“She’s not texting back. She’s not calling. She hasn’t even looked at my last message.”
“Because she’s terrified,” Dani said. “You saw it in her. You know she doesn’t do this. You cracked something open.”
“And she slammed it shut again,” Sloane whispered.
They sat in silence for a moment. The coffee cooled. The studio smelled like linseed oil and regret.
Then, slowly, Sloane stood.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not going to let her ghost me out of something that mattered.”
Dani tilted her head. “What are you gonna do?”
Sloane walked to the sink, washed the black paint off her hands, and looked at her reflection in the studio window. Her eyes were bright and focused.
“She wants to push me away?” she murmured. “Fine. But she’s going to have to say it to my face.”
Dani gave a low whistle. “Oof. She’s not ready for Hurricane Sloane.”
Sloane grabbed her jacket and her keys. “Too bad. I’m done waiting.”
And with that, she walked out, the sound of her boots echoing on the concrete floor like punctuation.
The decision was made.
If Catherine was going to cut her loose, she was going to have to own it. Because Sloane Bennett? She wasn’t walking away quietly. Not from this. Not from her.
The hospital towered above her like some sterile fortress, glass panels glinting coldly in the late afternoon light. Sloane stood across the street from it, her arms folded tight across her chest,the breeze whipping her loose curls around her face. She didn’t move. Not yet. Not until she’d told herself, again, that this was worth it.
“This is probably a mistake,” she muttered under her breath.
But she didn’t turn around.
Instead, she crossed the street.
The lobby was all polished stone and disinfected air, too bright and too quiet in that particular way hospitals always were, like the whole building held its breath while life and death passed each other in the hallways. Sloane hated that stillness, the way it made her feel like she didn’t belong. But she didn’t hesitate. Not this time.
She was dressed in black jeans and a moss green coat that flared when she walked, boots clicking steadily against the marble floors. Her earrings, little gold crescent moons, gleamed beneath her curls. Her eyes, lined with dark kohl, gave her the look of someone who had decided she was done being ignored.
Every step felt like defiance.
She’d painted until two in the morning the night before, rage-streaked abstracts, her hands aching from holding the brush too tight. Catherine had been in her head, and now she was going to get out. Or stay. But this in-between? This limbo of silence and second-guessing? No more.
She walked straight up to the main reception desk, her posture straight and voice cool.
“Hi,” she said. “I need to speak to Dr. Catherine Harrington.”
The nurse looked up, blinking, polite but cautious. Sloane could practically see the mental file flick open: artist, flirt, previously loitered near the pediatric ward, maybe dating one of the doctors?
“Is she expecting you?” the nurse asked.
“No,” Sloane replied calmly. “But I’m not leaving until she sees me.”
The nurse hesitated. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Just page her,” Sloane said. Her voice hadn’t risen, but something in it turned sharp, like a warning wrapped in velvet. “Please.”
The nurse pressed a button. “Name?”
