By Midnight

The first time Sloane Hart ever met Grayson Astor, she spilled an entire cup of triple-shot caramel macchiato on his ten-thousand-dollar suit.

She hadn't meant to. Obviously.

She'd been late. Obviously.

And her brother had forgotten his lunch. Again.

So there she was, breathless, sprinting out of a downtown Starbucks with caffeine in one hand and resumes in the other, when the universe decided to trip her via a rogue courier on a scooter. She collided, hot coffee flying in a glorious arc right onto the chest of a man who looked like he'd been carved from cold marble and scowled like it was his birthright.

"God," she gasped, stumbling back. "I am so, so"

He held up a hand, silencing her.

"Don't finish that sentence."

Sloane blinked. His voice was deep, clipped, and annoyed. His perfectly tailored navy suit now wore a caramel stain across the lapel. Her name was on the cup, mockingly clear: Sloane.

Of course it was.

He looked at it. Then at her.

She gave a weak smile. "In my defense, I only hit billionaires on Mondays."

No laugh. Not even a twitch.

Just a cold, narrowed stare.

And then he walked away. Not a word.

Gone, like an ice storm in human form.

It wasn't until the next morning that she realized she'd spilled coffee on Grayson Astor, CEO of Astor Enterprises, king of Wall Street, and her new boss.

Sloane hadn't meant to land this job.

She'd applied for a temp receptionist role at Astor Enterprises after months of interviewing, nannying, and freelance design gigs to support her younger brother, Liam. But when the executive assistant to the CEO went into labor two weeks early, HR panicked. A resume was pulled. An interview was scheduled.

And twenty-four hours later, she found herself in a glass elevator shooting toward the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan, wondering how she'd fake it long enough to pay rent.

Mallory Chen, the interim Chief of Staff, greeted her at reception with a tight bun and tighter smile.

"You're late," she said, looking at her watch.

"It's 8:01," Sloane replied.

"And Mr. Astor likes precision."

"Well, I like sleep and carbs, but here we are."

Mallory's lips twitched in the tiniest hint of amusement. "Let's hope your mouth doesn't get you fired by noon."

Sloane straightened her shoulders. "Let's."

Grayson Astor's office was sleek, minimalist, and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of Manhattan, as if the city itself bowed at his feet. The desk was glass, spotless. The man behind it?

Impossibly composed.

He didn't look up when they walked in. Just flipped a page on a report and said, "This is the temp?"

"She's the most qualified candidate on file," Mallory said. "Graduate from Parsons. Design background. Former EA to the CEO of"

"She spilled coffee on me yesterday," he cut in.

Sloane's stomach plummeted.

Grayson finally looked up, and their eyes met.

His were stormy gray, unreadable, and far too observant.

Sloane swallowed. "In fairness, you walked into my spill radius."

His lips twitched. Just a fraction.

"Name?"

"Sloane Hart."

"You have siblings, Miss Hart?"

"Why?"

"I need someone who can manage chaos with grace."

Sloane lifted her chin. "I raised my little brother on Pop-Tarts and sarcasm. I can handle chaos in heels."

He studied her for one long, unnerving moment.

"Trial period. One week. Don't be late again."

By day three, Sloane had memorized his entire calendar, anticipated his caffeine cravings, and found four polite ways to tell people no. By day four, she'd blocked three reporters, intercepted a bouquet from an ex-fiancée named Camille, and dodged personal questions with Olympic-level skill.

But on day five?

She noticed something strange.

Grayson Astor, ice-man of Wall Street, had a pattern. Meetings were precision-timed. Moods were rarely shown. But every morning, between 6:45 and 7:15, he sat at his desk in total silence lights dimmed, blinds drawn and stared at an old photo of a woman with haunted eyes.

Alyssa.

Sloane only saw the name once, etched on the back of the frame when she set it upright after a cleaning crew knocked it over.

No one mentioned her.

No one dared to

"Grayson Astor is not someone you get close to," Mallory warned one afternoon, sipping green tea at her desk while scanning Sloane over the rim of her mug. "He doesn't do relationships. Or favorites. Or attachments."

Sloane raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you learned that the hard way."

Mallory smiled, a little too tightly. "We all do."

The day everything changed started with an unexpected email.

Subject: VEGAS – LAST MINUTE – RSVP ASAP

From: Jordan Vega – Grayson's best friend, notorious tech billionaire, and the human embodiment of chaos in designer sneakers.

The email invited Grayson and by extension, Sloane to attend the West Coast expansion launch of VegaTech, hosted in Las Vegas. Jordan had secured a private floor at the Bellagio, a red carpet event, and the most exclusive afterparty in the city.

Sloane assumed Grayson would decline.

He didn't.

Instead, he looked up from his laptop, met her eyes, and said:

"Pack a bag. You're coming too."

The jet was faster than she expected.

The suite, bigger.

And Grayson well, Grayson was different in the desert air. Less buttoned. Still sharp, still quiet, but looser. Like Manhattan's walls didn't reach this far west.

At the event, Sloane wore a midnight blue gown and heels that pinched. Grayson wore black on black, and looked like sin in a suit.

Photographers ate it up.

"You look incredible," he murmured as they posed for a photo together.

Sloane smiled tightly. "You say that like we're not pretending."

"Are we?"

She turned. His eyes didn't flinch.

And something in her chest shifted.

By midnight, the party blurred. Jordan had rented out a private club. Champagne flowed. Music pulsed. Somewhere between toasts and tequila, Sloane realized she'd lost track of timeand maybe judgment.

Because suddenly, she and Grayson were at a neon-lit chapel with a half-sober Elvis impersonator and a dare from Jordan ringing in her ears.

"Marry each other. One year. Just for fun."

Sloane laughed. "You're insane."

Grayson looked at her, utterly calm.

"I've done crazier things for less."

Before she could blink, the officiant started speaking.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife"

Sloane's breath caught.

Grayson leaned down and whispered against her temple

"We'll fix it in the morning."

Except morning came.

And the paperwork was already filed.

Sloane Hart-Astor was trending on Twitter.

The marriage was legal.

The press was already watching.

And walking away wasn't going to be so simple after all.