Page 6 of The Devil of Downtown

“Morning, Sloane,” a man I don’t recognize says, like we’re old friends.

I nod, my stomach tightening, and slip into the closing elevator.

Inside is no better. A middle-aged man in a gray suit leans back against the wall, openly ogling my chest in a way that screamsoffice perv.

“Busy day today, Sloane,” he says, eyes lingering where they have no business being. “The London acquisition is gathering pace.”

“It is,” I manage, a hot flush creeping up my neck.

“Between you and me,” he adds, stepping closer, his gaze still glued south, “assistants rarely last long with him, so you must be... exceptional.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to my breasts or Sloane’s work ethic. Either way, there’s no sign of the day getting any better.

I clear my throat and plaster on a smile that feels brittle. “Thank you,” I squeak, praying the elevator hurries the hell up before he asks me something I can’t fake.

The elevator glides open onto the executive floor, and for a moment, I freeze. It’s quieter up here; the silence only adding to the dread. Glass walls frame corner offices; assistants tap efficiently at keyboards, their voices kept low and professional.

Sloane’s directions loop through my head—straight past reception, left at the glass conference room, second desk onthe right—simple enough, if my legs weren’t trembling like I’m about to audition for the wrong show entirely.

“Morning, Sloane,” a woman with a perfect blowout greets me as she sweeps past, not waiting for a reply. Another man in shirtsleeves gives me a quick nod, as if we’ve worked together for years. I force a smile, clutching my bag tighter, praying I don’t mess up the simple act of finding a desk. But true to her meticulous nature, Sloane’s desk is exactly where she said it would be, positioned outside heavy oak double doors, the name Dane Black glinting at me ominously from a polished brass plate.

Sloane’s desk—my desk—is as orderly as expected. The archetypal charts and lists she’s been compiling since she could pick up a pen adorn the area in perfect symmetry.

There’s no picture of Elsie, nothing personal at all, and the absence makes my chest tighten, quietly reinforcing my resolve not to screw this up for her.

I log in with Sloane’s password, and the screen flickers to life.

The desktop is a battlefield of folders, but one blinks at me like a bomb about to go off: LONDON.

I click it.

Spreadsheets. Briefing notes. Names and faces of board members. Articles about public outrage. Rival bidders. A crisis communication plan.

The target: The Bexley Group. One of Britain’s oldest media empires—newspapers, TV, radio. They’ve been bleeding money for years, struggling to adapt to the digital age. Black Capital sees weakness, which means Dane Black sees opportunity.

My eyes skim a line in one memo:Projected valuation: £3.4 billion. Hostile takeover likely. UK Parliament is expected to push back.

I jot down a few notes like I’ve got the slightest clue what I’m doing before scrolling to the company headshots of the BlackCapital senior executive team, which includes the elevator perv, also known as Kieran Forster, Head of Communications.

I’m so preoccupied with memorizing names and faces, I almost don’t hear the ding of the elevator. But it’s the sudden silence that stops me in my tracks, like the stillness that comes just before disaster strikes. Conversations sputter and die, chairs scrape as spines straighten, and the air itself seems to tighten.

Dane Black strides out like he’s king of the whole damn world, and my stomach almost drops out of my ass.

He’s ridiculously gorgeous. Unfairly so. Tall. Broad. An exquisitely cut dark-gray suit. Thick dark hair that complements his tan skin perfectly. Every inch of him radiates authority so potent it makes my skin prickle. The kind of man who makes your brain hit a system error. For a beat, I’m like one of those cartoons—eyes bulging, jaw slack—teetering on the edge of tipping over.

He’s barking orders into his cell phone; the deep timbre of his voice sliding straight through me. His eyes flick to me for a beat, and I immediately avert my gaze, pretending to be busy, praying he doesn’t stop to talk. Thankfully, he saunters past, offering a clipped “Good morning, Sloane.”

Panic jolts through me as I squeak, “Good morning, Sir.”

He pauses, just for half a breath. His head doesn’t turn, but something in him tightens. Then he continues walking, disappearing into his office without comment.

My heart slams against my ribs. Shit—maybe she doesn’t call him sir.

I fumble for my phone and type under my desk.

ME

FFS, just called him sir. He looked weird. What the hell do you call him?