The realization crashes over me like a freight train, stealing every molecule of air from my lungs.
I didn't support her. I claimed her. In front of a room full of executives, I made her professional triumph about our personal relationship. I took the most important moment of her career and turned it into a public declaration of ownership.
I painted her as my girlfriend instead of their colleague.
I confirmed every bias in that room. Every assumption they'd ever made about women in sports marketing. Every whispered suspicion that she was sleeping her way to success instead of earning it.
My legs give out. I sink onto the couch, head in my hands, as the full scope of my betrayal becomes clear.
She didn't need defending. She was winning. She had them convinced, ready to sign, ready to see her as the brilliant strategist she is. And I stood up and reduced her to someone's girlfriend who needed a man to vouch for her competence.
"You still think this is about the presentation failing,"she'd said to me."It's about what you said. How you said it. You stood up in that room and made my professional competence about your personal feelings."
She was right. God, she was so right it makes my chest ache.
"You turned me into someone who needed defending instead of someone who earned respect."
The words echo in my skull like a puck ricocheting off the glass. Over and over until I want to put my fist through something just to make it stop.
I think about Emma. About the accusations that haunted our final fights.
"You never fight for me. When things get difficult, you just shut down. Made me feel like I was bothering you by existing."
So when it mattered—when Sloane needed me to trust her competence—I overcorrected. I fought. But I fought wrong. Loud. Public. Possessive. I made her achievement about my pride instead of her brilliance.
I let Emma walk away because I was afraid to be seen fighting for her.
And I destroyed Sloane because I needed to be seen fighting for her.
I'm still a coward. Just a different kind than I was three years ago.
The truth is a blade in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I didn't lose Sloane because I failed to protect her. I lost her because I failed to see her. Really see her. As the competent, brilliant, fierce woman who didn't need protection—she needed partnership.
I stand, moving toward my office with sudden purpose. On the wall hangs my contract, framed like a trophy. Eight years, sixty-four million dollars. My leverage. My value to this organization.
I take it down, heavy in my hands. The weight of it feels different now. Not like an achievement, but like a weapon.
I remove the document, fold it carefully, and place it in my briefcase next to my laptop. The gesture feels ceremonial. A declaration.
But not the kind I would have made a week ago. Not a grand gesture to save the day. Something else. Something that requires me to swallow every instinct that's led me wrong so far.
I pull out my phone and text the last person who wants to hear from me.
Need to talk. About Sloane. Name the place.
Nothing for ten minutes. Then:
Easton
Why.
I stare at the screen. Type. Delete. Type again.
Because I need to fix this and I can't do it without you.
Another long pause.
Moose Tavern. 9pm.
