"You’re late, Noelle," he said without turning around. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that always made the hair on my arms stand up—partly from irritation, partly from something I refused to name.
Silas Vane stood by the balcony, a silhouette of sharp tailoring and even sharper edges. He didn't look like a man celebrating; he looked like a king surveying a kingdom he found deeply disappointing.
The invitations were embossed in gold, the champagne cost more than my first car, and the atmosphere in the Vane Penthouse was as cold as the December wind whipping against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Grumpy Billionaire Who Stole Christmas Read...
"I’m not late, Silas. I was detained by the three dozen protesters outside your lobby," I replied, shaking the snow from my coat. "You know, the ones whose livelihoods you’re currently trying to bulldoze for a 'Wellness Plaza'?"
"I don't want a soul," he said, stepping closer until I could smell his expensive cologne—sandalwood and winter air. "I want efficiency. And right now, you are being very inefficient." "You’re late, Noelle," he said without turning around
"One week," he whispered, leaning down so his breath brushed my ear. "But if you lose, Noelle... you don't just walk away. You work for me. And I’m a very demanding boss."
I knew I was making a deal with the devil. But as I looked into those cold, lonely eyes, I realized Silas Vane didn't just want to steal Christmas. He wanted someone to finally show him why it was worth keeping. He didn't look like a man celebrating; he
"Is that what this is?" I gestured to the empty, shimmering room. "You bought the land, you cancelled the permits, and you invited me here just to gloat? You’re not a businessman tonight, Silas. You’re just the Grinch in a Tom Ford suit."