7. Marcus #2
“It’s caught,” I say.
“I noticed.”
She tries to untangle it anyway. The cord tightens.
I watch her for another second before stepping closer. “Hold still.”
“I’m capable of removing a microphone, Marcus.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at my tone.
The problem between us lately seems to be that I anticipate what she needs before she asks for it, and she hates that almost as much as she notices it.
I reach carefully toward the wire. “Your hair’s caught in it.”
She stills for a second before exhaling softly through her nose. “Fine.”
The word sounds reluctant enough to almost qualify as surrender.
I free the wire slowly, careful not to pull against the loose strands caught beneath the clip. Her hair brushes my knuckles when the cord slips loose, softer than it should be after hours under studio lights, and for one second, neither of us moves. Then I step back.
The production assistant waiting nearby takes the microphone pack from Sloane quickly, clearly relieved that the exchange ended without visible bloodshed.
Sloane smooths a hand over the front of her dress before looking at me. “You really need to stop doing that.”
“Helping you?”
“Deciding I need help before I’ve asked for it.”
“You did need help.”
“That’s not the point.”
The irritation in her voice is real, but there’s something else under it now. Something tighter. Less cleanly defined. I’m not sure I trust myself enough to identify it accurately.
“Updated schedule.”
The interruption comes from my left.
Evan steps into view, holding a thin folder. My assistant always looks like he has already survived three meetings nobody else knows about yet.
“The producer added a follow-up segment for tomorrow morning,” he says, handing the folder to me. “Dana already has the revised media rundown.”
Before I can respond, Dana appears from the opposite direction and reaches for the folder.
“You owe me coffee.”
Evan looks unimpressed. “You stole my parking spot.”
“That was one time.”
“Twice.”
Dana points at him. “Allegedly.”
“I have security footage.”
“Traitorous security footage.”
For the first time, Evan looks amused.
Then he nods once toward the folder. “Tomorrow's schedule.”
And disappears back into the production traffic before Dana can continue arguing with him.
Dana glances after him. "He's never letting that go."
"Are you two always like this?" Sloane asks.
"Unfortunately," Dana says.
Then she looks down at the folder in her hand and sighs.
“Speaking of things that refuse to die, the producer wants clips cleared before they post them.”
“Which clips?” Sloane asks.
Dana hesitates. “Mostly the ones where you two were looking at each other.”
Sloane pinches the bridge of her nose briefly. “Why are those always the clips?”
“Because apparently eye contact is romantic now,” Dana says.
I take a sip of coffee to hide the fact that I almost smile again.
Her gaze flicks toward me, sharp with warning. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Sloane holds out her hand without looking away from me. “Let me see them.”
Dana passes over the tablet. Sloane scrolls through the queued clips quickly, expression flattening further with each thumbnail featuring prolonged eye contact, near-smiles, or moments that looked far too intimate when frozen into still frames.
“Approve the foundation discussion,” she says. “Cut the clip before Elliot asks about the kiss, and absolutely not the one where Marcus looks like he’s about to commit homicide on live television.”
“That one’s already trending internally,” Dana admits.
Sloane closes her eyes briefly before handing the tablet back. “Of course it is.”
Dana wisely retreats before Sloane can redirect her frustration properly.
We start toward the side hallway leading back toward the greenroom, falling into step beside each other automatically. Outside the studio windows, traffic moves steadily below us, late morning sunlight flashing across glass towers and slow-moving cars.
“You blocked another question,” Sloane says after a moment.
“I redirected it.”
“Before I answered.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze stays on mine. “You’re aware I can manage hostile interviews.”
“Very aware.”
“Then why do you keep stepping in?”
The question should be easy to answer.
Instead, I hesitate, because the truthful version sounds far less professional than it should.
I glance toward her as we walk. “Some of those questions aren’t designed to get information.”
“No,” she says. “They’re designed to get a reaction.”
“Then you know why I cut them off.”
Sloane stops walking so suddenly, and I take another step before realizing she isn’t beside me anymore. I turn back.
The hallway is quieter here, removed from most of the production noise. Soft carpet. Muted lighting. Frosted glass doors lead to unused conference rooms.
Sloane stands a few feet away, watching me with that same unreadable composure she wears when she’s trying not to let emotion dictate the conversation.
“You don’t get to decide which questions I can handle,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle them.”
“You acted like it.”
“No,” I reply, stepping back toward her. “I acted like they didn’t deserve access to you just because you were sitting under a camera.”
Something moves beneath her expression then. Small, fast, and gone almost immediately. But I see it. That’s becoming another problem.
Her voice stays even when she speaks again. “You’re making assumptions about what I need.”
“Maybe.”
“And that’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
Sloane’s gaze stays steady on mine. “Because eventually you’ll stop asking where the line is.”
I hold her gaze a second too long, aware of how quiet the hallway has become around us.
“I know where the line is,” I say evenly.
“Do you?”
The question affects me more than I want it to.
Before I can answer, Dana rounds the corner holding her phone. “Good news. The Crossridge Events Foundation clips are outperforming the relationship clips with business audiences.”
Sloane steps back immediately, putting distance between us before the moment can turn into something more noticeable.
“See?” she says smoothly, already turning back toward work. “The world still has priorities.”
Dana looks between us carefully. “Should I pretend I didn’t interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Sloane and I say at the same time.
Dana nods once. “Great. Love the team unity.”
Sloane closes her eyes briefly.
I look away before she catches the reaction threatening the corner of my mouth.
The next appearance isn’t for another hour, but as we head back toward the elevators, I realize I’ve stopped thinking about the interviews strategically and thinking about Sloane instead.
She commands rooms without raising her voice, notices pressure before anyone else recognizes it, and somehow becomes more controlled when she’s irritated instead of less. And despite the lines she keeps trying to draw between us, she stands closer to me every day.
That should concern me.
Instead, I find myself watching her walk ahead of me through the studio corridor, already reviewing notes for the next interview like the last conversation never happened.
She isn’t predictable, which is a problem, because somewhere between the press conference and this morning, I stopped looking at Sloane Parker like a temporary solution to a public problem.
And started looking at her like someone I wanted to understand.