I stand frozen in the middle of the glittering ballroom, surrounded by Minneapolis's elite, watching Vivian smile at me with the razor-sharp precision of a predator who's just cornered her prey.
And I finally understand that the threat was never about policy violations or team chemistry or corporate image.
This is personal.
And I've just given her everything she needs to destroy me.
24
Sloane
The sound of my heels on hardwood echoes through my apartment, sharp and jarring in the stillness. Back and forth across the living room, still in this damn navy dress that felt flawless three hours ago and now clings like evidence of my spectacular miscalculation.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Each step drives Easton's ultimatum deeper into my skull.You choose. It's him, or it's your career here. It's him, or it's this family.
"How could he—" I rip the pins from my hair, sending strands cascading over my shoulders. The polished image from tonight unravels, one bobby pin at a time, scattering across the floor in sharp, metallic clinks.
I whirl toward the kitchen where Garrett stands, still and silent. His bow tie hangs loose around his neck, jacket draped casually over a chair, but his eyes—those warm hazel eyes that have become my compass—never leave me as I carve another trench into the rug.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer comfort or platitudes. Just steps into the kitchen with quiet determination, fills a glass with water, and sets it on a coaster in the middle of my path. A subtle act that saysI'm here,without needing to say anything at all.
I ignore it. Spin to face him. Tears sting my tongue, mixing with the last traces of champagne that still coat my throat.
"He'll go to Kowalski. He said it. He’ll ruin everything—my career, yours. Just because..." The words catch in my throat, sharp and painful.Because I fell for you. Because for once, I wanted something that wasn’t part of the plan.
Garrett crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He's not detached—he’s reading the moment like a play unfolding, giving me space to spiral, anchoring me without interfering. The patience of someone who’s been in overtime and knows you can’t force the win.
"Three passes," he says quietly, after my next lap around the coffee table.
"What?"
"You’ve walked past that water three times. Your feet have to be killing you."
They are. These heels made me feel untouchable earlier. Now they’re just punishment. But stopping still feels like surrender.
Garrett moves. No hesitation. He kneels in front of me, smooth and sure. His hands wrap around my ankle, warm and careful, fingers working the strap.
"Garrett, you don’t have to—"
"Shh."
The buckle gives way under his touch. He slips the heel off with a gentleness that almost undoes me. His thumb brushes my arch. My breath catches.
"Other foot."
I rest a hand on his shoulder, off balance in more ways than one. He removes the second heel, and the relief is so immediate it’s disarming—not just physical, but emotional.Someone seeing my pain and easing it without needing to be asked.
When he stands, I’m barefoot and somehow more grounded than I’ve felt all night.
"Whatever you decide," he says, calm and quiet, "I’ll understand. This is your career. Your family. If you need me to leave, I will."
That breaks me.
The adrenaline collapses in a sudden, overwhelming rush, and everything I've been holding back comes flooding out at once. A sob tears from my throat—raw, jagged, the sound of something breaking that can't be put back together. My knees buckle, and I have to grab the back of the couch to keep from falling.
I'm no longer the unshakeable marketing director who can spin anything. I'm just a woman staring into the same abyss that swallowed my mother whole.
