Page 16 of The Devil of Downtown

The air is chillier than expected as we exit the plane to gray skies, the sun a faint shimmer behind the blanket of clouds.

A border officer meets us at the bottom of the stairs. I hand over my passport and step aside, glancing towards the car.Sloane hesitates beside me, fingers hovering at the opening of her bag.

“Don’t tell me you forgot it?” I say.

“Of course not.” She lets out a quick, breathy laugh, then pulls it out and hands it over. That deer-in-the-headlights expression flickers back—something I rarely see from Sloane.

The officer checks the documents and waves us through, and she’s already moving for the car like she can’t get there fast enough.

I don’t have time to dwell on it. The second I have a phone signal, it rings. I answer without slowing, already shifting gears. By the time we reach the car, I’m knee-deep in negotiations, barking orders that echo off the glass.

Sloane slides in beside me, silent, clutching her backpack to her chest. I keep talking—about numbers, deadlines, markets — for most of the ride, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her press her forehead to the window. The city is unfolding before her: the gray sprawl of London streets, the sweep of bridges, the centuries-old stone standing proudly against glass towers. Her eyes widen with awe as she drinks it all in.

It’s obvious this is her first time. Obvious and disarming.

For a dangerous beat, I let myself imagine her like this in Paris. In Rome. In Tokyo. Wonder lighting up her face, turning the hardest cities soft just by looking at them. The thought lodges sharply in my chest.

I shut it down instantly.

I don’t look at her again until the car rolls to a stop in front of the Mayfair Hotel, its marble entrance shimmering under light drizzle.

I mute the call long enough to turn to her. “Take one hour, then go ahead to Bexley,” I tell her. “I need to jump on a conference call with New York. The driver will take you—make sure the meeting room’s ready. I’ll follow on after.”

She blinks, clutching her bag tighter, but nods. The driver opens the door, and she hops out, her dark ponytail bouncing as she disappears into the hotel.

I watch her go, jaw tight, every instinct screaming I should have left her behind. Not because she’s unqualified.

But because I don’t know if I can stay the hell away.

Chapter five

Ivy

The problem with telling a lie is that it spirals. Multiplies. One lie becomes two, then three, until you’re so wrapped in them you can’t remember how many you’ve told or where the truth ended, and the fiction began.

As I walk up the stairs into Bexley Media Group’s headquarters, sunshine finally breaking through the clouds, I almost believe this is my life. London. Private jets. Skyscrapers. Money and power.

And for a fleeting second, I almost forget who Ivy is.

She lives for the dance studio, the stage, the hours of grueling practice. To the music and lights. Friends and family. Messing at the play park and dance classes with Elsie. She hates the idea of this world.

But this world has something mine doesn’t. Dane Black.

And as much as I tell myself I don’t care, I know when I return to my life, it will feel a little flatter without him.

The reception is nothing like the slick, minimalist lobbies I’d expect from a media giant. Instead, it feels steeped in tradition. Dark wood paneling climbs the walls, broken only by framed black-and-white photographs. A brass clock ticks steadily above the receptionist’s desk, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of shaded lamps.

After I sign in, a woman in a fitted navy skirt suit glides out from behind the desk and escorts me upstairs. The elevator doors part onto the executive floor, and my breath stutters. This isn’t a media company; it’s a shrine to legacy.

The boardroom reeks of old money. Heavy oak dominates the walls, the table gleams like it’s been buffed within an inch of its life, and thick carpets swallow the sound of my heels. It feels less like I’ve stepped into a modern office and more like I’ve wandered onto the set ofDownton Abbey,except this version comes with Bluetooth headsets and million-dollar contracts.

Oil portraits of past Bexley patriarchs line the walls; their beady eyes tracking me from their gilded frames. One particularly disdainful-looking CEO has a glare so piercing it feels personal. I mouth a silent,forgive me, sir. If a painting could give the middle finger, I’m certain he’d be doing just that now.

There is one modern touch to the room. The wall of glass that showcases a jaw-dropping view of London. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament sit side by side. Standing proudly on the opposite side of the River Thames is the London Eye. History merged with the modern day.

“It’s a breathtaking view, isn’t it?”

I startle at the sound of a refined British accent. I turn to find a man already watching me. Mid-to-late twenties, dressed in a razor-cut pinstripe suit that fits like it was stitched directly onto him. A tumble of chocolate brown curls crowns his head, artfully unruly in a way that probably takes effort to maintain. Thereis an aristocratic air about him, which is softened by a boyish smile, like he’s the sort of man who grew up in old money but somehow skipped the arrogance that usually comes with it.