“Pretend. In here—with just us—we don’t have to pretend we’re nothing to each other.”
Her expression falters. I catch it. The flicker of something real.
Then the vulnerability vanishes, and her expression goes cool and unreadable.
“We have to pretendeverywhere,” she says quietly. “That’s what we agreed.”
“And what if I don’t want to pretend anymore?”
The question hangs in the air like a live wire. She looks at me. Really looks. And I see the war happening behind her eyes.
“Garrett…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You know why we can’t.”
I do. Vivian. Easton. The team’s rules. Her whole career.
I know. I understand.
But understanding doesn’t make it hurt less.
“Right,” I say. “Professional.”
She nods—but her fingers shake as she reaches for her tablet. “I’ll send the content calendar. We should schedule weekly check-ins.”
“Sure.”
The meeting ends ten minutes later with bullet points and deadlines.
She gathers her things. I want to say something—anything—that breaks the pattern. But I can’t.
She pauses at the door.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“This is worth it.” Her voice is soft. Certain. “What we have. It’s worth protecting.”
Then she’s gone.
And I’m left alone in a room full of silence and the crushing realization that protecting something shouldn’t feel this much like losing it.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes now and then—team updates, social pings. None of them are the one I want.
The loft feels too big. Too quiet. The absence of her is everywhere.
Three floors below, traffic moves through downtown Minneapolis. Headlights sketch brief patterns across my walls before disappearing again. People out there are living normal lives. Laughing in restaurants. Holding hands without consequence. Loving without fear.
My mind drifts—Emma.And I taste the bitterness rising in my throat.
It’s not a fair comparison. What I have with Sloane is real.
But the shadows are familiar.
“You never talk about us,” Emma had said during one of our final arguments. “It’s like you’re ashamed of me. Of this.”
She wasn’t wrong. I was ashamed—not of her. But of what we’d become. The public show. The scrutiny. The performative affection. She fed off the spotlight. I withered.
