33. Sloane
THIRTY-THREE
Sloane
Two Months Later
"To freedom and fantastic friends!" Angela raises her glass, the sparkling liquid catching the dim light of the rooftop bar Seaside Terrace.
"And to your first night out since Tyler decided to grace us with his presence." I clink my glass against hers, relishing the tart sweetness of my pomegranate martini as it slides down my throat.
The music pulses around us, not quite loud enough to drown conversation but energetic enough to make the whole place pulse. Every surface gleams with that polished Palm Beach shine.
"God, I forgot what it's like to wear something without spit-up on it." Angela smooths her blouse, a silky emerald camisole that makes her look like she never pushed out two children.
I laugh, really laugh, for what I think could be the first time in months. "You look amazing. How's little man doing?"
"Tyler's perfect. Cutting his first tooth and terrorizing the cat." Her eyes soften. "Micah's teaching him to high-five."
The mention of Micah sends a familiar pang through my chest. I take another sip to wash it down.
"How's work going?" Angela leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Honestly, it’s been so good. I'm loving putting into practice what I studied." I trace the rim of my glass. "Coastal gave me my own caseload right away. Three autistic preschoolers, a kid with selective mutism, and twin boys with sensory processing issues."
"Look at you, professional woman."
"With a salary that made half my grad school class send hate texts." I shake my head, still not quite believing it. "And my apartment doesn't feel temporary anymore. I bought real furniture and actual matching plates."
Angela grins. "The height of adulthood."
"Right?" I smile back, but my mind drifts to Pope's immaculate kitchen, the weight of his expensive wine glasses, the way Lennon would carefully arrange his dinosaur figurines on the counter while I cooked.
"You still think about them." She states it so matter-of-factly that I don't have to confirm or deny. She knows.
I nod, taking another sip. "It's not as raw, now. It's more like a bruise, instead of an open wound."
"Have you heard anything?"
"Not directly." I twist a strand of hair around my finger. "How's Lennon doing? I can’t believe he’s still living with Pope. Is he still at Seabreeze?"
Angela nods. "He's there. Margaret brings him, but..." She hesitates.
"But what?"
"The playdates stopped. Margaret's efficient but not exactly warm." She wrinkles her nose. "Micah asks about Lennon sometimes. About you, too."
My throat tightens. "I miss him. Them. Him." I don't clarify which "him" I mean. Maybe both.
"Wasn't the cousin supposed to take him after the nine weeks?"
"That's what the original plan was.” I twist my napkin. "Maybe they're waiting for the school year to start? I don't know. He never gave me the full story, so who knows?"
"Maybe." Angela doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe Pope's just trying to keep things stable for Lennon."
I nod, not wanting to let myself go there. I’ve been working hard to remove any emotional attachment to them. The thought of Pope staying permanently in Palm Beach, raising Lennon, creates a melancholy I can't quite shake.
"Enough about the past." Angela straightens, her eyes scanning the bar. "What about the future? Specifically, the future that might involve the absolutely delicious man at two o'clock who keeps looking over here."
I follow her gaze to a tall guy with tousled light brown hair nursing what looks like whiskey at the bar. When our eyes meet, he smiles.
"Angela, no." But I'm smiling despite myself.
"Angela, yes." She grins wickedly. "It's been two months, Sloane. Two months of responsible adulting and building your impressive career. Maybe it's time to build something else, too. Time for you to get back on that horse.”
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." I glance back at the man, unable to deny he's attractive.
"Come on. When's the last time you even flirted with someone?" Angela nudges my shoulder.
"Before Pope? God, over a year ago." I swirl my drink, watching the liquid catch the light. "And I wasn't exactly planning to break my newest drought tonight."
Angela's eyebrows shoot up. "Newest drought? Sloane Brennan, we are fixing this immediately."
"Not every problem needs fixing." But a tiny flutter of something blossoms. It's the excitement of possibility, maybe, when he looks over again.
"Too late. He's coming over." Angela straightens, her smile widening.
The stranger approaches our table with an easy confidence that reminds me of—no. I shut that thought down. His suit jacket hangs loose over a crisp button-down, casual but expensive.
"Ladies." His voice is warm, a little rough around the edges. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Angela kicks me under the bar. "We'd love that. I'm Angela, and this is?—"
"Capable of introducing myself, thank you." I shoot her a look before turning to him. "I'm Sloane."
"Warren Carter." He signals the bartender. "What are you drinking? Next round's on me."
The conversation flows surprisingly easily. Warren asks about my work without the glazed expression most people get when I mention pediatric therapy. He laughs at my jokes, even the bad ones. For the first time in months, I'm starting to feel like myself again.
"So you're new to Palm Beach?" Warren leans closer.
"Relatively. Aren't most of us in Palm Beach, though? I've been here almost four months now. Still getting used to everything." I gesture vaguely at the room full of designer clothes and perfect hair.
"It's its own ecosystem." His smile creates creases around his eyes. "But worth figuring out."
Maybe Angela was right. Maybe I'm ready for this.
"I should probably get your last name if I'm going to ask for your number." Warren's gaze holds mine.
"Brennan. Sloane Brennan."
The change is subtle but immediate. His posture stiffens, and his smile freezes in place. He glances at his watch.
"Actually, I just remembered—" Warren stands abruptly. "I need to make a call. Excuse me for a minute."
He walks away, leaving his half-finished whiskey on the table.
"Did I say something wrong?" I watch as he disappears toward the restrooms.
Angela shrugs. "Maybe he had a Sloane who broke his heart."
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
"I think I've been ghosted in record time." I force a laugh. "That's got to be some kind of achievement."
"His loss." Angela squeezes my hand. "Though you do have a talent for attracting the hottest guy in any room."
I smile through the sting. "It's my superpower."
After I get home and in my comfy clothes, I grab my phone to text Angela and thank her for a fun night out. It was good for my soul.
When I pick it up, I already have one from her.
Safe home?
Home and hiding under blankets. Thanks for a great night. Let's do that again soon. I need more Angela energy in my life.
The refrigerator hums in the background as I finally reach for my phone again, curiosity overwhelming my better judgment. I’ve been very good since leaving not to search him.
The wine and fun night convince me it’s a goo idea. I type "Pope Carrigan Palm Beach" into the search bar.
The results load, and my blood turns to ice.
Billionaire Carrigan's Nanny Entangled in Custody Drama?
My fingers tremble as I click the headline from the Palm Beach Insider. The photos appear immediately. They are grainy but unmistakable. Pope and I on the lawn beside that damned outdoor movie screen.
There are a few. One, his hands are in my hair, my body pressed against his, locked in a kiss that leaves nothing to interpretation.
"No." The word escapes as a whisper into my dark bedroom.
The article mentions an "anonymous source" providing evidence of an "inappropriate relationship" during an active custody battle for Pope's ward.
Though they don't name me directly, they reference the "caregiver hired through Elite Services."
Bile rises in my throat. My hands grow clammy against the phone screen as I scroll through comments already speculating about who I am.
My chest tightens until each breath becomes deliberate work. Everything I've built, my professional reputation, my new position at Coastal, the stability I've fought for, is suddenly a house of cards in a hurricane.
Chris. It must have been Chris who leaked these. Pope had mentioned a private investigator, but I never imagined...
I stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stares back, eyes wide with panic.
This isn't something I can ignore or wish away. By morning, everyone will have seen it. My colleagues. The families of my clients. The other therapists.
My phone pings with another message. Unknown number.
Ms. Brennan, this is Laural Harrelson from the Palm Beach Post. Would you care to comment on your relationship with Pope Carrigan during the custody evaluation of Lennon Lopez?
The room spins as I sink to the bathroom floor, my carefully reconstructed life crumbling around me.
Two Weeks Later
My supervisor's office smells like every pediatric therapy clinic. It's a jarring mix of industrial disinfectant and the artificial fruit scent of reward stickers.
I focus on a child's finger painting displayed behind Dr. Marken's desk. Bright swirls of orange and blue in the artwork remind me of the tide pools Lennon loved.
"Sloane, I want you to know this isn't personal." Dr. Marken slides a manila folder across her desk. Her silver bangles clink against the wood. "We value the work you've done here."
The past tense doesn't escape me.
"But you're firing me anyway." My voice comes out steady, but I'm anything but.
"We're terminating your contract due to reputational concerns." She folds her hands, wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. “I fought for you, pleaded this was in the past. The board believes?—"
"The board hasn't even met me." A flush creeps up my neck. "They've just seen those photos."