6. Sloane #2
Marcus studies me for half a second, and I know he recognizes the deliberate restraint in every word. The precision. The way I’m shaping each sentence carefully enough to keep distance between us.
Let him hear it. Let him understand it. The second kiss was not part of the act. That thought arrives so clearly, so suddenly, that for one second I almost stop moving.
I don’t.
I drag a fresh document onto the main screen. “We need an updated public statement before the next wave of coverage hits.”
Marcus doesn’t move toward the door yet. “The current line is working.”
“The current line is incomplete.”
“It redirected the story.”
“It redirected the first wave,” I say. “That was only the immediate objective.”
Marcus looks at me fully then, the shift in his attention impossible to miss. “And the second?”
“Preventing the public relationship from becoming more interesting than the original speculation.”
A pause.
Because we both know that particular ship may already be moving.
Marcus’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Then control it.”
“I intend to.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
The words are even, and still, for reasons I refuse to examine, they solidify somewhere they should not.
I turn back to the screen. “Good.”
Dana clears her throat. “There’s another interview request.”
“From?”
“Valewyn Business Group.”
That pulls my attention fully back. “Who’s producing?”
“Elliot Marsh.”
I swear under my breath.
Marcus catches it. “Problem?”
“He doesn’t ask questions. He builds traps and calls them conversations.”
“Then decline.”
“No.”
Marcus’s eyes narrow slightly. “You just said he builds traps.”
“Yes. Which means declining gives him permission to build one without us.”
I look at the screen again, already rearranging the next move in my head.
Valewyn has enough business credibility to matter and enough appetite for spectacle to be dangerous.
If we handle it correctly, it gives us a controlled platform.
If we handle it badly, it turns the second kiss into a prime-time dissection of executive judgment and personal credibility.
“We do it,” I say. “But not live.”
Marcus looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. That should annoy me less than it does.
“Fine,” he says. “You lead.”
I glance at him.
That, too, should not affect me the way it does.
Not because he’s allowing it. He doesn’t get to allow me anything in my own field, but because he says it like it is obvious. Like after what happened downstairs, after cameras and chaos, and that moment neither of us is naming, he still understands exactly where the line of expertise sits.
I hate that I notice, but I detest more that some quiet, traitorous part of me respects it.
“Obviously,” I say.
His mouth almost moves. Not a smile, but it’s something close enough to make me want to throw my tablet at him.
Instead, I look back at my team. “Draft the Valewyn conditions. No live broadcast. No open-ended personal questions. No replaying the kiss during the segment unless we approve the clip in advance.”
Dana types quickly. “And if they won’t agree?”
“Then we let them chase footage everyone has already seen while we give the better quote to someone smarter.”
Marcus’s phone buzzes again.
This time, he answers. “Vale.”
He listens for three seconds before his posture changes.
Not much. Nothing most people would catch. But I see it now because I’m standing too close. After all, I’ve spent too much time today noticing things I do not want to notice.
His shoulders square subtly, his jaw tightening just enough for me to recognize what’s happening. Control reasserting itself.
“What?” I ask.
He lowers the phone slightly. “Investor relations says two major shareholders want direct assurance before the end of the day.”
“That was expected.”
“They’re asking whether this situation creates leadership distraction.”
My mouth tightens. “That was also expected.”
“They’re asking specifically about you.”
The room goes quiet. Not completely, but enough.
I turn toward him slowly. “About me how?”
Marcus looks at the phone again, then back at me. “Whether you can objectively manage communications while being personally involved in the story.”
It’s not surprising, even if it is insulting.
My team doesn’t look at me, which makes it worse.
I feel the reaction rise hot and immediate, not hurt exactly, not even anger in its cleanest form.
Something sharper. The old familiar edge of being reduced to proximity.
To optics. To whatever role is most convenient for people who have never once had to prove competence and credibility in the same breath.
I set the tablet down carefully.
“I’ll prepare a statement for investor relations.”
“No.”
The word comes from Marcus before I finish.
My eyes snap to him.
“No?” I repeat.
He speaks into the phone, gaze still on mine. “Tell them communications remains under Parker’s direction because she is the most qualified person in the company to manage the exposure. Any concerns about distraction come to me.”
My chest tightens.
He listens, expression flat. “Because I’m the executive attached to the original leak. Not her.”
A brief silence stretches between us.
“No. That is the statement.”
He ends the call, and the room goes quiet around us.
I should thank him. I won’t.
Because he didn’t consult me, he made the decision without asking how I wanted it handled. Without asking me how to proceed, he stepped in front of something aimed at me like it was the most natural thing in the world, and some part of me hates that almost as much as I understand why he did it.
“That was mine to answer,” I say.
His gaze holds steady. “It was aimed at you because of me.”
“That doesn’t make it yours.”
“It makes it my responsibility.”
“No,” I say, sharper now. “It makes it convenient for you to take responsibility.”
Something in the room tightens.
Marcus steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think I did that for convenience?”
“I think you did it because you saw a problem and decided the fastest way to solve it was to remove me from the line of fire.”
“It was.”
“That is not the defense you think it is.”
His expression hardens slightly. “I didn’t undermine you.”
“You answered for me.”
“I redirected blame.”
“I don’t need you to protect me from blame.”
“No,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have to absorb mine.”
I feel that more than I want to.
For a second, there is no conference room, screens, or my team pretending not to listen—no hashtag climbing higher by the second.
Just Marcus, standing too close, looking at me like responsibility is not a performance for him. It's as if something is his; he takes it. Fully. Without applause or permission.
Like it’s obvious.
I hate that my anger has nowhere clean to go, so I redirect it.
“We’re not doing this here.”
His eyes flick over my face. “Agreed.”
Good. Fine. That should settle it.
Instead, the clip loops again behind him on mute, pulling my attention back to the second kiss before I can stop it. His hand at my jaw. My fingers curled against his jacket. The pause afterward.
This time, I don’t look away fast enough. Because that wasn’t part of the act. The thought moves through me before I can force it back under control.
Not the kiss they asked for. Not the first one. Not the strategic correction. The other thing. The second where his control shifted, and mine almost answered.
“Investor statement in three minutes,” I say. “Valewyn conditions in five. Social tracking every ten until the trend stabilizes.”
My voice is colder now. Marcus hears it. I know he does. His expression gives nothing away, but his gaze stays on mine for one second longer than necessary.
Then he nods once. “I’ll take the investor call.”
“Do that.”
He turns toward the door.
The room begins moving again, cautiously at first, then faster, grateful for work because it gives everyone somewhere safer to look.
I reach for my tablet, pull up the next draft, and force my attention onto language. Language is structure. Structure is useful. Useful things do not stand in front of cameras and forget where performance ends.
Useful things do not replay the way a man kissed them because a room full of strangers demanded proof.
Useful things do not notice the difference.
But I did. And that is the problem. Because the lie is working exactly the way I designed it to.
The market is steadying. The press is shifting. The original scandal is losing shape beneath a cleaner, more compelling story.
Marcus and I.
Private. Established. Believable.
I look toward the closed conference room door, where he disappeared to take responsibility for something he did not let me answer for myself.
I don’t trust what happened downstairs or in this room.
And more than anything, I definitely don’t trust the part of me that noticed the difference.