Caleb didn't move. He watched her—this whirlwind in a designer suit—invading his sanctuary of dust and silence. She was looking at the jagged holes in the ceiling as if they were stars, not structural failures.
"You have five minutes, Sloane," Caleb said, his voice cutting through her daydreaming. "Then I'm locking the gates. With or without you inside."
Sloane turned, a sharp smile playing on her lips. She didn't look intimidated; she looked amused. "You're as charming as the rumors said, Caleb. Tell me, do you treat all your potential saviors like trespassers?"
"I don't need saving," he countered, stepping closer. The light caught the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the exhaustion he tried so hard to hide. "And this building... it's not a 'project' for your portfolio. It's a liability. One wrong step, and the ballroom floor becomes your mahogany coffin."
Sloane took that step anyway. She walked right into his personal space, her perfume swirling around him, mocking the scent of decay. "Then show me where to step. Or are you afraid I'll find something you've spent years trying to hide?"
Her eyes were searching his, looking for a crack in the stone wall he called a personality. For a second, the air between them grew thin. Caleb could hear the building groan, the old wood settling, but all he could focus on was the steady, fearless rhythm of her breathing.
"The blueprints," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the rolls of paper on the table. "I know you have the originals. The ones your father drew before the accident."
Caleb's jaw tightened. The mention of his father was a physical blow, one he hadn't prepared for. He grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. "Leave. Now."
"Not until I have your signature," Sloane said, pulling a leather-bound contract from her bag. "My father wants this demolished for a luxury hotel. I want it restored. I'm the only thing standing between you and a wrecking ball."
Caleb looked at the contract, then back at the woman who seemed convinced she could command the wind. He realized then that Sloane Thorne wasn't just another spoiled heiress. She was a storm. And he was the only one who knew how to build a shelter.
"Sign it," she urged, her voice losing its edge, becoming something softer, more dangerous. "Let's give this ghost a heartbeat again."