Fix this? There is no fixing this. No walking back from what he did to me in that room.
A sharp knock on my door cuts through the destruction.
"Sloane!" Garrett's voice, muffled but unmistakable. "Please, I know you're in there. Your car's in the lot."
I freeze among the wreckage, papers scattered around my feet in pointless disarray.
"Sloane, please. Just let me explain—"
"GO AWAY!" The words tear from my throat, raw and vicious. "I don't want to hear it!"
"I know you're angry—"
"ANGRY?" I'm at the door now, pressing my palms against the wood like I can physically hold him out. "I'm not angry, Garrett. I'm destroyed. Do you understand that? You destroyed me."
"Let me in. Please. Let me apologize properly—"
"No." My voice drops to something cold and final. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up here and make this about your guilt."
But he's still talking through the door, his voice breaking with desperation. "I know I fucked up, but I was trying to show them how proud I was of you. I was fighting for you—"
"FIGHTING FOR ME?" The words explode out of me with enough force to rattle the frame. "I DIDN'T NEED DEFENDING! I needed a partner!"
"I was your partner! I am your partner!"
Something in his tone—the desperate, possessive edge—unlocks my door. Not because I want to let him in, but because I need him to see what he's done. Need him to witness the wreckage.
I tear the door open, and he stumbles back like he's been hit. His eyes go wide as they take me in—tear-streaked, shaking, standing in the doorway of my destroyed apartment.
"Jesus, Sloane—"
"Look at it." My voice is steady now, cold as winter. "Look at what your grand gesture cost me."
He steps inside, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers, the broken ceramic, the chaos that used to be my ordered life. When his eyes meet mine again, they're bright with unshed tears.
"I can fix this," he says, and his words only fuel the fire. "I'll talk to Miller. I'll release a statement explaining that I acted alone, that you had nothing to do with my outburst—"
"Stop." The word is a blade. "Just stop talking."
But he can't stop. Won't stop. "I'll make them understand that you're brilliant, that your presentation was flawless—"
"You still don't get it." I'm backing away from him now, putting distance between us like he's contagious. "You still think this is about the presentation failing. About me getting fired."
His brow furrows, confusion replacing desperation. "Isn't it?"
"No, you fucking moron. It's about what you said. How you said it." I can barely speak past the rage choking me. "You stood up in that room and made my professional competence about your personal feelings. You turned me into someone who needed defending instead of someone who earned respect."
"That's not—I didn't—"
"You did." Each word is deliberate, surgical. "You took my moment—the biggest moment of my career—and you made it about you. About your pride. Your need to be the hero."
He takes a step toward me, hands raised gently, cautiously. "Sloane, that's not how I meant it—"
"It doesn't matter how you meant it!" My voice cracks, sharp and sudden. "What matters is what you did! In front of a room full of executives, you reduced me to someone's girlfriend instead of someone's colleague. You confirmed every sexist assumption they've ever made about me."
The words hang between us, sharp and decisive, and I watch understanding finally dawn in his eyes. But it's too late. Too fucking late.
"I was trying to support you," he whispers, and there's something broken in his voice that makes my chest ache even through the fury.
