The shift from the sterile, fluorescent lighting of Sterling & Cross to the dim, cramped reality of Unit 4B was always jarring. In the office, they were titans. Here, they were just two people tripping over each other's shoes
The rain started just as Sloane stepped off the subway, a cold New York drizzle that threatened to ruin her suede heels. By the time she reached the fourth floor and fumbled with the crooked '4' on the door, she was shivering.
The apartment was dark, save for the blue light of a laptop screen. Arthur was sitting on the floor, his back against the built-in daybed, surrounded by a fortress of spreadsheets and legal pads. He hadn't even taken off his dress shirt, though the sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked unexpectedly rugged for someone who spent his life behind a desk.
He didn't look up when she entered. "You're late. The 7:15 call must have run long."
"The subway stalled at 42nd Street," Sloane said, shedding her damp blazer. She hesitated, looking at the back of his head. The buttery taste of the croissant was still a lingering memory, a heavy weight on her conscience. "I found my wallet. It was under the daybed."
Arthur's typing stopped. He leaned his head back against the wood, looking up at the ceiling. "Good. Then you can pay your debts. I believe we agreed on fifteen percent interest."
Sloane walked into the tiny kitchen area, which was really just a two-foot stretch of counter. She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet and set it on the edge of the counter near him. "Consider the interest paid. And... thank you, Arthur. For the 'accidental' extra."
Arthur finally looked at her. The blue light of the laptop cast sharp shadows across his face, making him look older, more tired. "Don't thank me, Sterling. I told you—I don't win by default. If you'd fainted, the boss would have handed the project to Miller, and Miller is an idiot. I need you in the game so I can prove I'm better than the best."
Sloane felt the familiar spark of irritation, but it was tempered by the fact that he looked exhausted. She noticed a single cup of instant noodles sitting unopened next to him.
"Is that your dinner?" she asked, gesturing to the cup.
"It's efficient," he replied, turning back to his screen.
"It's depressing," Sloane countered. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small box of high-quality pasta and a jar of sauce she'd grabbed on the way home. It was a splurge, but she felt she owed him more than just ten dollars. "Move your spreadsheets. I'm making something real."
"We don't have a table, Sloane."
"Then we'll use the floor. Move."
Arthur grumbled but cleared a space. As Sloane boiled the water on the ancient two-burner stove, the small room began to heat up. The steam from the pot and the scent of garlic and basil began to fill the 400-square-foot space, masking the smell of dust and old paint.
Because the kitchen was so small, Sloane had to stand right next to Arthur's legs to reach the stove. Every time she moved to stir the pasta, her hip brushed against his shoulder. The air in the room felt thick—not just with steam, but with the sudden, uncomfortable realization of how little space actually stood between them.
"You're hovering," Arthur muttered, though he didn't move away.
"I'm cooking. If you want to eat, stay still," Sloane retorted.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, two mismatched bowls of pasta between them. For a long time, the only sound was the clinking of forks and the rain drumming against the window.
"My father used to say that a Sterling never eats off the floor," Sloane said quietly, staring into her bowl.
Arthur paused, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. "Is that why you're so obsessed with the promotion? To prove him right? Or to prove him wrong?"
Sloane looked at him, surprised by the directness of the question. "My father hasn't spoken to the 'Main' Sterlings in twenty years. To them, we're a mistake. To him, we're royalty in exile. I'm just trying to be... me. Without the labels."
Arthur studied her for a moment, his gaze softening in a way she'd never seen at the office. "People think I have it easy because the partners like my 'story.' They don't see the four years I spent sleeping in a library because I couldn't afford a dorm. We're both fighting ghosts, Sloane. Mine just happen to be poorer than yours."
He reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the floor. For a split second, Sloane thought he might touch her hand—a gesture of truce, or something more.
But then, his phone buzzed. A sharp, piercing sound that shattered the moment.
Arthur snapped back into "Corporate Mode" instantly. He grabbed the phone, his face hardening as he read the email.
"It's the Boss," Arthur said, his voice cold again. "The 'performance trial' just moved up. We're being sent to the Hamptons this weekend to handle the Sterling family's private charity gala. Together."
Sloane's heart dropped. The Hamptons. The Sterling Gala. It was the lion's den.
"Together?" she whispered.
"As a team," Arthur said, looking at her with a mix of dread and renewed competition. "If we mess this up, we're both out. If we succeed, only one of us gets the credit."
He stood up, the moment of warmth on the floor completely gone. He picked up his bowl and walked to the sink.
"Get some sleep, Sloane. Tomorrow, we start prepping. And remember—no one at that gala can know we even share a zip code, let alone a dinner."
Sloane stayed on the floor, the coldness of the room returning. She looked at the ten-dollar bill still sitting on the counter.
The "Apartment Rules" were about to face their biggest test. Because in the Hamptons, under the eyes of the real Sterlings, secrets had a way of coming to light.