My stomach drops. My car. I'd been in such a rush to get inside, distracted by thoughts of Sloane, that I hadn’t stopped to consider the impact of parking in a non-spot.
"That's mine," I hear myself say. "I didn't realize?—"
"Of course you didn't." Sloane's voice could cut glass. "Why would you notice something like accessibility when it doesn't affect you?"
Tim's expression shifts from concern to clear disapproval as he looks at me. "Tucker. Move your car. Now."
"I will, I just?—"
"Now," Tim repeats, his tone brooking no argument. He turns back to Mel with an apologetic smile. "Ms. Ortega, I'm deeply sorry about this. Let me assure you that Stag Law takes accessibility seriously, even if my nephew apparently doesn't."
The rebuke lands like a slap. Mel looks uncomfortable, clearly not wanting to be in the middle of this.
"It's fine," she says diplomatically. "These things happen."
"They shouldn't," Sloane says firmly. "Not at a law firm that claims to prioritize diversity and inclusion."
"You're absolutely right," Tim says. "Tucker—car. Now. Then we'll finish your contract discussion tomorrow when you've had time to think about how your actions affect others."
He's dismissing me. Uncle Tim, who's always had my back, who's negotiated every major deal in my career, is sending me away in front of Sloane like I'm a kid who got caught spray-painting the garage. And he’s right to do it.
Who the fuck have I become?
"I'm sorry," I say, looking at Mel. "I wasn't thinking. I was distracted and I just—I'm sorry."
Mel nods, gracious despite everything. "Apology accepted."
But it's not Mel's acceptance I'm desperate for. I turn to Sloane, who's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—anger, yes, but also something that might be vindication.
"Sloane—"
"Spare me," she says flatly.
Tim is already guiding Mel toward the conference room, and Sloane moves to follow them, but I step into her path.
"Please. Just five minutes after I move the car."
"So, you can explain how you're actually a really considerate person who just happened to block a wheelchair accessibleentrance?" Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Or were you going to explain how you don't actually think before you act?”
The accusation stings more because there's truth in it. I didn't think. I was so wrapped up in my own problems, my own desire to figure out how to reach her, that I didn't consider how my parking might affect someone else.
I sent her unreturned messages after she left me with a very clear message.
She thinks everything about Tucker Stag is bad news. And I keep proving her theory.
"You're right," I say. "I fucked up. I should have paid attention. I'm sorry."
"Great. Apology noted. Now move your car."
She tries to step around me, but I shift slightly, not blocking her but making her acknowledge me.
"I really want to talk to you,” I say quietly, aware that Donna is absolutely listening to every word of this. "I know how it looks, but I swear to you, I just want to talk.”
Something flickers in her eyes—doubt, maybe, or the beginning of belief. But then her expression hardens again.
"It doesn't matter."
"How can it not matter?"
