16. Sloane
Sloane
By noon, three partnership meetings have been canceled, one investor group has delayed a media appearance indefinitely, and an industry blog I used to contribute commentary to has quietly removed my name from an upcoming panel announcement without bothering to send an explanation.
Worse, the requests for comment have stopped. Not all of them. A few reporters still reach out because controversy drives traffic. But the journalists who used to call when they needed context, clarification, or a source they could trust have gone silent.
That part almost makes me laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s efficient. Public credibility is currency in this industry, and right now mine looks radioactive.
I sit at my desk staring at a spreadsheet I haven’t actually read in twenty minutes while Dana moves carefully through the office around me.
The entire communications area feels different today.
Quieter. Too aware of itself. Conversations lower when I walk past. Screens tilt away slightly slower than people probably realize.
No one is openly avoiding me. If anything, people seem determined to be careful around me, and somehow that feels worse. Pity is harder to fight than hostility.
My inbox refreshes again with another message marked urgent. I open it automatically.
Sloane —Given the current volatility surrounding Crossridge Communications, our leadership team feels it may be best to revisit timing before continuing discussions around our joint media initiative...
I stop reading halfway through. The phrasing shifts from email to email, but the message stays the same. No one wants to be attached to me while my name is a liability.
I close the email carefully and set my phone face down against the desk before I do something deeply unprofessional like throw it through the glass wall beside me.
Dana appears near the corner of my desk holding coffee. “You haven’t moved in almost an hour.”
“I answered twelve emails.”
“You glared at twelve emails.”
“Same basic skill set.”
Her mouth twitches slightly, but the concern underneath it stays visible. That’s becoming a problem. People are looking at me carefully, like they’re trying to decide whether I’m about to collapse.
I take the coffee from her. “Thanks.”
“You should eat something too.”
“I’m not emotionally stable enough for yogurt right now.”
“That’s honestly the most reasonable thing you’ve said all morning.”
A laugh almost escapes me.
Dana leans one hip against the edge of my desk. “For what it’s worth, legal’s forensic report is solid.”
“It won’t matter to half the people reposting screenshots.”
“No,” she admits. “Probably not.”
That honesty helps more than reassurance would have.
I stare past the office windows toward the skyline beyond them. Gray clouds sit low over the city, flattening the afternoon light into something dull and heavy. The weather feels weirdly appropriate for the mood inside the building.
Everything about Crossridge feels paused today, like the entire building is holding its breath while waiting to see how much damage survives the fallout.
My phone buzzes again, but this time I don’t look immediately because I already know it isn’t Marcus.
He stopped trying to contact me sometime last night.
That should make this easier. It doesn’t.
Because the silence feels intentional now, and intentional silence from Marcus Vale carries weight differently than anyone else’s.
Part of me is relieved he backed off, but another part keeps noticing the absence anyway. I hate that both things are true.
The phone buzzes a second time.
Unknown number.
I answer before I can overthink it. “Sloane Parker.”
“Still sounds terrifyingly composed.”
I blink once in surprise. “Adrian?”
“Disappointed?”
“Mostly confused.”
“That’s fair.”
I lean back slowly in my chair while Dana discreetly moves away to give me privacy without making it obvious she’s doing it. “Should I be concerned you’re calling me directly?”
“You should probably always be concerned when someone from executive leadership calls directly.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth lifts.
Adrian’s voice shifts slightly, becoming more serious. "You weren't there for the board discussion yesterday."
“That wasn’t really a social call kind of day.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “It wasn’t.”
A measured silence stretches briefly between us.
Adrian Cross is dangerous in a very different way than Marcus. Marcus pushes. Adrian observes. He waits long enough for people to reveal things accidentally.
I’m suddenly very aware that he didn’t call to discuss canceled campaigns.
“What happened in the meeting?” I ask.
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Whitmore suggested sidelining you.”
The words make my stomach tighten instantly.
I close my eyes briefly. “And?”
“And Marcus shut it down immediately.”
Something in my chest expands before I can stop it. I don’t trust the feeling.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you should know what actually happened in that room.”
I stare at the dark screen of my computer monitor without really seeing it.
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” Adrian says calmly. “Probably not.”
I wait.
He lets the silence sit long enough that I finally speak first. “You sound like there’s a second part to that sentence.”
“There is.”
I lean back farther in my chair.
Adrian exhales quietly. “Marcus has handled a lot of this badly.”
That honesty catches me off guard enough that I don’t interrupt.
“He pushes too hard when he thinks he can contain fallout,” Adrian continues. “And when he’s worried about someone, he gets more controlling, not less. Graham used to do the same thing.”
The comparison is harder to dismiss than I want it to be.
“But Marcus didn’t leak those emails, Sloane.”
“I know that rationally.”
“That’s not the same thing as believing it emotionally.”
No, it isn’t. I rub a hand slowly across my forehead, exhaustion pressing harder behind my eyes now that someone has finally said the thing I’ve been refusing to separate cleanly in my own head.
Marcus didn't create the attack, but he escalated the strategy. He tried to protect me and still ended up hurting me. All of those things can exist at the same time, which is unfortunately the kind of emotional complexity I would prefer not to deal with before coffee fully metabolizes.
“He should have listened to me sooner,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
The immediate agreement surprises me enough that I actually laugh under my breath.
Adrian continues before I can respond. “But he also spent most of yesterday refusing to let the board use you as damage control.”
The comment strips away some of the certainty I've been relying on, because I can picture it too easily. The controlled expression. The absolute refusal to compromise once he decides something matters. The way he can hold a position so firmly that everyone else ends up adjusting around him.
I hate that I can see it so clearly, and I hate even more that part of me immediately believes Adrian.
“You sound very invested in defending him.”
“I’m invested in accuracy.”
“That’s a diplomatic answer.”
“It’s an executive-level survival skill.”
That almost earns another laugh from me.
Adrian’s voice softens slightly. “Sloane.”
I wait.
“He cares about you.”
The words echo something I've been trying not to acknowledge. I stare out at the city again while something tightens painfully beneath my ribs.
“That’s part of the problem.”
“I know.”
And somehow that answer hurts worse than disagreement would have.
Because if Adrian sees it too, then maybe I haven’t imagined the shift between us over the last few weeks. Maybe the rooftop wasn’t one-sided. Maybe the greenroom wasn’t just tension distorted by stress and proximity and public pressure.
Maybe Marcus really was standing there trying not to cross lines that had already blurred beyond recognition.
I don’t know what to do with that information now. Especially not after yesterday, not when my career still feels like it’s balancing on broken glass.
“I can’t trust what this is anymore,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Adrian is quiet for a second. “That’s fair.”
Adrian doesn't offer reassurance or pressure, just acknowledgment. I appreciate that more than I expect to.
My inbox refreshes again, another cancellation request appearing at the top of the screen. I stare at it numbly.
Adrian must hear the silence deepen because his voice lowers slightly. “How bad?”
“Three organizations have paused scheduled communications work with Crossridge. Two more are reassessing planned initiatives. One industry panel quietly removed me this morning.”
“Cowards.”
The bluntness catches me off guard enough that I smile despite myself.
“A little unprofessional from executive leadership.”
“Good thing no one recorded the call.”
I lean back farther in my chair and finally take a sip of the coffee Dana brought me twenty minutes ago. It’s lukewarm now.
“What happens if the corrections don’t work?” I ask quietly.
Adrian doesn’t answer immediately, and I almost wish he would lie.
“Then some people will believe the original story anyway,” he says finally. “Because outrage is easier to hold onto than nuance.”
The knot in my chest tightens again.
“Marcus knows that too,” Adrian adds. “That’s why he reacted the way he did in the boardroom.”
Something about hearing it framed that way unsettles me more than I expect.
Something twists painfully in my chest. For weeks I've been telling myself Marcus was reacting to the crisis, to the company, to the pressure surrounding us. But if Adrian is right, then at least part of it was never about Crossridge at all.
It was about me.
I close my eyes briefly.
God.
This would be easier if I could just hate him cleanly.
Instead, I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, emotionally ricocheting between anger, hurt, attraction, resentment, and the deeply inconvenient awareness that Marcus never once actually let the board sacrifice me, even when doing it would have made his life easier.
The silence stretches long enough that Adrian speaks again.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “Marcus looked about five minutes away from personally throwing Whitmore through a window.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“There’s the reaction I was aiming for,” Adrian says dryly.
“I’m glad my emotional instability is entertaining someone.”
“It’s not entertaining. It’s mildly reassuring.”
I shake my head slowly. The tension in my shoulders eases just enough for me to realize how exhausted I actually am—not physically, but emotionally, as though the last several weeks have finally caught up to me all at once.
“I still don’t know what to believe,” I admit quietly.
“That’s probably because there’s truth on both sides of it.”
I frown slightly. “That sounds suspiciously philosophical for a corporate executive.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Marcus would hate that sentence.”
“He absolutely would.”
That almost makes me smile again.
Adrian’s tone shifts back toward seriousness. “He’s trying, Sloane.”
I don't have an immediate argument for that.
He’s not defending him or making excuses. Just stating what he sees as the truth.
I stare at the skyline beyond the windows while uncertainty presses heavier against my ribs than anger did.
Because anger is clean; it gives me direction, but this? This blurred, complicated, emotionally dangerous middle ground, where Marcus hurt me without intending to and still refused to let anyone else destroy me professionally, is much harder to survive.
“I have work to do,” I say finally.
Adrian doesn’t push. “I figured you’d say that.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Take care of yourself anyway.”
The call disconnects before I can come up with a response, and I lower the phone slowly onto the desk and sit there for a long moment staring at nothing.
Dana approaches cautiously. “You look slightly less homicidal.”
“High praise.”
“Was that good or bad?”
I think about Marcus standing in the boardroom, refusing to let them cut me loose. About Adrian, admitting Marcus handled things badly while still insisting he never intended harm. About the rooftop, the greenroom, and the look on Marcus’s face yesterday when I accused him of using me.
I don’t know what to do with any of it.
“That,” I say honestly, “is becoming a very complicated question.”
Dana studies me for a second. “That sounds ominous.”
“It feels ominous.”
Outside the office windows, the clouds finally break enough for weak sunlight to spill across the skyline. Not bright, just enough to make the city look uncertain again instead of ruined.
I’m starting to realize that might be worse. Because certainty, anger, betrayal, and blame are easier to hold onto than this creeping possibility that Marcus was telling the truth all along.
And if he was?
I honestly don’t know what that means for either of us anymore.