The knock comes again. Three sharp raps that carry a desperation I recognize even through reinforced steel and my own denial.
I close my laptop with deliberate quiet, and the screen's glow dies abruptly. My bare feet are silent against the hardwood as I cross to the door, each step measured, controlled. My hand hovers over the deadbolt for a moment—one final chance to pretend this isn't happening.
I open the door.
Garrett Sullivan stands in my hallway, and he looks like hell.
His dark hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that suggests he's been running his hands through it for hours. He's wearing a simple gray Henley, but it's rumpled, and he looks utterly drained. There are shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights and something that looks suspiciously like tears.
But his eyes—those hazel eyes that once made me believe in fairy tales—are clear. Determined. Burning with a purpose that sends an unwelcome jolt through my carefully constructed armor.
"Sloane." My name falls from his lips, rough with emotion I don't want to hear.
The old pain flashes through me, sharp and immediate—the memory of our fight, the sound of ceramic shattering against my wall, the look on his face when I told him to leave. But I push it down, beneath the careful composure that has kept me functional for the past four days.
"What do you want, Garrett?" My voice is arctic, professional. The tone I reserve for difficult clients.
He doesn't try to push past me, doesn't use his considerable size to intimidate or cajole. Instead, he takes a small step back, giving me space I didn't ask for but somehow needed.
"Could I talk to you for a moment?" The request is careful, respectful. A man asking permission instead of assuming access. "Please?"
The please almost undoes me. Almost. But I've had four days to perfect this armor, and I wear it like a second skin now.
I step aside just enough to let him enter, but I don't move far. Let him feel cornered in my space the way he cornered me in that boardroom with his grand gesture. Let him understand what it feels like to be trapped by someone else's definition of help.
He steps inside and stops, his presence immediately making my apartment feel smaller. But he doesn't prowl or pace or command the room the way he did before. He stands very still, hands loose at his sides, watching me with an expression I've never seen before.
Uncertainty. Humility. The confidence that once drew me in completely.
"I need to apologize to you," he says, and something in his tone makes me go very still. "And I need to do it right this time."
"I'm listening." The words come out clipped, businesslike. I cross my arms over my chest, a barrier that feels inadequate against whatever's coming.
He takes a sharp breath, then meets my eyes with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
"I didn't see you in that boardroom," he says, each word deliberate and weighted with self-recrimination. "I saw someone I needed to save. Someone whose victory belonged to me because I cared about it. Because I loved you."
My composure cracks, just slightly. This isn't the defensive justification I expected. This is something else entirely.
"My 'help' wasn't about supporting you," he continues, voice gains strength even as emotion roughens the edges. "It was about me. About my need to matter in your success. I erased your competence because I needed to be the hero of your story."
The crack widens. I can feel the careful distance I've maintained starting to erode, and I fight to hold it in place.
"I didn't respect you as an equal in that moment," he says, and now his voice is barely above a whisper. "I respected you as someone I loved. Someone I was proud of. Someone who reflected well on me. And that was my failure, Sloane. Not the outcome—the perspective."
The words land precisely, each one striking at the core of my anger. Because this—this acknowledgment of the real betrayal—is what I never expected to hear. Not from him. Not from anyone.
"I understand now," he continues, and I can see the cost of this honesty in the tension around his eyes. "You didn't need defending. You were magnificent. You had them convinced, ready to sign, ready to see you as the brilliant strategist youare. And I stood up and reduced you to someone's girlfriend who needed a man to vouch for her competence."
My throat constricts. The analytical part of my brain—the part that's kept me functional through crisis after crisis—recognizes truth when it hears it. This isn't manipulation or practiced contrition. This is genuine understanding of a mistake he didn't even know he was making.
"You turned me into exactly what I've spent my life proving I'm not," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Yes." The admission is immediate, unflinching. "And I'm sorry doesn't begin to cover what I took from you. Your moment. Your victory. Your professional identity."
He takes a step closer, then stops himself, hands clenching at his sides like he's fighting every instinct he has.
"But I'm not here to ask for forgiveness," he says, and something in his tone makes my pulse spike. "I'm here to offer you something."
