Chapter 12
SLOANE
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the studio, soft and golden, catching on dust motes and casting shadows across the chaos of canvases and scattered clothes. It should have been peaceful, but the silence felt brittle. Stale. Too still.
Sloane sat on the edge of her unmade bed, her legs bare, paint-splattered sweatpants twisted around her waist like she’d pulled them on in the dark. She stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, the familiar thread glowing with unread tension.
Catherine Harrington.
No replies.
Still.
Sloane sighed through her nose and locked the screen, tossing the phone onto the rumpled sheets beside her. It landed with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should’ve in the quiet.
She should have known. She did know. That’s what made it worse.
Pushing herself up, she crossed the room to the half-finished canvas on the easel. It was something new, born from a midnight impulse, a blur of blue and shadow and sharp, hard brushstrokes. She’d tried to paint it out of her system. But even in the storm, Catherine was still there.
Sloane dipped a brush into black paint and dragged it hard across the canvas, streaking over the delicate lines she’d laid down the night before. The movement was sharp and punishing. It felt good for a second, until it didn’t.
She threw the brush into the paint-stained sink with a clatter and turned away, pacing across the floor, bare feet slapping softly against the cool concrete. Her breath came faster, sharper. Not rage. Not really. Just something tangled and hot and restless that clawed beneath her skin.
I let her in. I let her see me. And she just…disappeared. Again.
The thought pulsed in her head like a heartbeat, and the ache that followed was sharp enough to make her stop in her tracks.
“Fuck,” she muttered, dragging both hands through her hair, tying it into a messy knot just to keep them from trembling.
Of course Catherine ran. That was what she did. That was what she knew. But this time, it hadn’t felt like a game. Not to Sloane. Not when Catherine had looked at her like that. Not when she’d whispered her name like it meant something. Not when she’d stayed.
Until she hadn’t.
The knock at the door startled her. It was too early for deliveries, and she hadn’t asked anyone to drop by. She padded over and cracked it open.
Dani stood there with two coffees and sunglasses pushed up onto her head like a crown. Her jacket was oversized and neon pink today, clashing spectacularly with the black combat boots she wore like a religion.
“You look like you’ve been up all night contemplating your place in the universe,” Dani said, stepping in uninvited and handing her one of the cups.
“Good morning to you, too,” Sloane muttered, taking the coffee and curling her fingers around it like it might anchor her.
Dani’s eyes swept the room—at the streaked canvas, the messy bed, the discarded phone. She raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment right away.
Instead, she sipped her drink and leaned against a table cluttered with palettes. “So, you gonna talk about it, or am I supposed to piece it together from your tortured artist energy?”
Sloane didn’t answer. She took a long drink of the coffee. It was too hot, but she liked the burn.
Dani smirked. “You’re not mad because she pulled away. You’re mad because you let yourself believe she wouldn’t.”
That stopped Sloane in her tracks.
She turned, coffee halfway to her lips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Dani shrugged, unbothered. “You let your guard down. You did the thing you always said you wouldn’t, fell for someone with walls taller than yours and thought maybe this time, they’d let you in.”
Sloane opened her mouth, then closed it. She sat down instead, the metal chair cold against her skin.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “Yeah, I’m mad because I saw something real. And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. She made me feel like…like I wasn’t some passing distraction. Like I mattered. And then she just—”
“Vanished?”
Sloane gave a tight nod. “Poof. Doctor Frosty act back in full force. Radio silence. It’s like I imagined all of it.”
Dani walked over and perched on the edge of the work table, her voice gentler now. “You didn’t imagine it.”
“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?”
“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.