19. Marcus
Marcus
I wake up before Sloane does.
For several seconds, I stay exactly where I am, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing against my chest.
The city beyond the windows is still gray with early morning light, the skyline blurred behind low clouds and streaks of rain that must have started sometime during the night. My office feels unfamiliar in daylight. Softer somehow. Less controlled.
Or maybe that's just because Sloane is asleep on my couch, wearing my shirt. The sight of her catches me off guard, making it impossible to ignore what we've both been trying not to name.
Last night wasn’t strategy unraveling into attraction or proximity or adrenaline or another moment we could quietly step away from later and pretend meant less than it did. There is no pretending left now.
Sloane shifts slightly, one hand curling closer to her face as she exhales softly into the quiet room. My shirt hangs loose against her skin, exposing one bare shoulder where the fabric slipped during the night.
Something tightens painfully in my chest. Not regret, though that would honestly be easier.
I sit forward slowly, elbows braced against my knees, and drag one hand across my face while memory crashes back all at once.
Her voice breaking when she admitted she wanted to trust me.
Her hands in my hair. The look on her face when I asked whether this was anger or gratitude and she answered me honestly anyway.
God.
I should probably feel more in control this morning. Instead, I feel exposed in ways I'm still struggling to define.
My phone vibrates quietly on the coffee table.
Thirty-seven unread emails. Twelve missed calls. Four board requests. Messages from legal, investor relations, and two media outlets looking for comment on yesterday's statement.
The last notification is from Graham.
Sent at 5:14 this morning: We need to talk before the board meeting.
I glance toward Sloane one more time before pushing to my feet and crossing the office.
The desk chair rolls back quietly as I sit down, the familiar routine of screens, emails, and unfinished problems waiting exactly where I left them. None of it feels particularly familiar this morning.
I lean back against the chair slowly, staring at the notifications without opening any of them.
Normally, I would already be moving. Answering. Directing. Managing fallout before anyone else inside the company fully woke up. Instead, I’m sitting here listening to Sloane breathe softly ten feet away while the consequences I detonated yesterday continue spreading through Crossridge.
Strangely, I don't regret the statement. What I regret is how long it took me to get there. I regret that Sloane had to be publicly destroyed before I stopped treating truth like something that needed to be carefully portioned out for strategic effect.
But the statement itself? I don’t regret it.
The couch shifts quietly, and I turn just as Sloane opens her eyes.
For one long second, neither of us says anything.
Somehow, everything feels different in daylight.
Last night existed in shadows and heat and emotional collapse.
This feels quieter. More exposed. Like we’re finally seeing the shape of what we did without adrenaline muting the edges.
Sloane pushes herself upright slowly, and my shirt falls farther down her shoulder, and my entire body reacts before I can stop it. Her gaze flicks toward me immediately, but neither of us comments on it.
“Good morning,” she says softly.
The roughness in her voice does something dangerous to my concentration.
“Morning.”
The silence is uncertain, which feels somehow more fragile and infinitely more dangerous.
Sloane glances toward the windows before looking back at me. “You’re already awake.”
“I usually am by now.”
“You didn’t wake me.”
“No.”
A faint crease appears between her brows, like she’s trying to decide what that means. Honestly, so am I.
I stand slowly and cross toward the built-in coffee bar along the far wall. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” she says immediately. “Please.”
The relief in her voice almost makes me smile.
I start the machine and let the familiar hum fill the silence. Behind me, I catch the soft shift of fabric, the whisper of bare feet against the carpet, and the quiet rustle of Sloane adjusting my shirt before she finally stands.
I keep my focus on the coffee longer than necessary. Not because I regret last night, but because if I look at her too long right now, I’m not entirely convinced I’ll remember how to function normally.
“You’re avoiding looking at me,” she says after a moment.
My hand stills briefly against the counter before I glance back.
Sloane stands near the couch, my shirt still hanging loosely against her thighs, her hair messy from sleep and my hands and everything that happened between us afterward. The sight of her almost wrecks my ability to think coherently.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” I say carefully.
That surprises a soft laugh out of her.
“Marcus.”
“There’s a difference between restraint and disinterest.”
Something in her expression shifts slightly at that. Not quite relief, but close enough that I notice it immediately.
I hand her the coffee a moment later, careful not to let my fingers linger too long against hers when she takes it. The fact that I have to consciously stop myself from touching her feels ridiculous after last night.
She notices that too.
Her gaze lifts briefly to mine over the rim of the cup. “This is strange.”
“Yes.”
“You agreeing that quickly somehow makes it worse.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“And what’s that?”
“Honesty without negotiation.”
That earns another small look from her, and the room quiets again after that.
Rain taps softly against the windows. Somewhere below us, the city is already moving through another workday while Crossridge continues bleeding headlines across financial media and industry blogs.
Eventually, Sloane sets the coffee down carefully. “What happens now?”
The real challenge isn't what happened between us last night. It's figuring out what we're supposed to do with it now.
I lean back slightly against the counter. “Professionally?”
“That’s a very Marcus answer.”
“It’s the question we actually have to deal with.”
“I know.” Her voice softens slightly. “I just hate that you’re right.”
I understand that feeling better than I want to.
“The board meeting is in two hours,” I tell her. “Legal finalized the forensic release overnight. Investor relations is probably preparing damage-control calls already.”
“And you?”
My gaze holds hers. “I’m releasing the rest of it.”
Sloane stills slightly. “All of it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not very strategic.”
“No.”
A strange expression crosses her face then. Not surprise exactly. More like she still isn’t fully used to hearing me say things without calculating the angle underneath them first.
Honestly, neither am I.
“You know the board’s going to fight you on that,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
She studies me carefully over the edge of the coffee cup. And for once, I don’t try to control what she sees.
Sloane exhales slowly. “That’s new.”
“I’m aware.”
“Does it terrify you?”
“A little.”
That answer earns the closest thing to a real smile I've seen from her in days. It's faint, touched by exhaustion, and still capable of doing things to my concentration that should concern me.
She looks away first, and I decide not to examine how relieved I am by that. I'm already far too close to closing the distance and kissing her again instead of discussing the very real corporate disaster waiting outside this office.
Instead, Sloane drifts toward the windows and stares down at the city below.
“I don’t know what we are now,” she admits quietly.
Neither do I.
We crossed every line last night. Emotional. Physical. Professional. And somehow the uncertainty afterward feels more intimate than the sex itself. Because this is the part neither of us knows how to control.
“You don’t have to decide this morning,” I say.
“That’s not actually reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
A soft breath escapes her that almost sounds like another laugh.
I watch her carefully from across the room. “Do you regret it?”
Her shoulders tense slightly from how serious the question is.
“No,” she says finally. “That adds a layer of complication.”
Something inside me loosens at the answer.
Sloane turns back toward me slowly. “Do you?”
“No.”
The response comes too quickly to be performative. For several long seconds, her eyes hold mine before she nods once, and the trust in that small gesture lands harder than I expect.
My phone chooses that moment to buzz again on the counter between us, and this time Sloane glances down before I can stop her.
“Legal,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You’re ignoring a lot of people.”
“I know.”
“You usually don’t.”
“No.”
Something about that changes her expression, if only for a second.
Because for weeks, she watched me prioritize control over everything else.
Strategy over uncertainty. Protection over honesty.
Now I’m standing here letting the fallout happen in real time without trying to contain every variable first.
It doesn’t feel comfortable, but it feels necessary.
Sloane sets the coffee down slowly. “Marcus.”
I look at her.
“What if this destroys you, too?”
The question catches me off guard, not because of the implications for the board, but because of the concern underneath it. I move toward her before I fully think through the decision, stopping just close enough to feel the warmth of her body beneath my shirt.
“It might,” I say honestly.
Her throat tightens visibly.
“And you’re still doing it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The answer comes easier than it used to.
“Because you were carrying consequences I helped create, and instead of standing beside you, I kept trying to manage the outcome.”
Sloane’s eyes close briefly. When they open again, something in them looks painfully soft.
“That’s a very dangerous thing to say to someone who slept with you six hours ago.”
“I’m trying honesty without negotiation, remember?”
That finally pulls a quiet laugh from her. Real this time, and the sound moves through me like relief. I lift one hand slowly, giving her enough time to step back if she wants to.
My fingers brush lightly against her jaw, and the intimacy of such a small touch after everything we did last night nearly undoes me anyway.
Sloane leans into it for half a second before catching herself and putting a little distance back between us.
It's subtle, but I notice it immediately. Not rejection, just caution. And honestly, after everything that's happened, she's probably right to feel it.
“We should probably stop pretending this is still just PR strategy,” she says quietly.
My thumb stills briefly against her skin.
“Yes.”
The word hangs between us with more weight than it should.
There isn't much left to pretend about anymore. Not the attraction. Not the fact that our relationship slipped beyond the boundaries either of us tried to maintain weeks ago. Not what happened last night. And certainly not the consequences already gathering outside this room.
My phone vibrates twice in quick succession. When I glance at the screen, Graham's name is waiting for me along with two lines that immediately drag reality back into the room.
Board emergency meeting moved up.Media escalation accelerating.
Sloane watches my expression carefully. “Bad?”
“Yes.”
“You should answer it.”
She’s right, I should.
The rain continues tapping softly against the glass while morning light slowly brightens around us, exposing every unresolved thing still hanging between us.
The board, Julian, the leaks, Crossridge, and whatever Sloane and I are now have all become tangled together in ways that are impossible to separate.
Nothing about this is clean anymore, and none of it is manageable in the way I once preferred.
And somehow, standing here with Sloane looking at me like she’s still trying to decide whether trusting me is bravery or stupidity, I finally understand that control was never the same thing as stability.
I answer Graham’s call without taking my eyes off her.
“Tell me how bad it is,” I say.
Across from me, Sloane hugs herself, and for the first time since this started, neither of us pretends we are anything less than exactly what we’ve become.