But the moment she stepped inside, something made her pause.
There, on her desk, was a single folded piece of paper.
Catherine frowned. She had locked her office before heading to surgery. No one should have been able to get in here.
She stepped forward cautiously, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she reached for the note. The paper was thick, textured beneath her fingertips, and when she unfolded it, a familiar scrawl met her eyes.
Dr. Harrington,
I figured you’d need another distraction by now. Meet me at the gallery tonight.
If you’re not too busy being important.
– Sloane
Catherine forcefully exhaled, equal parts amused and annoyed.
Her fingers traced over the ink, running absently along the loops of Sloane’s handwriting.
A distraction.
She should toss it in the trash. She should ignore it entirely, go home, get some sleep, and pretend like this wasn’t happening.
But she didn’t move.
Instead, she let herself read the note again, slower this time, letting the familiar warmth settle in her chest.
Sloane had somehow gotten inside her office. The woman was infuriatingly persistent, impossible to ignore, and slipping into her life as easily as if she belonged there.
And the worst part? Catherine wasn’t sure she minded.
She sank into her chair, the exhaustion from the day catching up with her, but for the first time in hours, she felt something other than frustration.
She felt…lighter.
The realization made her grip tighten on the note, like holding onto it might keep that feeling in place.
The day had been nothing but back-to-back deadlines and expectations. And then, in the middle of it all, this. A piece of Sloane left behind for her to find.
A challenge. An invitation.
She knew she shouldn’t go.
She knew shewould.
Catherine let out a breath, shaking her head at herself.
Finally, for the first time, she let herself admit the truth.
She wanted to see her.
The gallery was dimly lit, the warm glow from scattered spotlights casting long shadows against the exposed brick walls. The scent of paint and varnish lingered in the air, mingling with something distinctly Sloane, a mix of jasmine, ink, and that wild, untamed energy she carried everywhere she went.
Catherine stepped inside, her footsteps nearly silent against the polished concrete floor. The space was quiet and intimate, the usual buzz of patrons and art lovers absent.
And then she saw her.
Sloane stood near the center of the gallery, her back turned, stretching a fresh canvas onto a large frame. The fabric tensed beneath her hands, her movements slow and smooth. A streak of charcoal smudged her forearm, and the way her dark rust colored curls tumbled loosely over her shoulders gave her an almost untouchable quality, like something out of a painting herself.
