I'm eight years old, and I'm the grown-up now.
The memory releases me like a hand letting go, and I'm back in my apartment, gasping for air that tastes like tears and terror. Garrett's face swims into focus, his expression painted with a kind of devastated understanding that makes me want to crawl into his arms and never come out.
"She sat there for three days," I whisper, my voice broken and raw. "Three days on that kitchen floor, and I had to... I had to do everything. Make my own meals, get myself readyfor school, forge her signature on permission slips. I learned to pay bills before I learned long division."
Garrett doesn't speak. Doesn't try to fix it or explain it away. He just moves closer, slowly, giving me time to object, careful not to spook me. When his arms come around me, they're cautious. Gentle. Not trying to trap me, just offering shelter.
"I'm sorry," he says into my hair, and the simple words carry more weight than any grand gesture. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."
I break apart completely then, sobbing against his chest while he holds me through the storm. It feels like drowning and breathing at the same time—terrifying and necessary and somehow safe, even in the middle of falling apart.
"She gave up everything," I gasp between sobs. "Her job, her friends, her whole identity. All for a man who decided she wasn't worth staying for. And when he left, she had nothing.Wasnothing. I watched her disappear, and I swore... I swore I'd never need anyone that much."
"But you're not her," Garrett says quietly, his hands moving in slow, soothing circles on my back. "You're not disappearing, Sloane. You're fighting."
The words sink in slowly, a quiet balm settling over the raw panic. I pull back just enough to look at him, this man who's seen me at my most broken and hasn't run. Who's offering to sacrifice himself to keep me safe.
"Easton thinks he's protecting me," I whisper, the pieces starting to shift in my mind. "But it feels like... it feels like being eight years old again. Being told I can't trust my own judgment. That I'll make the same mistakes she did."
Garrett nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "What if he's wrong? What if..." I take a shaky breath, thestrategist in me stirring faintly, a familiar gear clicking back into place. "What if this isn't about protecting me at all? What if it's about controlling me? Keeping me small and manageable and grateful?"
"What do you think?" he asks, and there's something in his voice—not pushing, not directing, just... opening space for me to find my own way.
I think about the way Easton looked at me tonight. The disappointment. The assumption that I couldn't handle the consequences of my own choices. The way he talked about me like I was a problem to be solved instead of a person making her own decisions.
"I think..." My voice grows steadier, stronger. "I think I've been playing defense my whole life. Trying to prove I'm not her, trying to show I can handle everything alone. But maybe that's not strength. Maybe that's just another kind of cage."
Garrett's thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize was still falling. "So what's the play?"
The question unlocks something in me—not a sudden transformation, but a gradual straightening of my spine. A slow return to myself. The woman who built impossible campaigns from nothing. Who turned crisis into opportunity.
"The play is that I stop being afraid of becoming my mother," I say, my voice finding its strength. "Because I'm not eight years old anymore. I'm not sitting on a kitchen floor waiting for someone else to fix everything. I'm Sloane fucking McKenzie, and I build solutions."
I step back from his arms, not because I don't want them, but because I need to stand on my own two feet. The tears have stopped, and something sharp and focused has taken their place.
"Easton thinks he's protecting the team by managing me. But what if he's wrong about the threat?" I start to pace, my mind kicking into gear. "What if it was never about us at all?"
Garrett watches me move, a slow smile spreading across his face. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about Vivian's face tonight. The way she looked at us on that balcony." My voice gains speed, sharpening with each word. "That wasn't professional disapproval. That was personal. Like she was seeing something that triggered her."
The strategy crystallizes in my mind, suddenly clean, sharp, and clear. Clean. Sharp. Unbreakable.
"The Northstar presentation," I say, and my voice is steel now. "That's not just about getting a sponsorship deal. That's about proving I'm not a liability to be managed. I'm an asset they can't afford to lose."
Garrett nods slowly, his expression shifting to match my intensity. "What do you need?"
I look at him—really look—and see not the man who tried to save me tonight, but the man who's willing to stand beside me while I save myself. The difference is everything.
"I need you to trust me," I say. "And I need you to let me win this my way."
"Done," he says without hesitation. "What else?"
The fear is still there, but it's transformed into something useful. Something powerful. Fuel for the fight ahead.
"The Northstar presentation." My words move fast now, energized. "If I don’t just win it, but dominate—if I make myselfundeniablyvaluable—Vivian won’t be able to touch me. Once the deal is inked, she’ll be too focused on execution to worry about my personal life."
My voice is steadier with every word.
