once against the marble, then stopped. She looked from Grant to Emma, measuring the distance between desire and disaster.
“Grant,” she whispered. “Tell me this is not real.”
Grant did not answer.
That was when Sloane understood what Emma had known from the beginning. Grant did not protect women. He used them as mirrors until the reflection became inconvenient.
Emma slowly pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet with one hand braced against the low table. She did not look graceful. She looked human. That made the room harder to lie about.
Sloane’s confidence drained in careful layers.
“I did not know,” she said.
Emma looked at the sofa, the glass, the dress, the performance of innocence arriving too late.
“You knew enough to enjoy it,” she said.
Sloane had no answer for that.
Outside the suite, the elevator chimed.
The elevator chime was soft. In that room, it sounded like a verdict finding its way to the right floor.
Grant glanced at Sloane as if expecting loyalty. She looked back at him as if loyalty had never been part of their arrangement, only champagne, attention, and escape routes.