When the rumors started—her and Derek —I said nothing. I thought silence was dignity. Turned out, silence was complicity.
“He never fought for me,” she told the reporter who broke the story. “When things got difficult, he just shut down. Made me feel like I was bothering him by existing.”
The words had gutted me because underneath the manipulation and the lies, there was a grain of truth. I hadn't fought for her. Not publicly. Not when it mattered.
And now here I am, making the same mistake with a woman who actually deserves fighting for.
I open our thread.
Sloane
Good meeting today. Sleep well.
Clean. Safe. Sanitized.
I type:
I miss you.
Delete.This is killing me.Delete.
Finally, I settle on:
You too.
The dots appear. Vanish. Appear again.
She’s typing. Deleting. Typing again.
Sloane
Sweet dreams, Tank.
The nickname cuts through me. Private. Tender. But distant.
It feels like a breadcrumb. Just enough to keep me going.
I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling.
The memory of her face in that conference room returns—when I asked what if I didn’t want to pretend anymore. That flicker of hope. That moment wheremaybe…
Then reality returned.
She’s protecting her career. I respect it.
But every day we spend hiding feels like a slow erasure. Like I’m asking her to be ashamed of the best thing we’ve built.
Emma’s words echo in the dark.
He never fought for me.
I push them away.
But I don’t sleep.
18
Sloane
