She replayed the kiss in her mind, the memory vivid enough to make her cheeks flush. It had been bold, unrestrained, and entirely outside her realm of experience. And it had left her wanting more.
But that want was dangerous. Wanting led to vulnerability, to losing control. And Catherine Harrington didn’t lose control.
Did she?
She stood, the glass forgotten on the table, and crossed to the mirror hanging above the fireplace. Her reflection stared back at her: immaculate, composed, every strand of hair in place. But her eyes… Her eyes betrayed her.
They weren’t cold tonight. They were searching, questioning, alive in a way she didn’t entirely recognize.
“What am I doing?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.
The question lingered, heavy and unanswered. Catherine reached out, her fingertips brushing against the smooth glass of the mirror as if trying to find something in the reflection that wasn’t there.
She stepped back, her hand falling to her side. The doubt remained, but so did the spark, small but undeniable, like a flame refusing to be extinguished.
Sloane’s voice echoed in her mind: “Prove it.”
Catherine squared her shoulders, her gaze hardening as she turned away from the mirror.
She didn’t know what she was doing. But for the first time in a long while, she was willing to find out.
6
SLOANE
The studio was alive with color. Light poured through the oversized windows, catching on the mosaic of paint splatters that had long since claimed the floor. Sloane sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, a blank canvas before her and a vivid swirl of red and gold dancing on her brush.
Her thoughts whirled, every one of them tracing back to Catherine Harrington. Her sharp blue eyes, colder than steel. That measured, deliberate way she spoke. And yet, the kiss—Catherine had let go, just for a moment, and it had been enough to set Sloane’s thoughts racing.
“She’s not the kind of woman you text,” Sloane muttered to herself, dipping her brush into the paint. “She’s the kind of woman you challenge.”
The canvas began to take shape under her hands, bold strokes of red clashing against golden streaks. The piece was messy yet deliberate, a reflection of what Sloane saw in Catherine, a battle between restraint and raw emotion.
As the painting came to life, so did Sloane’s plan. Texting was too impersonal, but showing up at the hospital again wouldrisk being predictable. She needed something unexpected, something that would make Catherine stop, think, and feel.
When the paint dried, Sloane reached for a simple wooden frame. She secured the painting carefully, then flipped it over to attach her note.
On the back of the frame, she taped a handwritten note:
“Dr. Harrington, you accepted one dare. I wonder if you’re brave enough to accept another. Scan the code.”
Next to the note, she affixed a small QR code. Hours earlier, she’d created a simple, elegant landing page. When scanned, it revealed a message with an address underneath:
“Tomorrow, 7 p.m. Let’s see what happens when you stop playing it safe. – Sloane”
Sloane glanced at the clock. Too late for a personal drop-off; besides, she didn’t want Catherine to feel cornered. She called her favorite courier service, explaining the importance of the delivery. “Straight to her office. No stops, no delays. Can you do that?”
The courier confirmed, and Sloane handed over the package, her heart racing as the door clicked shut behind them.
“She’ll get it,” Sloane whispered to herself, brushing her hands against her jeans. “Now, let’s see what she does with it.”
The rooftop restaurant was a perfect blend of vibrant charm and intimate elegance. Perched high above the city, the space offered sweeping views of glittering skyscrapers and streets below, barely audible beneath the gentle buzz of conversation and the soft strains of live music. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a golden glow over tables adorned with flickering candles and minimalist floral arrangements.
Sloane had chosen the venue deliberately. It was a space that reflected her, a mix of energy and warmth with an edge of unpredictability. She wanted Catherine to feel both drawn in and slightly off balance, intrigued by the setting as much as by Sloane herself.
She had specifically reserved a table at the edge of the terrace, where the city’s lights would frame their evening like a backdrop from a movie.
Sloane stepped onto the terrace, her tailored jacket catching the light as she adjusted her silk scarf. It was bright, electric blue with streaks of gold, a subtle nod to the painting she had sent Catherine.
