10. Sloane
Sloane
Two nights after the foundation appearance, the woman touching Marcus’s arm is beautiful enough to make headlines on her own.
Tall, elegant, silver dress catching the warm light of the reception every time she moves.
She laughs at something Marcus says and lets her hand rest briefly against the sleeve of his jacket like the contact belongs there naturally.
It doesn’t. At least, I don’t think it does.
The Crossridge Events Foundation reception unfolds around them in polished waves of money and influence.
Donors move between conversation clusters beneath low golden lighting while servers weave through the ballroom carrying champagne that no one important is actually drinking.
Tessa Reed—who now runs the Crossridge Events Foundation alongside Graham Cross—had transformed the hotel space beautifully.
Clean branding. Controlled media access.
Enough warmth to soften the corporate edge without making the evening feel staged.
It should be exactly the kind of event I enjoy managing.
Instead, I’m standing near the donor wall pretending not to notice that Marcus still hasn’t stepped away from the woman currently smiling at him like she’s already decided she likes what she sees.
“Dana,” I say quietly, keeping my attention on the tablet in my hand, “who is she?”
Dana follows my line of sight immediately. “Elena Marlow. Family money, arts philanthropy, museum boards, and enough political connections to make three city council members nervous.”
“Useful.”
“Very.”
Dana pauses before adding carefully, “She also appears interested in Marcus.”
“I gathered that.”
“You looked like you gathered it aggressively.”
I glance at her.
Dana instantly straightens. “I’m returning to professional observations only.”
“Excellent decision.”
Across the room, Elena laughs again after Marcus says something low enough that I can’t hear, and a faint smile appears at the corner of his mouth in response. The irritation that moves through me is immediate and deeply inconvenient.
Professionally, there’s nothing wrong with the interaction. Marcus is speaking with a donor. That’s the event. That’s the entire purpose of tonight. Donors want access. They want attention. They want to feel important enough that billionaires remember their names six months later.
Normally, I would encourage this exact kind of engagement.
So there is absolutely no logical reason I should care that Elena Marlow keeps finding excuses to touch his arm while she talks to him.
Which means the growing pressure tightening beneath my ribs is something I’m choosing to ignore on principle alone.
A photographer near the bar starts angling toward them. That pulls me back into motion immediately. Not because of Marcus, but because optics matter.
I cross the ballroom at an even pace, timing my approach between conversations so it looks natural instead of corrective.
The trick with public events is never letting cameras see adjustments happening in real time.
The second something looks managed, people start looking for the reason it needed managing in the first place.
“Elena,” I say smoothly as I reach them. “I’m glad you could make it tonight.”
Elena turns toward me with a bright, practiced smile. “Sloane Parker. Finally. I was starting to think Marcus planned to keep me to himself all evening.”
Marcus’s gaze shifts toward mine briefly, controlled, neutral, and careful. It’s the same deliberate distance he’s maintained since the conference room two nights ago.
“Sloane was working,” he says.
“Of course she was,” Elena replies easily. “That seems to be everyone’s answer whenever I ask where she is.”
“That’s because they’re usually correct.”
Elena laughs softly, and I hate that she’s charming enough to make it difficult to dislike her properly.
“I see why the press likes the two of you together,” she says. “You balance each other well.”
Marcus says nothing, which is a problem.
Not because I need him to perform the relationship in front of donors.
He’s spent the last seventy-two hours making it very clear exactly how carefully he intends to redraw the lines between us.
But because he could redirect this conversation in seconds if he wanted to.
Instead, he lets the silence between us linger.
“He has excellent judgment when properly advised,” I say lightly.
Marcus looks at me then. Really looks at me. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough that the air becomes charged between us.
Elena notices.
“So it is real,” she says with obvious amusement.
“It’s private,” Marcus answers smoothly before I can.
The response should still something in me. Instead, it only makes me more aware of the fact that he waited until now to step in. Interesting. No. Irritating.
A photographer moves closer, camera lifting slightly. Marcus notices at the same moment I do.
His hand settles lightly against my back as he shifts us both toward the donor display beside the ballroom windows.
The contact is professional enough to pass cleanly in photographs, but awareness still moves through me instantly anyway.
I hate that my body reacts to him now before my brain has time to intervene.
“Elena,” Marcus says, “if you’ll excuse us for a minute.”
“Of course,” she says, smile widening just enough to imply she understands more than I would like. “I’ll see you both during the remarks.”
Marcus keeps his hand at my back as we move toward the quieter corridor near the event entrance. The noise of the reception softens behind us almost immediately, replaced by the quieter rhythm of staff movement and muted conversation drifting from the service hallway nearby.
The second we’re out of clear camera range, his hand disappears. That irritates me.
I stop near the hallway entrance and turn toward him. “You took your time ending that conversation.”
Marcus studies me carefully, expression unreadable. “She’s a donor.”
“She was flirting with you.”
“She flirts with everyone.”
“That’s reassuring.”
One corner of his mouth shifts slightly before disappearing again. “You sound annoyed.”
“I sound observant.”
“You crossed an entire ballroom because another woman touched my arm.”
Heat flashes under my skin before I can stop it.
“That was optics management.”
Marcus steps closer, not enough to trap me, just enough that the space between us suddenly feels smaller than it did a second ago. “Interesting strategy. You looked ready to declare war over a donor conversation.”
“I was correcting perception.”
“You were jealous.”
Something about the way he says it makes my breath catch before I can stop it. He notices immediately, and that annoys me even more.
“I was not jealous.”
“You’re a better liar when cameras are involved.”
“That’s a dangerous amount of confidence for someone currently being professionally tolerated.”
A quiet laugh almost escapes him at that, low enough that I feel the sound more than hear it. That is also irritating.
“I wasn’t interested in Elena,” he says after a moment.
“Congratulations.”
“Sloane.”
His tone is low and controlled, but careful enough to feel dangerous. I should step back before the conversation shifts into territory neither of us has handled well lately. Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
Marcus notices that too.
Something changes in his expression then. Not dramatically. Just enough that the air between us tightens almost immediately.
“You’re angry,” he says quietly.
“No. I’m frustrated.”
“With me.”
“With your timing.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “My timing.”
“You let that conversation continue until I stepped in.”
“You stepped in because you wanted to.”
I look away first, which only irritates me further because it feels like losing something I didn’t realize we were competing for, and suddenly the hallway feels too warm.
Marcus shifts closer again, slow enough that I could step back if I wanted to.
I don’t. The realization lands hard enough to make my pulse stumble once.
Three days ago, this would have felt impossible. Now I’m standing alone in a quiet corridor with Marcus Vale close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and not a single survival instinct in my body appears interested in helping me leave.
“You know what the problem is?” I ask quietly.
Marcus’s gaze stays fixed on mine. “Tell me.”
“You keep acting like you don’t want this.”
The words leave before I can stop them.
Silence follows immediately, and somehow it feels far more aware than awkward. His expression changes slightly, and suddenly, I know I said something dangerously close to the truth.
“I never said that,” he says.
“No. You just keep stopping.”
His eyes darken slightly at the words, and the tiny reaction moves through me like heat. There it is.
Proof.
Not the public performance or the strategic chemistry designed for cameras and headlines, but something real. The knowledge sends something reckless rising inside me before I can shut it down properly, and when Marcus's gaze drops to my mouth, my breath catches again.
This time, neither of us pretends not to notice.
The hallway narrows around us until all I can really register is the distance between his body and mine and the awareness pulling tighter every second we remain standing here.
Marcus’s hand lifts slightly like he’s debating whether to touch me before stopping himself halfway through the motion.
Somehow, the restraint is more intimate than touch would have been.
“Sloane,” he says quietly.
I step closer before I can reconsider it. Not enough to erase the space between us completely, but enough that the choice becomes obvious.
Marcus goes completely still.
For one suspended second, I honestly think this is the moment his control finally breaks. Because I can see it happening. The tension in his jaw. The way his breathing shifts slightly. The look in his eyes when he realizes I’m not pulling away.
I’m the one leaning in. And he wants this. The certainty of it settles into me instantly. Not professionally. Not strategically. Not as part of the performance we’ve been selling for the last week. Personally.
His hand closes briefly against my waist. It’s barely even a touch, still, it’s enough to send heat spiraling through me before he removes it again.
“There’s still time to step back,” he says roughly.
The warning should help. It doesn’t.
“Do you want me to?”
Marcus looks at me for one long, dangerous second, then he steps back again. Not far, just enough to put distance between us before either of us does something irreversible.
The disappointment is frustrating this time because now I know for certain it isn’t rejection. It’s restraint, and somehow that’s worse.
Marcus drags a hand through his hair slowly, composure slipping just enough to reveal the strain underneath it. “This isn’t simple anymore.”
A humorless laugh escapes me softly. “That’s one way to describe it.”
“Sloane—”
“The remarks start soon.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Marcus watches me for another second like he’s trying to decide whether stopping this was the right decision.
Maybe he’s wondering the same thing I am.
How many times can two people walk away from the exact same moment before it stops being restraint, and starts becoming something else entirely?
“We should go back,” I say quietly.
Neither of us moves immediately. The possibility still exists between us, alive and unresolved in the silence.
Then Marcus straightens slightly, control sliding back into place piece by piece.
“After you.”
He’s polite and measured. I hate how disappointed I am by that.
When we step back into the ballroom, the lights feel brighter than they did before. Elena is standing near the stage speaking with Tessa now, her silver dress catching the warm lighting every time she turns.
Her gaze flicks toward us immediately. Then to the careful distance between Marcus and me. The knowing smile that follows makes me want to fire her into another dimension.
Marcus steps beside me as the foundation director takes the microphone. Close enough for the room to read togetherness. Not close enough for me to feel him.
That, somehow, is the cruelest part.
Applause rises around us as the room turns toward the stage, but the space between Marcus and me feels louder than anything happening under the lights.
Neither of us acknowledges the hallway. Or the fact that I leaned in first. And we definitely don’t acknowledge that he almost let me kiss him.
And somehow the silence around those things feels far more dangerous than if we had.