25. Marcus #2
My mouth curves. “That sounds like something you’d put in a press statement.”
“I would never waste good language on this.”
“On us?”
“On you behaving badly in a kitchen.”
I lower my head, stopping close enough that her breath changes. “Am I?”
“Not yet.”
The words make it considerably harder to focus on anything resembling responsibility. Her phone buzzes from the island, mine follows a second later, and neither interruption receives the attention it probably deserves.
Sloane’s eyes stay on mine. “That could be important.”
“It probably is.”
“We should check.”
“Yes.”
We still don’t move. Then she laughs softly, presses one quick kiss to my mouth, and steps out of my arms before I can turn breakfast into something else entirely.
“Eggs first,” she says.
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
“Look at you listening.”
“I’ve heard it’s important.”
She smiles at me over her shoulder, and for one second, the noise finally quiets. The cameras, the leaks, the forged emails, the endless speculation about who we were and what we meant to each other all seem very far away.
Just Sloane in my kitchen, trying to make breakfast out of an underperforming refrigerator while my phone vibrates with whatever disaster is waiting next. This is not the absence of chaos.
That used to be the thing I wanted most.
A life arranged carefully enough that nothing unexpected could reach the people I cared about. No late-night phone calls. No hidden debt. No car idling outside a house while someone pretended not to be afraid.
But chaos still comes. Julian still exists. Apex still maneuvers. The board still watches. The public story still shifts when the wind changes direction. The difference isn't that I've finally built a world nothing can touch. It's that I'm no longer standing in it alone.
Across the kitchen, Sloane cracks an egg into a bowl with far more confidence than I have in this process.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“I’m observing.”
“That sounds executive.”
“It was intended to.”
“Try again.”
I step beside her and take the second egg when she hands it to me.
“I’m happy,” I say.
The words come out simply, without strategy or any attempt to soften them into something easier to manage. Her hand stills over the bowl, and for a moment, she doesn’t look at me at all. When she finally does, the softness in her expression hits hard enough to make my chest tighten.
“Good,” she says quietly.
That’s all she says. No teasing, deflection, or attempt to turn the moment into something lighter than it is. Just good.
And somehow, it is enough.
By the time we manage breakfast, the eggs are slightly overcooked, Sloane has insulted three more things in my kitchen, and Dana has sent two follow-up messages, one marked urgent and the other containing only three question marks.
We eat standing at the island because Sloane insists sitting down would give the day too much confidence. I don’t understand the logic, and I also don’t argue. Eventually, we return to the work.
Julian’s latest angle has already started losing traction after Dana posts the revised response.
Apex remains exposed enough to keep legal aggression.
Evan is still protecting himself first, but the information he's provided has been useful.
Graham is coordinating with outside counsel.
Adrian has investor relations contained.
Declan has sent one message to the executive thread saying, simply, Stop letting Julian drive the room.
It is annoying because he’s right.
Sloane reads the message and nods thoughtfully. “He has gargoyle wisdom.”
“I am not telling him that.”
“I might.”
“Please don’t.”
“No promises.”
We spend the next hour building the afternoon response plan from my dining table because Sloane declares my office energy “too emotionally compromised,” and I decide not to ask whether that’s criticism or a compliment. It’s probably both.
She works with her feet tucked beneath her, tablet balanced against one knee, hair falling loose around her face while she edits language in real time.
I sit beside her instead of across from her, marking legal exposure and investor implications while she shapes the response into something human enough to actually work.
We argue twice, briefly and productively. The third time, she points her pen at me.
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The preemptive correction thing.”
I look back at the paragraph and realize she's right. A few months ago, that would have irritated me. Now it mostly feels like confirmation that she's paying attention.
Leaning back in my chair, I gesture toward the screen. “Fix it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, though not with suspicion this time. Something more satisfied moves through her expression instead.
“Gladly.”
She revises the paragraph in under thirty seconds. It’s better immediately, and when I tell her so, she tries not to look pleased, and fails.
The day continues like that. Not simple. Not easy. But steady.
By late afternoon, the public sentiment report shows measurable improvement.
The Apex narrative has stopped spreading beyond known accounts.
Legal has enough to tighten the filing strategy.
Graham sends a message confirming the emergency board session has been moved to Monday, not because the crisis is over, but because it no longer owns the entire building.
Sloane reads that one twice, then lowers the tablet slowly.
“What?” I ask.
“They moved the board session.”
“Yes.”
“Because they can.”
I understand what she means.
For days, every meeting happened because panic demanded it. Every response was reactive. Every room felt one step behind the next attack. This is the first decision that feels like Crossridge choosing timing instead of having the timing chosen for us.
“That’s good,” I say.
“It is.”
Her voice is quiet, and I reach for her hand beneath the table. This time neither of us makes a joke. She threads her fingers through mine and looks out at the city beyond the windows, and for a while we simply sit there together. The silence is so comfortable it almost feels unfamiliar.
Eventually, she turns back to me. “You know this doesn’t mean everything is fixed.”
“I know.”
“Julian is still out there.”
“Yes.”
“Apex will keep trying to protect him.”
“Yes.”
“And the public still thinks we’re fascinating.”
“Unfortunate, but yes.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “You’re handling that better than expected.”
“I’ve accepted that being engaged to you comes with communication challenges.”
“Engaged to me?”
I pause, and her eyes watch me with too much amusement.
I narrow my eyes. “Was that a trap?”
“A little.”
“Very mature.”
“I’m a communications professional. Language matters.”
“Yes,” I say, turning fully toward her. “Engaged to you.”
Her expression changes just enough that I barely see it. The softness. The wonder. The small, almost fragile pleasure she still doesn’t entirely know what to do with.
I lift her hand and press my mouth to her knuckles.
“You like doing that,” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I look at her hand in mine and the absence of a ring. We'll choose that together. Then I look at the woman beside me and think about the way she insisted her yes remain hers, and how that single choice taught me more about commitment than any public vow ever could.
“Because it reminds me I’m allowed to.”
Her eyes glisten suddenly.
“Marcus.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know the tone.”
She laughs once, shaky and warm, and before either of us can make the moment too careful, I pull her gently into my lap, where she immediately wraps one arm around my shoulders and rests her forehead against mine.
The city glows around us while our phones continue lighting up on the table beside the unfinished work. The threat is still there. Julian is still out there somewhere. None of it has disappeared.
But for the first time in my life, unfinished things don’t feel like failure. They just feel like life: messy, uncontrolled, and still somehow ours.
Sloane’s fingers brush lightly through my hair. “You’re thinking again.”
“I’ve been told I do it loudly.”
“You do.”
“I was thinking this feels different.”
Her gaze holds mine. “Different how?”
I look around the penthouse—her shoes near the door, our laptops open side by side, breakfast dishes still in the sink, legal notes spread across the dining table, phones buzzing with problems that will still be there in five minutes.
Then I look at her.
“It feels like what control was supposed to be.”
Her expression softens completely, and I know I don't need to explain. She understands.
Control was never supposed to mean holding everything so tightly that nothing could breathe. It was supposed to mean safety. Stability. A place where the people you love can stand without wondering when the next floorboard will give way beneath them.
I spent years mistaking one for the other.
Sloane cups my face gently. “This isn’t control.”
“No,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “It’s better.”
She kisses me then, soft and certain, and I let the unfinished world wait.
For once, I know it will still be there when we turn back to it.
And so will we.