“Stop hovering,” Catherine said without venom, eyes flicking up at her sister.
Roz snorted but didn’t stop folding. “You say that like I’m not contractually obligated to supervise your grand exit.”
Olivia appeared in the doorway with a soft knock and a smile, carrying a coffee tray like a peace offering. “I brought real coffee,” she said, setting it down carefully on the rolling table. “None of that decaf crap they’ve been sneaking into your IVs.”
Catherine accepted the cup with a ghost of a smile. “I’ve missed this.”
“The caffeine or us?” Roz asked, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
Catherine didn’t answer. She just took a slow sip, the bitterness grounding her.
They helped her into a long camel coat, one Olivia had brought from her place. It felt heavier than she remembered, like putting on armor again. As she reached for her scarf, her hand paused at the edge of the pocket. Her fingers brushed something small and folded. A note. Sloane’s note. Still there.
Her throat tightened.
The walk through the hospital was slow. Not physically—her steps were steady,—but emotionally, it was like wading through a memory. Every hallway echoed with what she’d lost and almost lost. Doctors nodded, and nurses smiled, but Catherine didn’t stop for any of them. She kept her gaze ahead.
Until she saw Evelyn.
The matriarch of the Harrington family stood by the elevator, crisp and cold in a charcoal coat, her silver hair pulled into its usual twist. She looked like she’d walked out of a portrait.
“You’re leaving,” Evelyn said, voice devoid of anything resembling welcome or warmth.
“I am,” Catherine replied, lifting her chin.
“You should’ve taken another week. You’re not fully recovered.”
“I’m not your patient.”
Roz bristled beside her, but Catherine raised a hand subtly, signaling she had it under control. She wanted this. She needed it.
Evelyn’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not a woman who lets emotions dictate her path. Don’t start now.”
Catherine let out a breath, long and quiet. “No. I used to be a woman who mistook silence for strength. That’s not the same thing.”
For a moment, Evelyn’s eyes flickered, something nearly human passing through them, but then it was gone, locked behind decades of perfectionism and distance.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said.
Catherine stepped closer, her voice steady. “No. I made the mistake of trying to earn your version of love. I’m not doing that anymore.”
Roz exhaled beside her, a quiet sound of solidarity. Olivia reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Without another word, Catherine turned away. The elevator dinged open, and she stepped inside.
As the doors closed, she didn’t look back.
The door clicked open with a soft click, and Catherine stepped into the hush of her condo, the space still, spotless, and untouched by anything but time. It was just as she had left it: curated, cold, impersonal. But now it felt different.
Because she wasn’t alone.
Sloane walked in behind her, carrying her overnight bag in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. She didn’t say much. Just a quiet glance in Catherine’s direction before toeing off her boots and heading toward the kitchen.
Catherine hovered just inside the door, coat still on, unsure what to do with the unfamiliar hum of comfort in her chest. Her home had never been a place for company. It was a retreat, a stronghold, until Sloane walked into it like she belonged.
Maybe she did.
Sloane returned, taking the coat gently from her shoulders without asking. Catherine let her. The soft brush of fingers down her arms made her heart jump. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. Not like this. Not with tenderness.
