26. Sloane
Sloane
One Year Later
The ballroom glows gold beneath the crystal chandeliers, elegant enough to look effortless to everyone who didn’t spend six months planning it.
Tessa Reed stands near the stage entrance with a headset on, calmly redirecting a catering manager and a lighting technician at the same time without visibly increasing her heart rate.
I watch her for a second and smile to myself. Some things at Crossridge simply work better under pressure. Tessa is one of them.
“You’re staring,” Dana says beside me.
“I’m appreciating competence.”
“You’re married to Marcus Vale. Surely you see competence every day.”
“That’s a very different kind of competence.”
Dana hums thoughtfully. “Fair.”
Across the ballroom, donors and executives move through the Foundation gala in polished waves of conversation and candlelight while waitstaff circulate trays of champagne beneath massive white orchid installations. Tessa absolutely fought someone to get them approved.
The Crossridge Events Foundation logo glows softly across the stage backdrop.
One year ago, this entire room would have felt impossible. Not the gala itself. Crossridge has hosted events larger than this for years. It's the peace that feels unfamiliar. The absence of panic. The quiet certainty that no one is waiting for the floor to disappear beneath us.
The thought lingers in the back of my mind as I scan the ballroom, tracking media movement out of instinct more than concern.
The press section along the west side remains controlled. Sponsor interviews are running on schedule. Social clips from the donor reception are already performing well online, and Dana successfully killed one invasive question about my engagement ring before it reached a live microphone.
Professionally, it’s one of the smoothest large-scale events we’ve ever handled. Personally? I still occasionally catch myself staring at my husband across crowded rooms like I invented him.
Dana notices the direction of my attention and sighs dramatically. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The look.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look.”
Across the ballroom, Marcus is speaking with two investors near the donor wall, posture relaxed in a way that still catches me off guard sometimes. Not because he’s softer. Marcus will never be soft in the way people expect powerful men to soften. But he’s different now.
A year ago, he moved through rooms like he was preparing to outmaneuver them before they had the chance to shift beneath him. Now? He looks grounded inside them. The control is still there. The sharpness. The intelligence. The ability to command attention without raising his voice.
But it no longer feels like armor first. It feels like confidence. And somehow that makes him even more dangerous to my nervous system.
As if sensing my attention, Marcus glances across the ballroom and finds me immediately. Also not new. The second Marcus sees me, something in his expression changes; small, private, and unmistakably mine.
Dana catches it, too. “Ugh. Disgusting.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re in love at a gala. I’m reacting appropriately.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a message from one of the media coordinators. A National business outlet is requesting post-event statement confirmation before morning release.
I scan the draft quickly, already editing phrasing in my head.
Dana watches my face. “Bad?”
“No. Just sloppy.”
“Professionally sloppy or legally sloppy?”
“Professionally.”
“Best kind.”
I type three fast corrections and forward the revision to legal review before another message appears.
Marcus added a comment: Trust Sloane’s version.
The warmth that moves through my chest is immediate and entirely unreasonable, considering we have been married for eight months.
Dana sees my expression change. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“He used the competent husband voice again.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
Before I can defend myself further, Marcus reaches us.
The room notices him. Some things never change, but what still catches me off guard is how little he seems to care about being noticed anymore. His hand settles naturally at my waist as he leans down to kiss me once, soft and brief despite the crowd around us.
Still real. That might be my favorite part.
“How bad is it?” he asks quietly.
Dana answers before I can. “Sloane is bullying media outlets again.”
“I corrected phrasing.”
“She threatened a columnist with professionalism.”
“I threatened him with accuracy.”
Marcus considers that. “Reasonable.”
“Thank you.”
Dana points between us. “This is why you work. You’re both terrifying in complementary ways.”
Marcus glances toward the ballroom floor. “How’s press?”
“Contained,” I say. “The redevelopment announcement is testing well online, donor engagement is up twelve percent from last year, and one outlet is trying to spin the foundation expansion as a response to the Apex situation.”
His eyes return to mine immediately. “And?”
“And Dana buried it before it gained traction.”
Dana straightens proudly. “Like the media assassin I was born to be.”
“You cannot call yourself that in public,” I say automatically.
“Cowards,” she mutters.
Marcus’s mouth curves slightly before he looks toward the stage. “Where’s Graham?”
“Pretending he doesn’t enjoy donor attention.”
“And Adrian?”
“Managing investors.”
“Declan?”
At that, Dana and I exchange a look.
Marcus notices immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Dana says too quickly.
Marcus sighs. “That answer has literally never meant nothing happened.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I say, glancing toward the ballroom floor. “He’s just been doing laps for the last hour.”
Marcus follows my gaze.
Declan moves easily through the crowd near the donor tables, laughing with one investor, stealing a champagne flute from another, and somehow managing to charm three different foundation sponsors in under thirty seconds without appearing to try particularly hard.
That’s Declan. Once he decides to move, trying to keep up with him becomes everyone else’s problem.
“He’s worked the entire room twice,” Dana says. “I timed him.”
“Why?” Marcus asks.
“For science.”
Across the ballroom, Declan claps one donor on the shoulder, says something that earns a startled laugh from the man’s wife, then pivots smoothly into another conversation before either interaction has the chance to turn into anything remotely personal.
Marcus watches him for a second too long.
“He’s avoiding stillness again,” he says quietly.
A year ago, I would have heard those words very differently, because Marcus understands something about avoidance these days, too.
Dana crosses her arms. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen that man stay emotionally stationary for more than six consecutive minutes.”
“Seven,” I correct automatically.
Marcus looks at me. “You timed him?”
“I work in PR. Patterns matter.”
“That’s the excuse we’re using?”
“Yes.”
Across the ballroom, Declan catches sight of us watching him and points his champagne glass in our direction suspiciously before immediately redirecting himself into another conversation.
Dana watches him disappear into the crowd again. “You know, eventually someone’s going to force him to sit still long enough to have a feeling.”
Marcus’s expression turns deeply unimpressed. “That sounds terrible.”
“For him?” I ask.
Marcus takes a slow sip of his drink. “For everyone.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly. Beneath the humor, I know Marcus sees it now too. The charm. The restless energy. The way Declan seems to pull the attention of an entire room without ever appearing to try.
He just never stays in one place long enough for anyone to notice what follows him when the noise finally fades.
Marcus exhales like a man realizing peace was temporary. “I’m not dealing with this.”
“You absolutely are,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“Because suffering builds character.”
“That sounds like something my wife would say.”
“I am your wife.”
His gaze shifts back to me immediately. There it is again. That small moment where Marcus still looks faintly stunned by the reality of us in the best possible way. Not disbelief anymore.
Gratitude.
The foundation director approaches before either of us can say anything else, quickly confirming the donor presentation timeline and media sequencing for the redevelopment announcement.
Marcus and I shift seamlessly into work mode beside each other. A year ago, we would have been fighting for position without even realizing it. Now we simply move through the conversation together, each of us stepping in where we're needed and trusting the other to do the same.
He catches one investor concern before I do. I redirect a press question before legal flags the risk exposure. He adjusts the rollout timing while I reshape the messaging around community impact instead of corporate optics.
Easy and fluid. A partnership instead of a collision.
By the time the director leaves, Marcus is watching me with that look again.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re extraordinary at this.”
A year ago, I would have deflected immediately. Now I just smile slightly. “I know.”
The approval in his face nearly ruins me.
Dana makes another dramatic expression. “You’re both becoming emotionally functional. It’s upsetting.”
“You’ll survive,” I tell her.
“Debatable.”
She disappears toward the media section, leaving Marcus and me alone near the edge of the ballroom while guests begin moving toward the stage for the presentation. Marcus’s fingers slide through mine naturally. There’s no hesitation anymore, and no concern about cameras.
The ballroom hums around us, warm and alive beneath the glow of candlelight and conversation. One year ago, everything between us was performance layered over panic. Now there’s no performance left at all.
Marcus looks toward the stage where the foundation logo glows softly against deep navy panels.
Crossridge Events Foundation.
Built because one terrible situation eventually became something honest.
“You know what my favorite part of all this is?” he asks quietly.
“The flowers you definitely complained about in budget meetings?”
“They were aggressively expensive.”
“They were visionary.”
“They’re flowers.”
I smile. “You love me anyway.”
His eyes return to mine instantly. “Always.”
The word feels different now. There's no hesitation attached to it, no fear of what comes next. Just the quiet certainty of a choice we've already made.
Marcus brushes his thumb lightly across the inside of my wrist.
“No script anymore.”
And suddenly I understand exactly what he means. No fake engagement. No strategic romance. No public performance trying to turn us into something we weren't ready to be.
Just the marriage. The work. And everything that comes after. The life we built after everything collapsed loudly enough to force us into honesty.
Across the ballroom, Declan says something to the woman beside him that actually makes her laugh.
Marcus notices too and immediately looks concerned.
I laugh softly under my breath.
“What?” he asks.
“You already care.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You’re emotionally invested.”
“I reject this accusation.”
“You’re going to meddle.”
His expression turns grave. “Probably.”
“That’s growth.”
“That’s hypocrisy.”
“Same thing.”
He shakes his head once, but the smile finally wins anyway.
The presentation lights dim slightly across the ballroom as guests settle near the stage, and Marcus leans down and presses one soft kiss against my temple. And this time, when the room looks at us, none of it feels borrowed anymore.
It’s ours.