Chapter 2
SLOANE
The sunlight streamed through the oversized windows of Sloane’s studio, bathing the chaos in a soft, golden glow.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air, suspended between the strands of fairy lights that swayed slightly from the ceiling.
The floor was a riot of color: splashes of blue, streaks of red, and faint traces of gold that had been ground into the wood over years of carelessness.
This was more than just a studio; it was Sloane Bennett’s world.
Brushes, palettes, and half-empty paint tubes were scattered across the mismatched tables and stools that lined the space.
Canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls—some completed, others bearing only the first wild strokes of her ideas.
A steaming mug of jasmine tea sat precariously on a pile of art books, its faint floral scent mingling with the sharper tang of turpentine and drying paint.
Sloane stood in the middle of it all, barefoot on the cool wood floor, her wild curls pulled into a loose knot that seemed as untamed as the room itself. She wore an old shirt streaked with paint, its original color impossible to discern beneath years of creativity.
Her hands moved over a large canvas, fingers smeared with vivid hues as she worked directly with the paint, blending and shaping it in broad, sweeping gestures.
The image was abstract, violent streaks of crimson clashed with soothing pools of blue, while hints of gold wove through the chaos like threads of light.
Sloane tilted her head, studying the piece critically. “Too much red,” she muttered to herself, grabbing a brush and dipping it into a jar of deep emerald green. She dragged the color across the canvas, her strokes bold and deliberate, as if taming the chaos into something cohesive.
Her mind, however, refused to be tamed.
It flitted from one thought to another: her overdue rent, the gallery’s increasingly anxious emails about her upcoming show, and the half-dozen other projects she had left unfinished. Somewhere in the jumble of it all, another image surfaced.
Catherine Harrington.
Sloane paused mid-stroke, her brush hovering just above the canvas.
She could see her perfectly: dark brown hair pulled into a severe twist, sharp cheekbones, and blue eyes that seemed to pierce through everything they landed on.
Catherine’s face was a study in control, every feature perfectly aligned, every movement calculated.
She was strikingly beautiful and that was what had first drawn Sloane to her, and then, well, she was a challenge, an enigma, and Sloane wanted to see what was underneath all the frost.
Sloane smirked, dipping the brush back into the green and adding another streak to the canvas. “The Ice Queen Surgeon,” she said under her breath, the nickname she’d heard at the gala fitting all too well.
Most people at the gala had been open books, their thoughts scrawled across their faces like poorly written prose. But Catherine? Catherine was a locked vault. The kind that made you want to find the key just to see what treasures, or demons, were hidden inside.
“Cold as hell,” Sloane murmured, her lips curving into a grin. “But there’s fire in there. I’d bet anything on it.”
Her mind circled back to Catherine as she worked. It wasn’t just the sharp edges that intrigued her; it was the moments in between. The way Catherine’s gaze had lingered just a second too long on certain paintings or the way her lips had twitched, almost imperceptibly, when Sloane had teased her.
Sloane dipped her fingers into a jar of gold paint, smearing it across the canvas in soft, glowing arcs. “Controlled chaos,” she mused aloud. “That’s what she is. All locked up, but just one good shake away from shattering.”
The thought sent a jolt of energy through her, and she stepped back from the canvas, tilting her head to admire the piece. It wasn’t finished, but then again, neither was Catherine.
Sloane laughed at herself. “God, listen to me. I’ve got no rent money and a show I’m not ready for, and I’m over here psychoanalyzing a stranger with a scalpel.”
She wiped her hands on her shirt, leaving streaks of green and gold across the fabric. The thought of Catherine lingered, though, refusing to be dismissed so easily.
Sloane wandered to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass as she gazed out at the city below. The streets buzzed with life: cars honking, people shouting, a street performer’s saxophone weaving through the noise. It was chaos, and she loved it.
But Catherine didn’t seem like the kind of person who loved chaos.
“What would it take to pull someone like her out of that fortress she’s built?” Sloane wondered aloud. She could almost see Catherine in her mind’s eye, standing stiffly in her pristine dress, sharp-edged and untouchable, like a statue carved from ice.
The memory made Sloane’s grin widen. She didn’t know why, but she had a feeling Catherine Harrington wasn’t as untouchable as she wanted the world to believe.
The studio door creaked open then, interrupting her thoughts. Sloane turned, her smile growing as Dani Alvarez stepped in, a takeout bag dangling from one hand and a skeptical expression on her face.
“Well, don’t you look like a Jackson Pollock exploded in here,” Dani said, kicking the door shut behind her.
Dani Alvarez strolled in like she owned the place. Her combat boots thudded against the wooden floor, the sequins on her oversized jacket catching the light in flashes of silver. She carried a takeout bag in one hand, the other tucked casually into the pocket of her ripped jeans.
“Seriously, Bennett,” Dani said, her eyes sweeping over the chaos with mock disapproval. “This place is one bad decision away from catching fire. Or worse, falling into a black hole of your own making.”
Sloane turned from the window, her grin widening. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when I’m the one who has to drag your charred remains out of here.” Dani set the bag down on the only clear corner of a table, wrinkling her nose as she carefully navigated the maze of paint tubes, brushes, and canvases.
“Relax,” Sloane said, waving a paint-covered hand. “I know exactly where everything is.”
Dani arched an eyebrow, picking up a paintbrush that was balanced precariously on a stack of books. “Right. And what’s this? Your new filing system?”
“It’s called inspiration,” Sloane shot back, grabbing the brush from her. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Dani snorted, flopping into a nearby chair with the kind of ease that only came from years of friendship. “Inspiration looks a lot like procrastination to me. Please tell me you’ve actually done something for the show next week.”
Sloane gestured to the large canvas she’d been working on, the colors bold and chaotic, but somehow harmonious. “I’d say this qualifies.”
Dani studied the painting for a moment, then nodded. “Not bad. Still doesn’t explain why you called me over, though. Don’t tell me you need me to clean up your mess again.”
“Hey, I don’t always call you for cleanup duty,” Sloane said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Sometimes I just want your sparkling company.”
“And sometimes pigs fly,” Dani quipped, opening the takeout bag. She pulled out two cartons of food and tossed one to Sloane. “Eat. You’ve probably forgotten how.”
The two settled into an easy rhythm, the sound of chopsticks clicking against the cartons filling the room.
Dani was Sloane’s opposite in many ways: pragmatic where Sloane was impulsive, sharp-tongued where Sloane was playful.
But they balanced each other, their banter a testament to years of shared laughter and mutual exasperation.
“So,” Dani said around a mouthful of noodles, “what’s got you all jittery today? Don’t tell me it’s just the show.”
Sloane hesitated, twirling a noodle around her chopstick. “I met someone.”
Dani froze mid-bite, her dark eyes narrowing. “Define ‘met.’”
“At the gala last night,” Sloane said, leaning back against a stack of paint cans. “She’s…different.”
Dani set her carton down, her interest piqued. “Different how? Like, good different? Or bad different? Because your track record with people who are ‘different’ is—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Sloane interrupted, holding up a hand. “And for the record, she’s good different. I think.”
Dani’s grin turned sly. “Is this the part where you tell me she’s emotionally unavailable and completely wrong for you?”
Sloane rolled her eyes. “She’s not unavailable. She’s…complicated.”
“Complicated,” Dani echoed, leaning back in her chair. “Your favorite word. Translation: impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Sloane said, her voice softening. “Just…guarded. Like she’s spent her whole life building walls, and now she doesn’t know how to take them down.”
Dani snorted. “Sounds exhausting. You sure you don’t want to save yourself the trouble and find someone who isn’t a human Rubik’s cube?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Sloane asked, smirking.
The smirk faded as she picked at the corner of her carton, her thoughts drifting back to the woman from the gala. “She’s different, Dani. She’s sharp and cold and, god, those blue eyes. Like she’s always two steps ahead of everyone else in the room.”
“And this is appealing to you, why?” Dani asked, gesturing for her to continue.
“Because it’s not just ice,” Sloane said, her voice dropping slightly. “There’s something underneath it. I saw it, just for a second. A spark, like she wanted to let herself feel something but didn’t know how.”
Dani stared at her for a long moment, then shook her head. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“Probably,” Sloane admitted.
Dani leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Look, I get it. You love a challenge. But this woman, what’s her name?”
“Catherine,” Sloane said, the name rolling off her tongue like a secret she wasn’t supposed to share.
“Catherine,” Dani repeated. “This Catherine doesn’t sound like someone who’s going to jump into your chaos with both feet. She sounds like someone who’s going to run screaming in the other direction.”
“Maybe,” Sloane said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But what if she doesn’t?”
Dani groaned, throwing a napkin at her. “You’re impossible.”
Sloane caught the napkin and laughed. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
The conversation shifted to other topics, but Sloane’s mind stayed on Catherine.
As Dani cleaned up the remnants of their meal, Sloane sat cross-legged on the floor of her studio, the chaos of her surroundings fading into the background as she stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.
A battered fountain pen rested in her hand, its tip already smudged with ink.
She twirled it between her fingers, biting her lip as she considered her next move.
“Are you seriously writing her a love letter?” Dani’s voice cut through the silence, filled with amused disbelief.
“It’s not a love letter,” Sloane protested, though a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It’s an invitation. Completely professional.”
Dani snorted, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed. “Yeah, because you’re the poster child for professionalism.”
“Hey, I can be professional when I need to be,” Sloane shot back, lowering her gaze to the paper.
“Sure,” Dani said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “This coming from the woman who once painted an entire mural on her landlord’s wall without asking.”
“That was art, not vandalism,” Sloane said absently, her focus shifting back to the note. “Now hush. I need to concentrate.”
The words came quickly, flowing from her pen in loops and flourishes that betrayed her energy. The handwriting was as chaotic as her thoughts, letters leaning at odd angles, the ink smudging as she moved too fast. When she finished, she leaned back to admire her work:
Dr. Harrington,
I’ve never met anyone who looks less like they belong at a party and yet somehow owns the room. Consider this your official invitation to my art show. Bet you won’t show up.
– Sloane Bennett
“Subtle,” Dani said dryly, peering over her shoulder.
“It’s perfect,” Sloane said, ignoring her friend’s skepticism. She folded the paper neatly along with a card with the details of the art show and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with a quick swipe of her tongue.
“And what if she doesn’t show?” Dani asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Then she doesn’t show,” Sloane said with a shrug, though her tone was lighter than her thoughts. “But something tells me she will.”
“You’re impossible,” Dani muttered, shaking her head as she pushed off the wall.
“And you love me for it,” Sloane replied, flashing her a grin.
Later that afternoon, Sloane stood in the gleaming marble lobby of Harrington Memorial Hospital. The contrast between her paint-splattered jeans, leather jacket, and the clinical sterility of her surroundings was almost comical, but she didn’t care. If anything, she thrived on it.
The receptionist glanced up from her computer, her expression polite but wary. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” Sloane said, sliding the envelope across the counter with a charming smile. “This is for Dr. Catherine Harrington.”
The receptionist hesitated, her gaze flicking to the envelope. “Dr. Harrington doesn’t usually—”
“It’s not a subpoena or anything,” Sloane interrupted, her grin widening. “It’s just an invitation. Besides, who could say no to this face?”
The receptionist stared at her for a moment before shaking her head with a reluctant smile. “I’ll see that she gets it.”
“Thank you,” Sloane said, her tone warm. “You’re saving lives today. Probably.”
The receptionist gave her a bemused look as Sloane turned on her heel and sauntered toward the exit, her leather boots clicking softly against the polished floor.
As she stepped back onto the bustling city street, Sloane felt a flicker of satisfaction. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the sidewalk, but her energy was as bright as ever.
She didn’t know if Catherine would come. The woman had been a puzzle from the moment they met, all sharp edges and guarded walls. But something about her had struck a chord in Sloane, a challenge she couldn’t resist.
“Here’s hoping you surprise me, Ice Queen,” Sloane muttered to herself, slipping her hands into her jacket pockets as she headed back toward her studio.
Whether Catherine showed up or not, Sloane knew one thing for certain: this was going to be interesting.