“Sloane Bennett.”
She said it clearly, loudly. Let the whole damn hospital know.
Sloane stepped aside as the nurse made the page, her heart thumping hard now, adrenaline curling tight in her chest. She leaned back against the wall and slid her hands into her coat pockets, watching the elevator numbers climb and fall.
She’s not coming, a voice in her head whispered.
She is,another voice snapped.Because if she doesn’t, that’s your answer. And you deserve an answer.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, her jaw tight. Her nails dug into the soft lining of her pocket. The lobby was too bright, the air too cold, the world too loud and too quiet all at once.
Then she heard it, familiar heels on tile. Catherine.
Her silhouette emerged from around the corner, tall and pristine in pale blue scrubs. Her hair was pulled back in a severe twist, not a strand out of place. She moved like a blade—sharp, direct, beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
Sloane’s pulse jumped.
Catherine’s face was unreadable as she approached. Not cold, not yet, but guarded. Sloane had seen that expression once before, in a gallery visitor staring too long at a piece they didn’t want to admit moved them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Catherine said, stopping a few feet away.
Sloane took a slow breath. “We need to talk.”
“I’m working.”
“You can spare five minutes.”
Catherine’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Sloane.”
“No art delivery,” Sloane interrupted. “No excuse. Just me.”
A long beat passed.
Catherine scanned the lobby like she was calculating the cost of this scene. There were people watching—nurses, patients, staff—but Sloane stood still. She wasn’t moving until Catherine looked her in the eyes.
Another beat. Then Catherine turned.
“Follow me.”
Sloane did.
They walked in silence, Catherine leading with crisp precision, Sloane following with controlled fire in her veins. The hallways narrowed. The buzz of hospital life faded behind them. They passed through a set of staff-only doors, the kind Sloane probably wasn’t supposed to be behind, and stepped into a side stairwell.
Catherine turned around, folding her arms like armor. “Say what you came to say.”
Sloane stared at her for a second.
God, she was beautiful. Even now, even like this. But she looked like a stranger. Or maybe not a stranger, a woman retreating into a version of herself that Sloane no longer recognized.
Sloane let the silence stretch just long enough to hurt.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she said finally.
Catherine didn’t move.
“I let you in,” Sloane continued. “Not just once. Not for a night. I’ve let you in over and over again. And every time I do, you pull away. You disappear. And I’m left trying to decide if I imagined any of it.”
Catherine’s throat moved, but she didn’t speak.
