Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 5

The penthouse was exactly as Elodie expected: breathtaking, expensive, and completely devoid of soul.

It was 8:00 PM. Outside, the blizzard had turned the city into a white blur, wind howling against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Inside, it was silent. The furniture was all low-profile Italian leather and chrome. There were no photos on the walls, no throw pillows, no clutter. It felt like a showroom.

"Make yourself comfortable," Alistair said, dropping his keys on a glass console table. "I’ll order dinner. Thai? Sushi?"

"I don't care," Elodie said, shivering slightly. She was still in the blue dress, though she had kicked off the heels by the door. "As long as it’s hot."

"Thai it is."

Alistair loosened his tie, pulling the silk knot free and draping it over a chair. He undid the top button of his shirt. It was a small gesture, but to Elodie, it felt like witnessing a tectonic shift. The armor was coming off.

"We have work to do," Alistair said, walking to the wet bar. He poured two generous glasses of dark red wine. "If we are going to convince Vance, and half of Manhattan’s elite, that we are a couple, we need a narrative."

He handed her a glass. His fingers brushed hers. The bracelet hummed, a low, contented vibration against her wrist.

"A narrative," Elodie repeated, taking a large sip. The wine was incredible, velvet and oak. "You mean a script."

"I mean a backstory." Alistair sat on the sofa, angling his body toward her. "Sit."

Elodie sat on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking her legs under her dress. "Okay. Shoot."

"How did we meet?" Alistair asked, pulling out his phone to take notes.

"In the lobby," Elodie said. "I flooded it. You threatened to sue me. It was love at first litigation."

Alistair looked up, unamused. "Vance is a romantic, Elodie. Not a masochist. We met... at a gallery opening. Six months ago."

"A gallery opening," Elodie nodded. "Which one?"

"The... Modern Art Collective. You were critiquing a sculpture. I was intrigued by your insight."

"I have an Art History degree," Elodie reminded him. "I can actually do that."

"Good. Detail one established." He took a sip of wine, his eyes locking onto hers. "What is my favorite color?"

"Grey," Elodie said instantly. "Like your soul. And your suits."

Alistair’s lip twitched. "Cobalt blue. Next. What is your middle name?"

"Jane. It’s boring."

"It’s classic," he corrected. "What is my biggest pet peeve?"

"Inefficiency," Elodie guessed. "And tardiness. And people who breathe too loudly."

"Mess," Alistair said softly. "I hate chaos. I need order. Structure."

Elodie looked around the pristine apartment. "Because you can control the structure. You can't control people."

Alistair paused. He swirled the wine in his glass, looking into the deep red liquid. "People are variables. Variables introduce risk."

"Is that what I am?" Elodie asked quietly. "A risk?"

Alistair looked up. The distance between them on the sofa seemed to shrink. "You are the biggest risk I have ever taken, Miss Rose. Logic dictates I should have fired you. Instead, you are sitting in my living room, drinking a distinct vintage Cabernet, wearing a dress I bought you."

"Why?" Elodie whispered. "Because of the luck?"

"The luck is... undeniable," Alistair admitted. "But it’s not just the numbers anymore."

The air in the room grew heavy. The wind howled outside, but inside, the silence was thick with unsaid words.

The food arrived twenty minutes later, breaking the tension. They ate on the coffee table, sitting on the plush rug. It was surprisingly domestic. Alistair Sterling, the Titan of Industry, eating Pad Thai out of a carton with a plastic fork.

As the second bottle of wine was opened, the questions got easier. Less strategic. More personal.

"Why no Christmas decorations?" Elodie asked, gesturing to the empty room. "You have a fireplace. It’s begging for a stocking."

Alistair leaned back against the sofa, stretching his long legs out. "My parents died when I was seven. December 23rd. Car accident."

Elodie froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Oh my god. Alistair. I... I had no idea."

"I was raised by boarding schools and trustees," Alistair said, his voice void of emotion, though his eyes were dark. "Christmas was a time when other children went home to families. I stayed in the dorms. It was inefficient to mourn. So, I stopped celebrating. It’s just a day."

Elodie set her food down. Her heart ached for the little boy he had been. "It’s not just a day," she said softly. "It’s about connection. Magic."

"Magic," Alistair scoffed, though it lacked his usual bite. "Like your bad luck?"

"My bad luck is real," Elodie insisted. "But... maybe the good luck is real too. Maybe you deserve a little good luck, Alistair."

He looked at her then. His gaze was intense, stripping away her defenses. He looked at her mouth. Then her eyes. Then her mouth again.

"We have a problem," he said abruptly.

"What?" Elodie blinked. "Did I get sauce on the dress?"

"The ball tomorrow," Alistair said. He set his wine glass down on the table with a sharp clink. "Vance will be watching. The press will be watching. If we are supposed to be in love, deeply, madly in love, body language is key."

"I can hold your hand," Elodie said, her pulse starting to race. "I can gaze adoringly."

"It’s not enough," Alistair said. He shifted, turning his body fully toward her on the rug. He was close now. Too close. "At some point, under the mistletoe or on the dance floor, we will be expected to kiss."

Elodie swallowed hard. "Oh."

"Have you ever kissed someone you were pretending to like?" Alistair asked.

"No."

"Neither have I." Alistair’s eyes darkened to the color of a storm cloud. "If we do it for the first time tomorrow, in front of cameras, we will fail. It will look hesitant. Awkward. It will look fake."

"So..." Elodie’s voice was barely a whisper. "What are you suggesting?"

"We need to calibrate," Alistair said. The word was clinical, but his voice was rough, like gravel over silk. "We need to get the first one out of the way. establish a baseline. Muscle memory."

"A practice kiss," Elodie clarified.

"Strictly for the success of the mission," Alistair said. But he didn't look like a man on a mission. He looked like a man who was starving.

"Okay," Elodie breathed. "For the mission."

Alistair moved.

He didn't pounce. He moved with the slow, predatory grace of a big cat. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, dragging it down slightly.

Elodie stopped breathing. Her entire body went rigid, vibrating with anticipation.

"Relax," Alistair murmured, leaning in. His face was inches from hers. She could feel his warmth, smell the wine and the man. "Close your eyes, Elodie."

She closed her eyes.

He didn't kiss her immediately. He teased her. He tilted his head, his nose brushing against hers. He inhaled her scent, letting his breath ghost over her lips.

"You smell like vanilla," he whispered. "And trouble."

And then, he closed the gap.

His lips met hers.

It wasn't a tentative peck. It was a claiming.

His mouth was hot, firm, and demanding. Elodie gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the wine and the sweetness.

BOOM.

It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling.

The moment their lips connected, the rose gold bracelet on Elodie’s wrist didn't just get warm, it flared hot, like a brand. But it didn't burn. It sent a shockwave of pure energy up her arm, straight into her chest.

Alistair groaned low in his throat. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, angling her head to devour her more fully.

Elodie’s hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the crisp cotton of his shirt. She pulled him down, arching into him.

It was electric. It was intoxicating. It was completely, utterly out of control.

Somewhere in the apartment, a lightbulb surged and shattered. Outside, the wind stopped howling instantly. On the coffee table, Alistair’s phone screen lit up with notification after notification, stocks soaring, emails arriving, but neither of them looked.

Alistair pushed her back onto the rug, his body covering hers, his weight heavy and perfect. He broke the kiss to trail his lips down her jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

"Alistair," Elodie gasped, her head falling back.

"Tell me to stop," he growled against her skin, his hand moving down to rest on her waist, his thumb digging into her hip through the blue dress. "Tell me this is just business. Tell me to stop, Elodie, because I can't."

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please don't stop."

He captured her lips again, harder this time, with a desperate hunger that terrified and thrilled her.

She wasn't his employee anymore. He wasn't the CEO. They were just two people, lonely and magnetized, caught in a spell they didn't understand.

The bracelet pulsed in time with their heartbeats. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Suddenly, a loud, jarring ringing cut through the air.

It was the intercom buzzer.

Alistair froze. He tore his mouth away from hers, his chest heaving. His eyes were blown wide, black with lust.

He looked down at her, flushed and disheveled on his rug. He looked at his hand on her waist. He looked like he had just woken up from a fever dream.

The buzzer rang again. relentless.

Alistair cursed. He pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style. He stood up, turning his back to her, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to regulate his breathing.

"That will be the courier," he said, his voice raspy and unrecognizable. "With the... with the files for tomorrow."

Elodie sat up, touching her swollen lips. Her body was humming. Her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest.

She looked at the bracelet. It was glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Right," she whispered, her voice shaking. "The files."

Alistair walked to the intercom, buttoning his collar with fumbling fingers. He didn't look at her.

"Get your shoes, Miss Rose," he said, the cold "CEO voice" trying to return, but failing miserably. "The rehearsal is over. Arthur is waiting downstairs to take you home."

Elodie stood up, her legs trembling. She felt cold without his weight on her.

"Alistair?" she asked.

He stopped, his hand on the door. He didn't turn around.

"That kiss," she said brave, foolishly. "Did we pass the test?"

Alistair gripped the door handle until his knuckles turned white.

"If we do that tomorrow night," he said low and rough, "we’re going to burn the whole damn ballroom down."