Then, in a voice still thick with sleep, she murmured, “You’re still here.”
Sloane smiled into her hair and whispered back, “So are you.”
They didn’t say anything else. There was no need.
They stayed like that, wrapped in cotton and color and breath and quiet, for just a little longer.
15
CATHERINE
The sunlight streamed through the thin slats of Catherine’s blinds, striping the polished wooden floor of her bedroom with stark lines of gold. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright intrusion. Her gaze instinctively drifted to the empty space beside her, and she allowed herself a quiet moment to acknowledge the dull, unexpected ache of finding Sloane gone.
She stretched beneath the sheets, her fingertips brushing against the cool fabric on Sloane’s side. For a brief, indulgent moment, Catherine imagined Sloane’s warmth lingering there, imagined her voice murmuring sleepy, teasing words into the crook of her neck. But the reality of the quiet, empty room soon returned, and Catherine drew a long breath, steadying herself against the pull of sentimentality.
Propped neatly against her bedside lamp was a small folded note, tucked carefully under the base. Catherine reached for it, her fingertips pausing on the delicate edges of the paper. When had she become someone who smiled at notes left behind? The warmth in her chest contradicted every rule she'd created for herself. Carefully unfolding the scrap of paper, she recognizedSloane’s chaotic handwriting immediately, all bold loops and reckless slant.
“I couldn’t bring myself to wake you. You should rest more. Or maybe I’m just getting soft. Either way, see you soon. –S.”
The simplicity made her smile softly, her thumb tracing over the inked letters. Catherine’s heart beat with the slow, cautious rhythm of someone discovering something she’d never allowed herself to have: a tenderness that seemed too fragile and too beautiful to trust. With a reluctant sigh, she set the note aside, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and stood, leaving the momentary warmth behind her.
Her routine steadied her. Shower, clothes, coffee—each movement practiced and precise. Catherine’s condo was pristine, not a pillow out of place or a speck of dust daring to linger. She stepped into her neatly arranged closet, fingertips drifting over the sharp lines of pressed blouses and tailored pants. She selected a blouse of crisp, pale blue silk, buttoned it carefully, and pulled on a pair of dark slacks, her armor perfectly constructed.
Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—hair pulled back into its habitual severe knot, makeup understated yet flawless. The woman staring back at her was poised, professional, and controlled. Her mother’s voice echoed somewhere in the recesses of her mind, sharp, biting, ever critical.
“Control is the foundation of greatness, Catherine. Without it, you are nothing.”
As Catherine moved through the living room, gathering her belongings, her eyes caught on her phone, screen lit with notifications and appointments. One event in particular made her pause, her stomach tightening reflexively. The meeting with Evelyn, sharp as a scalpel and just as unforgiving, waited for her, bold and unyielding, on her calendar.
“Perfect,” she murmured bitterly, collecting her keys from the table. “Exactly how I wanted to start my day.”
The drive to the hospital passed in taut silence, her grip tight on the wheel, her thoughts scattered. A traffic light turned red, and she exhaled slowly, fingers drumming a tense rhythm against the steering wheel. She could handle Evelyn, of course, had been doing it for decades, but something felt different now. There was a fissure in her carefully constructed walls, a weakness Sloane had found and widened, whether she intended to or not.
“You’re not a child,” she reminded herself firmly, her eyes focused forward as the light changed again. “You can handle her.”
Pulling into her reserved parking spot at the hospital, she glanced briefly at her phone again. For an instant, her thumb hovered over Sloane’s name, contemplating a message, something simple, just to feel grounded again. She shook her head, slipping her phone back into her purse with quiet resolve.
Her heels clicked sharply against the polished hospital floors, the rhythm reassuring in its familiarity. Colleagues nodded respectfully, but none approached. They never did, not without invitation. She had built her reputation on composure and detachment, an armor that had rarely failed her until now.
Outside the door to Evelyn’s private suite, Catherine paused, hand raised mid-knock. Her breath steadied and shoulders squared as she summoned her well-practiced strength. The door loomed, heavy and dark, the barrier between her world and the exacting expectations of her family’s legacy.
One last steadying breath. One final adjustment of her posture. Catherine knocked firmly, three precise raps that echoed with authority and control, and waited, her heart beating just a fraction too fast.
“Come in,” her mother’s cool, unwavering voice beckoned from inside.
Straightening her shoulders, Catherine stepped forward, leaving behind any trace of softness and any echo of warmth. The armor was on, and the Ice Queen resumed her mantle.
Evelyn Harrington’s private suite was designed with an intimidating elegance that mirrored the woman herself—cold marble floors polished to a reflective sheen, glass tables that seemed too fragile to touch, and vast windows framing the hospital’s sprawling gardens below. Natural light poured into the room, though somehow Evelyn managed to sit cloaked in shadow, her expression unreadable as Catherine stepped inside.
“Close the door behind you,” Evelyn instructed calmly, not looking up from the stack of files neatly arranged before her.
Catherine did as she was told, the soft click of the latch sealing her inside. It always felt final, that click, as if every conversation behind this door was a judgment delivered without reprieve. She walked toward Evelyn’s desk, each step echoing faintly against the polished stone.
Evelyn finally raised her gaze, pinning Catherine with an expression that managed to be simultaneously dispassionate and piercing. Her mother wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored to her frame, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled sharply away from her face. Evelyn Harrington was nothing if not meticulously presented, a physical manifestation of the control Catherine had spent her life emulating.
“Sit.” Evelyn’s tone was clipped.
Catherine settled into the stiff-backed chair opposite her mother, arranging her hands calmly in her lap, her posture impeccable.
