25. Marcus
Marcus
Sloane is reorganizing my kitchen with the same expression she uses when correcting a communications crisis.
“This is unacceptable,” she says.
I look up from the laptop open on the island. “That is a strong opening for someone holding a box of tea.”
“It’s not tea. It’s decorative dust.”
“I’m fairly sure it’s chamomile.”
“It expired eight months ago.”
“That seems unlikely.”
She turns the box around and taps the date with one polished fingernail.
I study it for half a second. “That‘s unfortunate.”
“That’s neglect.”
“I don’t drink chamomile.”
“Clearly.”
She drops it into the trash with the kind of precision usually reserved for legal filings, then opens another cabinet in my penthouse like she has lived here longer than thirty-six hours since she agreed to marry me.
The thought should feel too fast. By every reasonable measure, it probably is. Instead, it feels strangely inevitable, and I think that's the part that surprises me most.
I have spent most of my adult life making sure nothing reached me before I had time to define it, assess it, and determine the most effective way to contain the consequences.
And now Sloane Parker is barefoot in my kitchen, wearing one of my shirts under a tailored blazer she insisted on keeping because she has a board call in forty minutes, throwing away expired tea and muttering about my “emotionally unavailable pantry.”
Nothing about that is controlled, but at the same time, everything about it feels right.
“You realize this is my home,” I say.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “That’s why I’m helping.”
“By insulting my groceries?”
“Marcus, you have three jars of olives, two imported mustards, and no actual breakfast food.”
“I have coffee.”
“You have coffee-flavored punishment.”
“You still drank it.”
“I was vulnerable.”
I close the laptop halfway. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Her eyes narrow. Good. The sharpness is still there, and always will be. That is part of what I love about her.
Before I can say anything else, her phone buzzes on the counter.
Mine follows a second later. The sound cuts through the quiet morning, familiar enough to make both of us glance down at once.
Sloane picks up her phone first. Her expression shifts immediately from teasing to focused, the softness of the morning folding neatly behind something more controlled.
“Dana,” she says. “Apex-linked accounts are testing a new narrative.”
I open my laptop fully. “What angle?”
She reads silently for a moment, then turns the screen toward me. “They’re implying the engagement announcement was timed to distract from the Evan breach.”
I scan the message.
Julian has not disappeared. Apex has not admitted anything meaningful. The consulting firm has lawyered up, Evan is cooperating selectively, and the public narrative has shifted enough in our favor to make the next attack both weaker and more desperate. It doesn’t mean it’s harmless.
Sloane reaches for the coffee I made her and takes a sip without looking away from her screen. Then grimaces.
“I love you,” she says, “but this remains a cry for help.”
I almost smile. “Focus.”
“I am focused. Unfortunately, my taste buds have also joined the conversation.”
Despite everything, the smile wins. She sees it, and for half a second, the morning softens again. Then she sets the mug down and moves around the island to stand beside me instead of across from me. The gesture is small, but it affects me every time she does it.
She leans one hip against the counter and scrolls through Dana’s message. “We don’t chase this directly.”
“No.”
Her gaze flicks toward mine. “You agree?”
“Yes.”
“That was suspiciously easy.”
“It’s the correct call.”
“It was also my call.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
She studies me for a beat longer, mouth twitching. “Growth continues to look strange on you.”
“It remains uncomfortable.”
“I’m proud of you.”
The words come lightly, almost teasing, but they affect me more than she probably intended.
I look back at the screen before she can see too much of that. Too late. She always sees too much, and her hand brushes mine beneath the edge of the island. Not accidental, or performative. Just a small point of contact while we both read the same message.
I turn my hand enough for our fingers to link. The gesture is simple. Easy. The kind of thing I used to think belonged to people who had somehow failed to understand how many ways life could break open if left unattended.
Now I think maybe this is what steadiness actually feels like. Not the absence of risk or the certainty that everything will work out, but knowing someone is standing beside you while the room keeps moving anyway.
“Marcus.”
I look up.
She’s watching me with that expression she gets when she knows I’ve gone somewhere internal but is deciding whether to drag me back or let me arrive on my own.
“Yes?”
“You’re thinking loudly again.”
“I’m making strategic observations.”
“In your feelings?”
“Apparently.”
Her smile turns softer. “Dangerous territory.”
“I have competent supervision.”
“I’m not signing off on that liability.”
“I’ll have legal draft something.”
“Romantic.”
I lift her hand and press my mouth lightly to her knuckles. That stops her. The pleasure of surprising Sloane Parker may never get old.
Her eyes soften before she gives me a look clearly intended to restore balance. “You can’t kiss my hand every time I win an argument.”
“I can try.”
“You’ll be exhausted by noon.”
“Worth it.”
She laughs, and the sound moves through the penthouse like something I didn’t know I needed until it existed. My place has never been loud.
It has always been expensive, quiet, orderly, and largely unused except for sleep, showering, and the occasional event where I stood near a window with a drink I barely wanted while influential people spoke in circles around me.
Now there are shoes near the entryway that aren’t mine.
A purse hanging over the back of a chair.
Sloane’s tablet charging beside my laptop.
Her lipstick on the rim of one of my coffee mugs.
Her presence threaded through the space in small, ordinary disruptions that make it feel less like a place I maintain and more like somewhere a life might actually happen.
I used to think control meant nothing moved unless I allowed it. This is messier, and much better.
Sloane turns back to the counter. “We need to give Dana a response before she decides silence means we’ve been murdered by bad coffee.”
“She would phrase it more professionally.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
We draft the response together. Not with me standing over her shoulder, or with her fighting me for room. Together.
Sloane leads the language, because she should. I flag one legal exposure point, and she adjusts the phrase without surrendering the meaning. She cuts one of my suggested lines before I finish speaking.
“No,” she says.
“You haven’t heard the end.”
“I heard enough.”
“That seems arbitrary.”
“That seems accurate.”
I lean back slightly. “The line was good.”
“The line sounded like a man trying to sound like he wasn’t managing public perception while actively managing public perception.”
I pause, and she looks at me. Then I delete the line.
“Progress,” she says.
“Painful.”
“Growth often is.”
“I liked you better before you became emotionally wise.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She’s right, I didn’t. I liked her from the beginning, though I had no useful language for it then. Wanted her before I trusted wanting. Respected her before I understood how much of my irritation was attraction colliding with admiration.
I loved her before I had the courage to stop calling it strategy. The realization no longer frightens me. That’s new too.
I send the revised response to Dana. Within thirty seconds, Dana replies. Perfect. Also please eat something. Both of you. The vibes are becoming concerning.
Sloane reads it over my shoulder and snorts. “She has a gift.”
“She’s insubordinate.”
“She learned from the best.”
“I assume you mean yourself.”
“Obviously.”
I reach for my phone to reply, but Sloane takes it from my hand before I can.
“Absolutely not.”
“That‘s my phone.”
“And you were about to respond to Dana before eating.”
“I was going to say noted.”
“You were going to lie.”
“I was going to delay.”
“Same thing.”
She sets both our phones facedown on the far side of the island, then opens my refrigerator with grim determination, and I watch her assess the contents in absolute silence. It’s terrifying.
“You have eggs,” she says finally.
“That sounds positive.”
“It sounds survivable.”
“I’m a billionaire. We can order breakfast.”
“And reward this refrigerator for failing upward?”
“I wasn’t aware refrigerators required accountability.”
“Everything in this penthouse requires accountability.”
I push away from the island. “Including me?”
She looks back at me, and her face softens in a way that takes the teasing somewhere warmer.
“Especially you.”
The answer should feel like a challenge. Instead, it feels like being known.
Sloane pulls the eggs from the refrigerator, then points toward a drawer. “Pan.”
I retrieve one.
“Wrong pan.”
I look at the pan in my hand. “It’s a pan.”
“It’s the wrong pan.”
“This is becoming hostile.”
“This is breakfast.”
“I’m beginning to understand why people outsource domestic labor.”
She turns, laughing under her breath, and reaches past me for a different pan.
Her body brushes mine in the process, casual and warm and devastatingly familiar for something still so new.
I catch her waist before she can move away, and she pauses.
The kitchen seems to quiet around us, not with tension or uncertainty, but with the simple awareness that neither of us is quite ready to let the moment end.
Her hands rest lightly against my chest. “We’re supposed to be making breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“I’m standing still.”
“With intent.”