I can still see her—sharp blazers, designer heels, commanding every room she entered. Sarah who taught me that data was just storytelling with numbers. Sarah who showed me how to turn passion into profit margins.
"She fell in love with a player. Jason Pruitt. They kept it quiet, but someone got photos. Posted them on social media with captions about conflicts of interest and professional ethics."
My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against the cool glass, watching my reflection fracture in the curved surface of the bottles.
"The team fired her within a week. Said it was about 'maintaining professional standards' and 'avoiding appearance of impropriety.'" I can't look at him. Can't see whatever expression is on his face.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with understanding and something else—something that feels like barely leashed fury.
"What happened to her?" His voice is rough, carefully controlled.
"She moved to Portland. Works for a minor league baseball team now, making a quarter of what she used to earn. Jason got traded to Chicago the next season—never missed a paycheck." The words felt thick and wrong. "She lost everything. He lost nothing. That's the rule here—for women, ambition and love are mutually exclusive."
I hear him move, feel the air displace as he steps closer. When I finally risk a glance in the reflection, he's right behind me, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at my nape.
"Sloane." His voice is low, intense, vibrating with conviction. "I'm not him."
The words hit like a physical blow. A vow. A line drawn in stone.
Slowly, I turn to face him. The space between us is nothing now—inches that feel like miles and millimeters all at once. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
He reaches up, fingertips barely grazing my jaw. The touch is soft, reverent, asking permission with every careful movement. But there's fire behind it—not conquest, but protection. Not possession, but promise.
"And you," he says, voice rough with emotion, "arenot her."
"How can you be so sure?" The question comes out as barely more than breath.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch. "Because everything you said about Sarah was about what she lost. But everything I see in you is what you build."
The words unlock something in my chest. My mind flashes to the dinner—the slides, the strategy, the confidence I wore like armor. The way I commanded that room, turned skeptics into believers with nothing but data and conviction.
"What you did out there tonight?" His voice drops even lower, more intimate. "That's yours. You didn't inherit it or sleep your way into it. You earned every ounce of respect in that room. And no one—no one—can take that from you."
His other hand comes up to frame my face, and suddenly I'm trapped between his body and the wine case, caught in the gravity of his attention. The air between us crackles with electricity.
"I've watched you turn impossible situations into victories. I've seen you rebuild trust that other people destroyed. The last thing I want is to dim that fire." His voice is barely above a whisper now, intimate as a confession. "I want to see what happens when someone finally fans it instead of trying to contain it."
Something inside me cracks wide open. My hand moves without permission, settling on his chest where I can feel his heartbeat racing beneath expensive cotton. His sharp intake of breath echoes in the small space.
"Garrett..." I start, but I don't know how to finish. Don't know if I'm warning him away or pulling him closer.
He leans down, and I tip my face up, and for one perfect, terrifying moment we're suspended in the space betweenwanting and having. His lips are a breath away from mine, his hands warm on my skin, and every rational thought in my head is dissolving like smoke.
Then footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted. My back hits the wine case hard enough to rattle bottles, and Garrett stumbles backward, running a shaking hand through his hair. The spell breaks so suddenly it leaves me dizzy.
The footsteps pass without stopping, but the damage is done. Reality crashes back like ice water. We stare at each other across the narrow space, both breathing hard, both perfectly aware of how close we just came to crossing a line we can't uncross.
"We should..." I start, then trail off because I don't know how to finish that sentence either.
"Yeah." His voice is rougher than gravel. "We should."
But neither of us moves toward the door.
Instead, I watch him straighten his tie with unsteady fingers, watch him rebuild the corporate mask that slipped so dangerously. When his eyes meet mine again, they're full of heat and promise and something that looks like determination.
"This isn't over, Sloane." The words are quiet, certain, carrying the weight of inevitability.
