Chapter 16 #2
She had told herself a thousand times she wouldn’t do this again—show up uninvited, heart in hand, begging Catherine to see her. Yet here she was. Because deep down, beneath the layers of frustration and hurt, Sloane still hoped Catherine would finally meet her halfway.
She pressed the intercom, heard the buzz ring through the silent lobby, and waited. Seconds stretched, felt like hours, before Catherine’s clipped voice finally came through.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Sloane answered softly. “Let me up, Catherine. We need to talk.”
There was another long pause, the silence thick enough that Sloane wondered if Catherine would turn her away. But then, the door buzzed quietly, unlocking. Sloane pushed through, her heart hammering against her ribs.
When she reached Catherine’s door, it was already cracked open slightly, waiting for her arrival.
Sloane stepped inside carefully, closing the door quietly behind her.
Catherine stood across the room, her arms crossed protectively over her chest and posture rigid with tension.
Her gaze was sharp, wary, and guarded, but underneath it, Sloane could see the faint tremble of vulnerability.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Catherine said, her voice strained, colder than Sloane had expected.
Sloane held her ground, refusing to retreat. “I had to. You left me no choice.”
Catherine exhaled a sharp breath, her eyes flashing with irritation and discomfort. “I told you—”
“I know what you told me,” Sloane interrupted. “But I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of it.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed slightly, something raw flickering behind her careful mask. “Why not? What’s so hard to understand about this, Sloane? We tried. It didn’t work.”
“We didn’t try,” Sloane said fiercely, taking a step closer. “You ran. Every single time we got close to something real, you bolted. But I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not letting you pretend you don’t feel this.”
Catherine’s jaw tightened, her eyes glittering with anger and something softer, something terrified beneath the surface. “You don’t get it. It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Sloane said quietly, her voice low and aching. “Because it comes down to one thing: Do you love me?”
The room felt suddenly too small, too tight, the air crackling with intensity. Catherine visibly flinched at the question, her eyes dropping to the floor.
“Sloane…”
“Answer me,” Sloane pressed, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “If you don’t love me, tell me now. Look at me and tell me you feel nothing.”
Catherine lifted her gaze slowly, her eyes wide and haunted. “You know I can’t say that.”
Sloane took another step, standing close enough now that she could see every flicker of pain and fear reflected in Catherine’s eyes. “Then tell me the truth. Tell me you love me.”
Catherine shook her head slowly, her voice trembling as she whispered, “It’s not about love, Sloane. It’s never been about love.”
“Then what is it about?” Sloane demanded, her own voice breaking with the weight of everything unspoken between them. “Why won’t you let yourself have this?”
Catherine’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “You don’t understand what I’ve had to give up just to survive.”
“Then tell me,” Sloane pleaded softly. “Let me in, Catherine. Just once, let me share this burden.”
Catherine turned away sharply, pacing to the window, staring out at the city below. “You can’t help. You can’t fix this.”
“Maybe not,” Sloane admitted, her voice thick with emotion, “but I’m here. Isn’t that worth something?”
Catherine turned back abruptly, pain etched deeply into her expression.
“You don’t know what you’re asking. I’ve spent my entire life building this armor, this shield.
I’ve given everything I have to my work, to uphold a legacy, and every time I let someone close—” Her voice broke sharply. “I lose something.”
Sloane’s chest ached fiercely, compassion warring with her frustration. She took a deep, shaking breath. “And if you lose me instead? Does that matter at all?”
Catherine’s expression faltered, raw anguish flashing clearly across her features. “Of course it matters,” she said brokenly. “But how can I promise you something I’ve never been able to keep?”
Sloane closed the distance between them, standing close enough to touch but keeping her hands by her sides.
“Because I deserve better than halfway,” she whispered, voice strained with emotion.
“I deserve better than a love you’re ashamed of, Catherine.
I won’t be something you hide. I want to be someone you fight for. ”
Catherine’s breath hitched, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. “I’m not ashamed. It’s just—” She swallowed hard, words catching. “I don’t know how to be the person you need.”
Sloane reached out then, gently cupping Catherine’s face, forcing her gaze up to meet hers. “I don’t need perfection. I don’t need you to have it all figured out. But I do need you to stop running from this, from us.”
Catherine pressed her eyes shut tightly, a tear finally escaping, trailing silently down her cheek. “What if I can’t?”
Sloane’s chest tightened painfully, realization settling in heavily. She brushed her thumb gently across Catherine’s tear-streaked skin. “You can. You just won’t. And that hurts more than anything.”
Catherine’s eyes fluttered open, filled with sorrow and regret. “Sloane, I—”
“You love me,” Sloane whispered softly, stepping back slowly. “I know you do. But if you can’t live it, if you can’t say it, I’m done trying to make you.”
The silence hung heavily between them, charged and aching. Catherine opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came.
Sloane drew in a steadying breath, her voice gentle but firm. “I came here because I had to know. Because I couldn’t bear this silence anymore. But now it’s your turn, Catherine. You have to choose.”
She stepped toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle, hoping against hope Catherine would stop her. But the room remained silent, heavy with unspoken truths and shattered hope.
When she finally opened the door and stepped out into the quiet hallway, it was with a finality that reverberated deeply in her chest. The click of the latch behind her felt like the breaking of something fragile and irreplaceable, and she walked out of the building.
The studio felt hollow and empty when Sloane returned.
The usual warmth and vibrant chaos she loved now seemed distant, almost mocking.
She stood for a long moment in the center of the room, the silence echoing louder than any noise ever could.
Her heart still raced, adrenaline from their confrontation pulsing painfully through her veins, but beneath the anger, beneath the hurt, lay a deep, heavy sadness that she could no longer ignore.
Her eyes moved across unfinished canvases, each one started with hope, painted with reckless abandon. They felt foreign now, like relics from another life. A life before Catherine had cracked her open and left her raw and vulnerable.
She moved to her workspace, the paints and brushes waiting, quiet and patient.
Without thinking, Sloane grabbed a fresh canvas, propped it roughly against the wall, and began mixing colors—deep crimson, harsh black, fierce gold.
Her motions were frantic and sharp, the paint smearing across her hands, streaking up her wrists and forearms. She didn’t care.
Tonight, precision and control meant nothing.
She attacked the canvas with desperate, bold strokes, channeling every aching heartbeat into furious color.
The brush became an extension of her grief, her confusion, her anger.
Red dripped like blood down the canvas, stark against the dark swaths of black that swallowed the brightness, the gold slicing through it all like bolts of lightning.
The chaos felt appropriate, honest, everything she’d ever wanted Catherine to embrace, everything Catherine had run from.
Sweat mingled with tears she didn’t realize she was shedding, blurring her vision. Her breath came fast, shallow, and ragged, each stroke of her brush more frantic than the last, desperate to fill the empty silence and the hollow ache inside her chest.
“You said to try,” Sloane whispered harshly, her voice thick with pain. The words fell into the quiet room, absorbed by paint and canvas. “I did everything you asked.”
Her hand faltered, her brush suspended in mid-air, tremors running down her fingers. She sank slowly to the floor, her knees buckling under the weight of exhaustion, emotional and physical. The brush slipped from her grip, hitting the floor with a muted clatter.
“I gave you everything,” she murmured to the empty space, her voice cracking under the weight of truth.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees, paint smearing onto her clothing, not caring about anything except the heavy pressure building in her chest. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting the wave of grief rising rapidly, unrelentingly.
The images came without permission: Catherine’s careful smile, the unguarded laughter she’d coaxed out of her, the softness in her beautiful blue eyes that had given Sloane hope.
She remembered every kiss, every touch, every whispered confession tangled between sheets and tangled hearts. It had felt real. It had felt true.
And now, she was alone again, holding the shards of what might have been, unsure whether she’d imagined the depth of connection or if Catherine had simply chosen fear over love. It hurt. It hurt more than she’d expected, more than any heartbreak she’d ever known.
Slowly, eyes heavy and aching, Sloane opened them and looked at the canvas before her. It was wild, brutal, raw. The storm she’d painted mirrored her soul, capturing the wreckage Catherine had left behind.
She stayed there, slumped against the cold floor, staring at her own creation, the brush and paints abandoned around her like remnants of a battle lost. There were no answers in the chaos, no clarity in the colors bleeding into each other.
Just an echo of her pain, frozen now in paint, a permanent record of her heartache.
The silence stretched around her, unforgiving and final. She drew in a ragged breath, tears drying on her cheeks, resolve settling heavily inside her. Catherine had made her choice, even if the choice was silence. And now Sloane had to learn how to live with it.
But as she closed her eyes again, leaning her head back against the wall, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just lost something irreplaceable. Something she’d never find again.
And this time, she didn’t know how to fix it.