Chapter 5 The Unthinkable Proposal

The penthouse was now a command station under quiet attack rather than a haven. The phones were no longer ringing frantically, but the rarefied air still appeared to carry their echoes. At her floor-to-ceiling window, Sloane could see the glittering, expansive city below, a mockery of the mayhem that was taking place in the silence of her own world. The first rush of adrenaline had subsided, solidifying into a chilly, jagged knot of reality in her stomach.

Rhett Kingman wasn't merely having fun. Her ship was absorbing water after he had thrown a cannonball across her bow. Quick.

The emergency board meeting had been a study in barely restrained fear, held over a crackling conference call. The normally steadying anchor that is Holt Callahan's voice had been strained. Others had been less controlled, their voices piercing with dread and accusation.

"Sloane, this is directly related to the instability he's taking advantage of!" almost yelled Walker Boone, one of the more senior members. "The Apex failure, these rumors he's spreading about himself! Weakness is seen on the street!

Her voice was like chipped ice as she retorted, "The only weakness they see is your hysterical reaction, Walker," despite the fact that her hand was perspiring as she held the phone. We're going to make a statement. The deadly pill will be implemented. We're going to battle.

But in contrast to the blatant, individualistic boldness of his strike, the corporate warfare tactics felt abruptly dull and insufficient. Instead of hiding behind attorneys and paperwork, he was out there, allowing everyone to see him tear her to pieces.

Just after midnight, Cassidy had shown up with a shield-like grip on a tablet and a sketched face. "Sloane, the first analysis is harsh. Many of our institutional investors find the premium he is offering to be too alluring to pass up. If they sell their stock...

She was interrupted by Sloane, who turned away from the window and said, "I know what it means." Her eyes were small, icy points of fire reflecting the city's lights. "He's not merely purchasing the business. He is purchasing my funeral service.

Her thoughts had become a battle room for the next three hours, a focused, angry tornado. Her voice never faltered as she composed statements and dictated emails to their legal team. Beneath the ceaseless busyness, however, one horrifying notion started to germinate, a seed of despair emerging in the black, rich soil of her terror.

It was a crazy idea. An embarrassing one. She was the complete opposite of everything.

But it was the only idea that remained as the first glimmer of dawn turned the sky a sickly gray.

Her voice was scratchy from disuse as she said to Cassidy, "Cancel my morning."

Cassidy, who had been watching news feeds on the sofa, looked up. "What? Sloane, the legal team's strategy meeting is scheduled for seven thirty. Nine o'clock at the PR business. We must.

Sloane reiterated, "Cancel it," in a tone that made no space for debate. Her body moved with an odd, disinterested purpose as she made her way to her bedroom. An hour later, she was driving her black Aston Martin through Austin's awakening streets, saying, "I know how to stop him." She didn't make a phone call. She simply had a destination and a nuclear option; she had no plan. The elegant vehicle had the feel of a coffin on wheels.

She arrived at a repurposed warehouse, the bustling, frenetic nerve center of Kingman Ventures, now housed behind its industrial façade. It was the outward expression of Rhett himself, audacious, cutting-edge, and completely indifferent to custom. She turned off the engine and waited for a while, observing the young, casually dressed workers as they came in, all of them excited by the takeover story they were undoubtedly discussing. It was insane. Sloane Prescott was her name. She didn't plead. She didn't approach negotiations with weakness.

But behind her eyes, the sight of those falling red numerals flashed. Her ears rang with the sound of Walker Boone's frantic words. She witnessed the kingdom she had defended with her identity, the ghost of her father's legacy, disintegrating into dust.

She exited the vehicle.

In the wide, noisy lobby, her shoes made a sharp, alien-sounding click as they hit the polished concrete floor. A purple-haired receptionist glanced up, her grin wavering as she recognized the woman from the financial news that was currently splattered on all the screens.

Sloane's voice broke through the background clamor as she declared, "I need to see him." "Now."

"Ms. Prescott? I... Mr. Kingman isn't available, I believe. Have you got one?

"Let him know I'm here." A spiral staircase leading to a mezzanine level caught Sloane's attention as she looked about the space. She acted without waiting for approval. Like a queen breaking into a rebel camp, she began to walk.

She located him in a glass-walled office with a floor-to-ceiling view. He wasn't at his workstation. He had a half-eaten breakfast burrito on an adjacent table and was standing at a whiteboard, circling a complicated financial model. With his back to the door, Dax Holloway was by his side.

She was first seen by Rhett. His marker-wielding hand froze. A gradual, self-aware smile appeared on his face. He seems unsurprised.

With a drawl, he tossed the marker onto the tray. Take a look at what the cat brought in. I now believe that my invitation was misplaced in the mail.

Dax turned, a look of intense mistrust mixed with amazement on his face. He glanced from Rhett's victorious expression to Sloane's perfectly composed but pallid one.

Sloane stated in a hushed voice, "I need to talk to you." "By myself."

The air between them crackled with silent history and current combat as Rhett kept her eyes for a long time. He jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Dax, give us a minute."

Dax paused, his defensive posture evident, but after receiving a second, more stern glance from Rhett, he grudgingly walked out, softly clicking the glass door shut behind him.

They were by themselves. Their confrontation had a subdued soundtrack from the hum of the office below.

Rhett crossed his arms and leaned back against the whiteboard, saying, "I have to admit." "This capitulation is quicker than I thought it would be. Even the heavy artillery hasn't been deployed yet.

With her chin raised, Sloane declared, "This isn't a surrender." Her posture was tight as she stepped further into the room. "There has been a strategic realignment."

He laughed loudly. "A change of direction? Before the first battle has even been fought, honey, you find yourself in the center of the enemy camp. From where I stand, it looks a lot like surrender.

The heat of embarrassment was rising up her neck. Locking it away, she pushed it down. "The morals clause is being used by the board. Our previous association's scandal has given them influence. They are calling for a steady public persona. A CEO who is married.

Rhett raised his eyebrows. He appeared truly amused. "And? Look for a handsome actor to stand next to you during a news conference. Trying to purchase your life's work has kept me rather occupied.

It wouldn't function. You must be the one. The words had an ashy taste.

A scathing, predatory interest replaced the amusement on his face. He stepped toward her after pushing off the whiteboard. "Explain."

"Rhett, they are aware of the marriage. the authentic one. Seven years ago, that is. She forced herself to retain his gaze, to not flinch from the intensity in his. "The scandal will be neutralized if I make amends with my lawful husband. It transforms a liability into a story. The stock is stabilized. It removes your most effective weapon.

He remained silent for a while, simply observing her while his thoughts were active behind those whiskey-colored eyes. The calculations and changing variables were nearly visible to her. Like a shark sniffing blood in the ocean, he circled her.

"So," he whispered quietly as he stopped in front of her. "Let me clarify this. I'm supposed to cancel the dogs, right? To prevent my career's most lucrative play. to act like your devoted, peace-making husband. All in order to prevent the chaos you caused when you fled from me from ruining your lovely little empire.

It sounded even crazier when said that way. She remained silent.

In a deep, personal rumble, he questioned, "What's in it for me?" "Aside from the immense pleasure of your presence."

It was this. The cliff. This was the only money she had left that he might be interested in, and she had practiced it.

Her voice was hardly audible above a whisper when she whispered, "Name your price." An appointment to the board. A portion of the business. Anything you desire.

At that moment, his lips curled slowly and dangerously into a smile that stopped short of his eyes. Before she could respond, his fingers were beneath her chin, tilting her face toward his. He had a brand-like touch.

He muttered, "You still don't get it, do you?" as he mockingly caressed her jawline with his thumb. "Sloane, I don't want a piece of your business."

His gaze held hers prisoner as he leaned in, his mouth just millimeters from hers.

"A piece of you is what I want."

Taking a pen out of his pocket, he let her go and stepped back. He picked up a napkin from next to the breakfast taco that was left behind. Between them, he wrote a single line and slammed it into the table.

"Those are my terms," he stated in a firm, flat voice. "Accept it or reject it."

Her ribs were being pounded by Sloane's heart. She pushed herself forward with her legs. She glanced at the napkin underneath.

It wasn't a number. It was not a title.

It was an address. His address.

And a time beneath it. 8 p.m. This evening.

She jerked her head up, her eyes wild with rage and pure, unadulterated fear. "You're not serious."

"Deadly," he whispered, his eyes fixed on you. "You'd like me to marry you? Then take on the role of my wife. You take up residence. You act the part. And you respond to one of my questions. Sincerely. Each and every day. Don't lie. No sidestepping. I'll cancel the takeover if you give me that.

He desired to own her. Not with her. She. He desired to remove all barriers and armor until just the frightened, unvarnished reality of the woman she once was remained.

A devil's deal was struck. She gave up the person she had worked so hard to become, completely and utterly.

She gazed at the handwritten address that seemed to be a phrase on the napkin. This one unthinkable decision would determine the entire future of Prescott Global and the heritage she had sacrificed her past to preserve.

She reached out, her hand shaking. She curled her ice-cold fingers around the little piece of paper.

Her own eyes were burning with a passion that suggested this conflict was far from over as she stared up into his proud, challenging gaze.

Her voice was clear but hollow as she swallowed the last of her pride.

"All right."