Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 3

Elodie arrived at Sterling Tower at 7:55 AM the next morning. She had spent the night tossing and turning on her lumpy mattress, dreaming of falling elevators and grey eyes that saw too much.

She hadn't been fired. In fact, she had received a text at 4:00 AM from a number simply listed as AS: Don't be late. Coffee black. Three sugars. Yes, I know it’s unhealthy. Don't comment.

She placed the steaming cup on the corner of the massive mahogany desk at 7:59 AM exactly.

"You're early," Alistair didn't look up from his monitors.

The office was bathed in the cold, white light of a winter morning. Alistair was already in high gear. He had three screens active, displaying scrolling walls of numbers that made Elodie dizzy just looking at them. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket yet. His white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that were surprisingly muscular for a man who pushed paper for a living.

"I aim to please," Elodie said, smoothing her skirt. She felt ridiculous. Her "professional" wardrobe consisted of one black skirt that was slightly too tight and a blouse she’d bought at a thrift store. Standing in this office, she felt like a smudge on a diamond.

"Come here," Alistair said.

Elodie froze. "Where?"

"Here." He pointed to the floor directly beside his chair. "Stand right here."

Elodie hesitated, then stepped around the desk. She stood next to him. She could smell his cologne, sandalwood and something crisp, fresh air.

"Closer," he murmured.

She shuffled an inch closer. Her hip was almost brushing his shoulder.

"Mr. Sterling, is there something—"

"Quiet. I'm testing a variable."

He hit a key on his keyboard. On the center screen, a graph was plummeting. It was a jagged red line diving toward the bottom of the axis.

"That looks bad," Elodie whispered.

"It is," Alistair said calmly. "That is the projected third-quarter yield for our Asian tech division. If it drops below the threshold line, I lose twelve million dollars in the next ten minutes."

"Oh my god." Elodie backed away. "I should go. I'm bad luck. You don't want me near this."

"Stay," he commanded.

He spun his chair slightly so he was facing her, though his eyes kept darting back to the screen. "Give me your hand."

"My hand?"

"Do not make me repeat myself, Miss Rose. Time is money."

Elodie slowly extended her hand. Alistair reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, right over the pulse point. His skin was cool, but his grip was firm.

Elodie’s breath hitched. The contact was... electric. It wasn't just a handshake. It was intimate. His thumb rested against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, right next to the rose gold bracelet.

The bracelet flared hot against her skin.

"Watch the screen," Alistair said, his voice dropping an octave.

Elodie looked.

The red line, which had been in a freefall, suddenly jittered. It plateaued. Then, impossibly, it ticked upward.

Alistair didn't move. He kept his thumb pressed to her pulse, stroking back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion that made Elodie’s knees feel weak.

The line shot up again. Green numbers started flashing.

"Fascinating," Alistair whispered. He wasn't looking at the screen anymore. He was looking at her arm. "Heart rate elevated. Skin temperature rising."

"Mr. Sterling," Elodie squeaked. "You're... squeezing."

He abruptly let go.

Immediately, the red line dipped.

Alistair grabbed her hand again, this time lacing his fingers through hers. A firm, possessive lock.

The line skyrocketed.

Elodie stared at the screen, then at their joined hands. Her hand looked small and pale engulfed in his large, tanned one. The heat from the bracelet was radiating up her arm, settling in her chest.

"It’s statistical nonsense," Alistair muttered, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying intelligence. "The probability of correlation is zero. And yet..."

He looked up at her then. For the first time, he really looked at her. not as a liability, but as a puzzle. His gaze swept over her flushed face, her parted lips, and down to her thrift-store blouse.

"You are a good luck charm," he said flatly.

"I'm a jinx," Elodie corrected breathlessly. "Everyone knows it."

"Perhaps you have simply been grounded incorrectly," he said cryptically. He stood up, towering over her. He didn't let go of her hand. "Sit."

He guided her to his chair, his leather executive chair, and pushed her down into it.

"Mr. Sterling, I can't sit here!"

"You can and you will. The market opens in London in five minutes. I have a feeling I'm going to need you touching something of mine while I make this call."

He leaned over her, placing his hands on the armrests, trapping her in the chair. His face was inches from hers. Elodie could see the flecks of silver in his irises.

"Don't move," he ordered softly. "Don't speak. Just... exist."

Elodie sat frozen in the billionaire's chair, surrounded by his scent, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The bracelet on her wrist felt like it was vibrating.

For the next three hours, Elodie Rose sat in the center of the financial world while Alistair Sterling paced around her, barking orders into a headset. Every time a deal got shaky, he would return to the desk. He would touch her shoulder, graze her arm, or lean over the back of the chair so his chest pressed against her back as he typed.

And every single time he touched her, they won.

By 6:00 PM, Elodie was exhausted. She hadn't done any actual work. She had just been a human totem pole for a capitalist ritual she didn't understand.

"Go home," Alistair said, finally closing his laptop. The sun had set, turning the office windows into black mirrors.

"Am I... am I doing a good job?" Elodie asked, standing up. Her legs felt wobbly.

Alistair looked at her. He looked tired too, rubbing a hand over his face. "You made the company four million dollars today by sitting in a chair. Yes, Miss Rose. You are doing an adequate job."

"Great. Can I get an advance on my paycheck?"

Alistair paused. "Why?"

"Because my landlord doesn't accept 'adequate jobs' as currency."

Alistair pulled a checkbook from his drawer. He scrawled something and tore it out. He held it out to her.

Elodie took it. It was for five thousand dollars.

"That’s... this is too much," she stammered.

"Consider it a retainer," Alistair said, turning his back to look out the window. "Be here at 7:00 AM tomorrow. We have a breakfast meeting with the Zoning Commission. Wear something..." He waved a hand vaguely. "Less flammable."

Elodie didn't take a cab home. She was too frugal for that, even with the check burning a hole in her pocket. She took the subway to Queens, clutching her purse tight against her chest.

Her apartment building was a four-story walk-up that smelled of boiled cabbage and damp carpet. It was a far cry from the marble and glass of Sterling Tower.

She unlocked her door, jiggling the key three times because the lock was sticky, and stepped inside.

"Home sweet hellhole," she sighed.

It was freezing. The radiator hissed menacingly but produced no heat. A pile of unopened bills sat on the wobbly kitchen table like a judgment.

Elodie kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her second-hand sofa. She held up her wrist. The rose gold bracelet glinted in the dim light of the streetlamp outside.

"What are you?" she whispered to the charm. "And why do you only work when he touches me?"

She thought about Alistair’s hand on her wrist. The way his thumb had stroked her skin. It hadn't felt like a boss touching an employee. It had felt... possessive.

A loud banging on the ceiling made her jump.

"Shut up!" her upstairs neighbor yelled at someone.

Elodie sighed. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and looked at the check again. Five thousand dollars. It was enough to pay her back rent and fix the radiator.

But as she looked around her dingy, cold apartment, she couldn't help but compare it to the warmth of Alistair’s office. It wasn't just the heating system. It was the energy.

When she was with him, the world felt sharp, dangerous, and electric. Here, it just felt grey.

Her phone buzzed.

AS: I forgot to mention. The Zoning meeting is black tie optional. Don't embarrass me.

Elodie groaned, dropping her head back against the cushions. "I don't own black tie. I own 'funeral chic' and 'laundry day'."

She looked at the bracelet again. It was dull and cold now, lifeless without him.

"Great," she muttered, closing her eyes. "I'm battery operated. And he's the battery."