The sobs eventually subsided, leaving something cold and hard in their wake. The grief was a fire, and it had burned away everything but the anger. And anger... anger was useful.
31
Sloane
Istand in the wreckage of my apartment, surveying the battlefield like a general calculating casualties.
But I'm not mourning the destruction anymore. The white-hot fury that burned through me during our fight has crystallized into something colder, sharper.
Garrett's footsteps faded down the hallway long ago, but his absence doesn't bring relief. It brings clarity. Pure, brilliant clarity about what needs to happen next.
I step over a scattered stack of quarterly reports and grab my phone from the counter. My fingers don't shake as I scroll through my contacts. The first call is strategy. The second is ammunition.
"Brynn." My voice cuts through her phone's first ring, sharp and commanding. "Get over here. Now. We have work to do."
"Sloane? Jesus, I've been worried sick. I heard about the meeting and—"
"I don't need sympathy. I need your investigative skills and whatever evidence you can gather on Vivian." I pause, letting the weight of purpose settle into my voice. "Bring everything."
There's a beat of silence, then I hear her shift into professional mode. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The second call is harder, but necessary.
"Easton." His name tastes bitter, but I force it out anyway.
"Sloane, thank God. I've been trying to reach you for hours. After what happened in the boardroom, I—"
"Save it." I cut through his guilt like a blade. "Apologies don't rebuild careers. Evidence does. Are you going to help me fight this, or are you going to keep trying to protect me from my own decisions?"
The silence stretches between us, weighted with everything we haven't said since his ultimatum at the gala. When he speaks again, his voice carries the steel of someone choosing sides.
"What do you need?"
"Your moral support and your complete silence about anything I'm planning until I tell you otherwise." I move through my living room, already visualizing the transformation from crime scene to war room. "Get here. Fast."
By the time Brynn's key turns in my lock, I've cleared the coffee table and created a workspace from the wreckage. The papers are stacked by priority—evidence, timelines, financial records. The broken ceramic is swept into a neat pile, waiting for disposal. The chaos of emotion has been organized into something useful.
"Holy shit," Brynn breathes, taking in the apartment. But it's not the destruction that stops her—it's me. Standing in the center of it all, still wearing the navy dress from my corporate execution, but with my shoulders squared and my eyes blazing with purpose instead of tears.
"You look..." She searches for words. "Dangerous."
"Good." I gesture to the cleared table. "Sit. Show me what you have."
Easton arrives five minutes later, moving through the doorway with the cautious energy of someone approaching a wounded predator. He takes in my transformation—from broken woman to battle-ready strategist—and something shifts in his posture. Relief, maybe. Or recognition.
"Sloane—"
"We're not doing emotional processing right now," I cut him off, pointing to the table where Brynn is already spreading documents. "We're doing strategic planning. Feelings are a luxury I can't afford."
Brynn slides a thick manila folder across the coffee table, her expression grim with satisfaction. "I've been building this case for weeks. Ever since that blind item dropped about you, I felt like something was off."
"It's not just a pattern; it's a receipt. TheSin Bin Scoopblind item was sent from a public WiFi hotspot. But look at this..." She points to a line item on a printout. "Vivian's corporate card. A coffee charge from thatexacthotspot, nine minutes before the tip was sent. She wasn't just enjoying the fire, Sloane. She lit the match."
"Do I want to know how you got all of this?" I don't wait for Brynn to answer.
I flip open the folder, and my analytical mind—dormant since the boardroom disaster—roars back to life. Email threads with highlighted timestamps. Financial records showing suspicious budget reallocations. A timeline correlating the anonymous tip with Vivian's calendar entries.
"This isn't just about me," I murmur, scanning the documents with laser focus. "She's done this before."
