“Cohen?” I whisper, voice faltering. “Are you—”
It lasts one heartbeat.
The moment he realizes who walked in, the shutter slams down.
He wipes his face in one swift motion, straightens, and jams his phone into his pocket.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are unreadable. Cold.
And then, slowly, that infuriating smirk crawls onto his lips.
Mask: fully back in place.
“Jesus, Sloane. You trying to bring the building down or just making a dramatic entrance? I’ll give you an eight for style, but only a four for discretion.”
Concern evaporates instantly. Fury returns, ten times stronger.
He shut me out. Again.
“Who was that?”
It hisses out of me. No preamble. No mercy.
He pushes off the window and hops onto my desk like he owns it—like he owns everything.
“Good morning to you too, Angel. Looks like the caffeine hasn’t hit yet.”
“Don’t call me that,” I growl, stepping closer. “I asked who you were talking to.”
His expression hardens—just barely, but enough.
“No one you need to worry about.”
“Oh really?” I let out a sharp, ugly laugh I don’t even recognize. “We’re about to fake a relationship in front of the entire town! We’re building a narrative based on trust! So yes, if you have a secret girlfriend you call ‘princess’ while I’m busy salvaging your career, that is absolutely my business!”
His shoulders tense. His hands grip the desk edge, knuckles white.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, each word clipped and deadly calm.
“Liar.”
I yank my tablet from my bag and shove it practically in his face—open to the Gazette article.
“And this? Want to explain? Is lingerie shopping part of your ‘image rehab’? Getting caught with something ‘easy to take off’ while you’re supposed to be a reformed man?”
Cohen looks at the photo.
His eyes trail over the image of himself holding that black lace bodysuit, surrounded by Grant, Cam, Levi, and Sebastian.
I expect anger.
I expect denial.
I expect some half-assed excuse.
Instead…
His shoulders loosen.
