Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 8

Elodie woke up to a blinding white light.

For a moment, she thought she had died and gone to heaven. Heaven was warm, smelled of sandalwood and musk, and had a very steady, rhythmic thumping sound.

She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the glare. She wasn't in heaven. She was in the back seat of a Bentley, her legs tangled with a pair of tuxedo-clad legs, her cheek pressed against a solid, starch-stiffened chest.

The thumping sound was Alistair’s heart.

"You're drooling on my shirt," a deep voice rumbled above her.

Elodie scrambled up, bumping her head on the low ceiling of the car. "Ow! I... I was not drooling."

Alistair looked down at her. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way possible. His hair was messy, his jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a romance novel cover model who had had a very rough night.

"You were," he said, rubbing his neck. "And you snore."

"I do not!"

THUD.

A heavy shovel hit the roof of the car.

"Hello inside!" a muffled voice yelled from outside. "Anyone alive in there?"

Alistair shifted instantly, his lethargy vanishing. The "CEO mode" snapped back into place. He leaned over Elodie to pound on the window.

"We are here!" he shouted. "Dig out the passenger door!"

It took ten minutes for the rescue crew, a mix of DOT workers and, surprisingly, Arthur the driver, to clear the snow.

When the door finally wrenched open, the cold air rushed in, biting and sharp.

"Mr. Sterling!" Arthur’s face was pale as he peered into the dark cabin. "My God, sir. I tracked the GPS signal, but the snow was so deep..."

"We are fine, Arthur," Alistair said, his voice raspy. He climbed out first, stretching his stiff limbs. He looked around.

They were in a ditch off a service road. The sun was shining brilliantly on a world buried in three feet of fresh white powder. It was serene, beautiful, and completely silent—until the sirens started.

"We have an ambulance en route," a DOT worker said.

"Cancel it," Alistair ordered. He turned back to the car. "Elodie."

He held out his hand.

Elodie crawled out, her red velvet dress wrinkled and stained with melting snow. She stepped onto the road and her legs wobbled. The adrenaline crash, combined with the cold, made her dizzy.

"Whoa," she murmured, swaying.

Alistair didn't hesitate. He didn't ask if she was okay. He simply scooped her up into his arms, bridal style.

"Alistair! Put me down! I can walk."

"You are shaking, you are wearing heels in a snowbank, and you are my responsibility," he said, pulling her against his chest. "Arthur, get the heater running in the SUV. Now."

As Alistair carried her toward Arthur’s backup vehicle, a massive black Escalade, Elodie saw something flash in the distance.

Click-click-click.

A photographer. Perched on the overpass above them with a long-lens camera.

"Alistair," Elodie whispered, hiding her face in his neck. "Paparazzi."

Alistair looked up. He didn't scowl. He didn't shout. He pulled his coat tighter around her, shielding her completely, and kept walking.

"Let them look," he muttered.

The ride back to the penthouse was a blur of phone calls. Alistair was on two phones at once, barking orders to his legal team, his PR team, and the board of directors.

Elodie sat wrapped in a blanket, sipping water Arthur had provided, watching him. He was terrifyingly efficient. The tender man who had held her all night was gone, replaced by the machine.

When they arrived at Sterling Tower, they bypassed the main lobby, which was swarming with reporters, and took the private garage entrance.

In the penthouse, Alistair went straight to the bar. He didn't pour wine this time. He poured whiskey. Neat.

"Go shower," he said over his shoulder. "Use the master bath. There are robes in the closet. I need to handle this."

"Handle what?" Elodie asked, standing barefoot on the cold floor. "We survived a car crash. Isn't that the whole story?"

Alistair turned. He picked up the remote and clicked on the massive flat-screen TV on the wall.

It was tuned to CNBC.

The headline banner at the bottom screamed in red: THE MIRACLE ON THE QUEENSBORO.

A news anchor was speaking excitedly. "Sterling Industries stock opened at an all-time high this morning following the dramatic survival of CEO Alistair Sterling and his partner, Elodie Rose. The couple, who went missing during the 'Storm of the Century' after fleeing the Charity Ball, were found alive this morning."

The screen changed to a photo.

It was the photo from ten minutes ago. Alistair, looking rugged and fierce in his disheveled tuxedo, carrying Elodie through the snow. He looked like a hero. She looked like a damsel. It was the most romantic image Elodie had ever seen.

"Analysts are calling it the 'Love Bump'," the anchor continued. "Investors are eating up the narrative of the 'Ice King' melting for his mystery woman. The merger with Takahashi Corp, which was on the rocks, was just signed an hour ago. Apparently, everyone wants to be in business with a man who can cheat death."

Alistair clicked the TV off.

He took a drink of whiskey.

"Do you see the problem, Miss Rose?"

"Problem?" Elodie blinked. "The stock is up. The merger is signed. We’re alive. Where is the problem?"

"The problem," Alistair said, walking toward her slowly, "is that I cannot fire you."

He stopped in front of her.

"If we break up now, if I send you home and terminate the contract, the stock will crash. The narrative will collapse. The board will view me as unstable."

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing humorlessly.

"I tried to end it to save the company from chaos. And instead, the chaos saved the company."

Elodie looked at the TV, then back at him. She touched the rose gold bracelet. It was warm.

"So..." she hesitated. "What does that mean?"

Alistair looked down at her. His gaze was complicated. There was frustration there, yes. But underneath it, there was that same heat she had felt in the car.

"It means," he said, his voice dropping, "that you are moving in."

Elodie’s jaw dropped. "What?"

"We have to maintain the facade 24/7. The press will be camped outside your apartment in Queens. It’s a security risk. You will stay here. In the guest suite."

"Moving in?" Elodie squeaked. "With you?"

"Unless you have a better idea on how to convince the world we are inseparable soulmates?"

He waited. Elodie didn't have a better idea. Honestly, the idea of going back to her freezing apartment while a billionaire offered her a room in his penthouse was ludicrous.

"Fine," she said. "I'll move in. But I have conditions."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "You are in no position to make demands."

"I am the 'Love Bump'," she pointed out, pointing at the dark TV. "I am the asset. Condition one: I get actual coffee, not that sludge you drink. Condition two: I am allowed to decorate for Christmas."

Alistair grimaced. "Absolutely not."

"It’s December 24th, Alistair. Tonight is Christmas Eve. If we are playing 'happy couple', this mausoleum needs a tree."

Alistair stared at her. He looked at the whiskey in his hand. He looked at the determination in her eyes.

"One tree," he conceded. "In the corner. No singing."

"Deal."

"Now go shower," he said, turning away. "You smell like wet dog."

"I hate you," Elodie muttered, walking toward the hallway.

"Elodie?"

She stopped and turned back.

Alistair wasn't looking at her. He was looking out the window at the snow-covered city.

"I didn't sleep last night," he said softly.

"I know. Neither did I."

"No," he corrected. "You slept. For three hours. I watched you."

Elodie’s breath hitched.

"Why?"

Alistair took another sip of whiskey. "To make sure you were still breathing. And..." He paused. "Because it was the only time in ten years I haven't been thinking about numbers."

He turned his head slightly, catching her eye.

"The water pressure in the master shower is excellent. Don't use all the hot water."