Page 47 of The Devil of Downtown

We move through the agenda—projected returns, site logistics, and a brief update from finance. Kieran Foster takes the floor halfway through, all smooth charm and overdone enthusiasm.

“Can I say,” he begins, gesturing like he’s on stage, “the way your London appearance was handled, Dane, really solidified confidence in the board. The coverage was spot on.”

Maria’s lips twitch, Sloane’s fingers keep moving, and I fight the urge to check the clock.

“Appreciate that, Kieran. Let’s move on,” I reply, steering him back to numbers, the one place his optimism can’t spin a headline.

We finish running through the last of the logistics, the usual back-and-forth on deadlines, funding sign-offs, and regulatory follow-ups. The kind of meeting that leaves your head buzzing and your patience thin. Phones vibrate as everyone trickles out. I’m almost out the door when Kieran calls out.

“Oh, Sloane—meant to say, I saw you on Thursday at Mount Sinai. I tried to wave, but you didn't see me.”

Sloane goes perfectly still, her complexion draining as if someone pulled the plug.

“That’s not possible,” I say before she can open her mouth. “She was in London.”

She nods quickly, eyes flicking to me with something I can’t quite read. “Yes. Must’ve been someone else.”

Kieran blinks, baffled. “Really? I could’ve sworn it was you. Guess I was mistaken.”

Sloane recovers with a too-bright smile. “Luckily, I haven’t had to go to the hospital in a long time.”

It’s an innocent enough statement on its own, except I remember Sloane saying almost the opposite when she arrived for the flight:Sorry, I’m late, I just came from the hospital.

I smooth my expression before we walk back to my office.

But my mind’s already spinning.

Because Sloane is lying.

I leave my door slightly ajar when I return to my desk, swiveling slowly in my chair, watching her throw herself into the next task.

I knew something was off—but now I’m certain. The more I watch, the more I see. She moves differently. Speaks differently. Reacts differently. The spark that used to flare between us is gone, replaced by something muted and careful.

Then it hits me.

It’s not that Sloane’s changed.

It’s that she’sbackto how she was before London. Beforethatsmile in an elevator nearly wrecked me.

I try to dismiss it—paranoia, overthinking—but once the thought takes root, it won’t let go.

Her cell rings. On instinct, I lean forward, pretending to check an email while my focus narrows to her voice.

“Hey, Jennie,” she says. “Thanks for calling back.” A soft laugh. Then —

“I’m throwing a small celebration for Ivy this Saturday. Chanté’s, at eight. Could you spread the word to her friends?”

There’s a pause, and she frowns.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let Brody back into her life, but if you think...”

She nods as she listens to her speak.

“I’m just so happy she got the part in the show, and grateful for everything she does for Elsie and...”

Her voice drops, but I swear I hear it, one word that freezes the air around me.

London.