[POV Sloane]
Seattle hadn’t changed. Still gray. Still smug. Still pretending its constant drizzle didn’t seep into your bones if you stayed long enough.
I didn’t plan on staying long.
I stepped out of the black SUV and adjusted the cuffs of my suit jacket, ignoring the stares that followed me from the sidewalk to the glass doors of Wayne Publishing.
Six years. Six years since I last walked through these doors.
It might as well have been a lifetime ago.
The receptionist didn’t recognize me at first. She smiled politely, ready to ask who I was here to see—until her gaze hit my face, and her posture snapped straight. She stammered something that sounded like “Mr. Wayne” as she reached for the phone.
I didn’t wait for permission.
I walked through the lobby like I owned the place—because I did. The same marble floors. The same gold-lettered logo on the wall. But everything felt... emptier. Like the building was holding its breath, waiting for someone to tell it what came next.
That someone was me.
The elevator doors slid open. The executive floor was quiet—too quiet.
Then I saw it. The office. His office. Door slightly ajar. Lights on. I stepped inside—and nearly slammed it shut again.
She was there. A woman stood behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, lips pressed in a tight line as she carefully re-aligned the framed awards on the wall.
Like she had any right.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
She turned. No startle, no flinch. Just a slow pivot and sharp eyes that sliced right through me. “You must be Sloane Wayne.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you didn’t answer your father’s calls for six years, but here we are,” she replied, cool as ice.
I stepped closer, jaw tightening. “I’m not interested in commentary from the admin pool.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. Because I was told the new CEO was arriving today. Not a condescending jackass with daddy issues.”
The air crackled between us.
I took her in fully now—dark hair pulled back into a low bun, tailored blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, heels planted like she dared me to knock her over. She was younger than I expected, mid-to-late twenties, but the way she held her ground told me she wasn’t new to this place.
“You’ve got to be Ari Winters,” I said slowly, piecing it together. “My father’s assistant.”
“I was his senior assistant,” she corrected. “And his business liaison. And strategy coordinator. But if you prefer ‘assistant,’ that’s fine. Labels don’t bother me. Incompetence does.”
“Did you come up with that one yourself,” I asked, “or is it printed on the back of your performance reviews?”
She didn’t blink. “I’ve been running this floor for more than five years now. If you think I’ll step aside so you can bulldoze everything your father built, think again.”
I moved behind the desk, opening the top drawer and starting to remove items—his reading glasses, the silver pen set he always used for contract signings, a few yellowed notes scribbled in his handwriting.
I held them carefully. Gently. But I needed them gone. This office wasn’t his anymore. And I didn’t want to feel anything.
“Stop,” she said sharply. “You don’t get to touch his things like you cared.”
I looked up, slowly. “I am his son.”
“You weren’t even at his funeral. What kind of son are you?”
The words hit like a slap.
“I read your speech,” I said flatly. “Very moving. I’m sure the staff appreciated the sentiment.”
Her chin lifted. “They weren’t the only ones.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“Actually,” she said, voice shaking now, “I knew him better than anyone here. Better than you.”
I stared at her for a long moment. I didn’t mean to say it—but it slipped out like a reflex, sharp and cruel and automatic.
“My father’s charity cases don’t interest me.”
She flinched, just barely, like I’d struck something beneath the skin. But she didn’t back down.
“Well,” she said, voice cold and steady. “That’s a shame. Because you’re walking into a company built by one of the smartest men I’ve ever met—and supported by the people you’re so quick to insult.”
I returned to the drawer, placing the last of Richard’s keepsakes into the box. “This company is mine now. His name is on the building. Mine’s on the paperwork.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
“Luckily, entitlement doesn’t require your endorsement.”
She stepped closer, her voice low now. “If you think you can waltz in after six years, treat this company like a hostile takeover, and expect everyone to kiss your ring—you’re in for a rude awakening, Mr. Wayne.”
“I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make money. If that offends your delicate office morale, you’re welcome to look for employment somewhere else.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t speak again.
Smart girl.