Chapter Seven
Vanessa
Same Old Love
Selena Gomez
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
I force my legs to keep moving forward even though every single cell in my body feels him behind me.
Not physically; there’s too much space between us for that.
But in the way awareness lingers, in the way my body hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened.
I led that interaction. I invited him to drinks like it was nothing.
It wasn’t nothing. I make it to the stairwell where I finally let myself exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
Not a dramatic release. Not anything anyone passing by would notice.
Just a staggered breath that comes a second deeper than the ones before it, my hand briefly resting against the cool metal of the railing as I steady myself.
Holy shit. A quiet laugh escapes me, soft and disbelieving, the sound swallowed by the concrete walls before it can travel any further. I push off the railing and continue down.
By the time I reach the first floor, everything is back where it belongs. My expression is neutral. My steps are even. My pulse, well, close enough. My office door clicks shut behind me with a soft, familiar sound, and I cross the room without thinking and lower myself into the chair at my desk.
For a moment, I just sit there. Hands resting lightly against the soft wood and let myself breathe. I let the echo of the last ten minutes settle into something I can actually process. Hayden Sloan ein the flesh.
I close my eyes briefly, pressing my fingertips against my lips before dropping them again. It’s been over ten years. And he still has the ability to shift something in me I thought I’d long since outgrown. That’s inconvenient.
I lean back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling for a beat longer than necessary.
Then I straighten, because sitting here pretending I’m not curious isn’t going to work anymore.
I promised myself I wouldn’t go down this rabbit hole.
Half the time information isn’t correct and did I really want to set myself up with information that could be false?
I reach for my laptop. And then pause. Just for a second. “I’m not doing this,” I murmur under my breath. I push the laptop away. Wait another beat, and then pull it forward and open it anyway.
His name comes up faster than it should. Of course it does. He is the bass player for one of the most successful rock bands in the world right now, Devil’s Halo.
The band’s page dominates the search results. There’s a new feature of them at the very top by Sadie Brooks at Amped Magazine. I click on it and browse the article. It’s extremely favorable, and it’s no surprise what I read about him:
“And then there’s Hayden Sloane, who is measured, composed, and impossible to read at first glance. Where others burn bright and loud, he’s something quieter. Controlled. Intentional. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, but holds it anyway.”
“Sing it sister.” I mutter under my breath with a shake of my head, because she captured him completely in one small paragraph.
I click out of the article and scroll down the rest of the search results.
Tour photos. Interviews. Articles dissecting their rise, their sound, their influence.
His face is everywhere; onstage, in black and white editorial shots, caught mid-performance with that same intensity I remember.
I don’t linger there. That’s not what I’m looking for.
I scroll some more. Dig a little deeper. Interviews. Features. Pieces that try to say something meaningful about him without actually knowing anything at all about the real him.
Nothing about a wife. No mention of a fiancée. No carefully curated relationship reveal. Nothing at all about his past, which I find interesting considering what happened to his sister.
“That answers that,” I mumble, though it doesn’t actually feel like an answer. There’s mention of investments and business ventures. A profile that paints him as controlled, disciplined, focused. That tracks.
A photo catches my attention before I can scroll past it. Not on stage. Not performing. It’s just him, looking directly into the camera with an expression that hasn’t changed nearly as much as it probably should have over the last decade. I close the tab. That’s enough; more than enough.
The silence in the office settles again, but it feels different now.
There’s a heaviness to it that wasn’t there before.
My phone buzzes against the desk. I glance down at the screen, my brow arching as I pick it up.
Of course it would be him. These controlling men seem to have a super power for inconvenient timing.
I swipe to answer, leaning back in my chair as I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi Spencer.”
“Vanessa.” His voice is smooth, familiar, carrying that easy confidence that never quite tips into arrogance. “I need to shift things this week.”
I glance at the calendar on my screen, though I already know what he’s going to say. “Thursday instead of Friday,” he continues. “Something came up, and I won’t be available our regular night.”
A pause settles in. Not long. Just enough for the weight of the decision to register. Thursday. The same day that I just arranged to meet Hayden. “I can’t do Thursday.”
The words come easily. Too easily. A brief silence on the other end. Probably not surprise, but because he’s recalibrating. After a second he speaks, a note of curiosity just barely threaded in his question. “Scheduling conflict?”
“The conflict appears to be on your end. I had us scheduled for Friday.” I don’t offer him more than that. We’re not exclusive. He’s a convenience. An extremely handsome, extremely skillful one. Nothing more than that.
There’s a quiet shift, something almost like amusement in the exhale that follows. “Next week then?”
“That works.”
No other questions. No push back. That’s one of the reasons it works with him. “I’ll see you then, Vanessa.”
“See you then.”
The call ends as smoothly as it started. I set the phone back down on the desk, my fingers lingering against it for a moment before I pull my hand away. I lean back in the chair again, my gaze drifting toward the window, though I’m not really seeing anything beyond it.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Then again, neither was seeing Hayden in the hallway at Gild. A small smile touches my mouth before I can stop it. “Thursday,” I whisper. And this time, I don’t try to pretend I’m not looking forward to it.
By the time I get home Thursday, the day has already stretched longer than it should have. Not because of work. Work was the easy part. It’s everything else that’s been sitting underneath it.
I toe off my heels just inside the door, nudging them into their usual place without looking, my bag sliding onto the console table as I step further into the apartment. “Vinny?”
A soft thud, then the quick, uneven rhythm of paws against hardwood answers me, gray fur rubbing up against my legs a moment later.
“There you are.” I bend just enough to scratch behind his ear as he circles my ankles, the missing half of his left ear giving him that permanently disheveled look that made me bring him home in the first place. “How’s my number one guy?”
He meows in response, which I prefer to believe is his way of confirming he is in fact my guy, then darts ahead toward the kitchen, already expecting dinner.
“Of course that’s what you care about.” I follow him, filling his bowl before leaning back against the counter, crossing my arms loosely as I watch him eat like he hasn’t been fed in days. The normalcy of it settles something in me, and grounds me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
For a moment, I just stand there and let the quiet of the apartment wrap around me in a way the museum never quite does. It’s softer here. Less intentional. And then my gaze shifts toward the clock. Six fifteen.
A small breath leaves me, slower this time. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
I push off the counter and grab a bottle of white I have in the fridge and pour myself a glass. I snag it in my hand then move toward the bedroom, already mentally running through options before I even open the closet.
This is for me. That’s how I frame it anyway.
Still, I pause in front of my clothes much longer than I should.
I take a longer sip of wine than I probably need.
Something simple makes sense. Something effortless that doesn’t look like I thought about it too much.
But, I also want to knock his socks off, even if I can’t admit it out loud.
My hand brushes past a few options before settling on a dress I haven’t worn in a while.
It’s a deep blue, the fabric so soft it skims instead of clings. It moves when I move, not against me. I pull it free. Hold it up for a second.
“Too much?”
Vinny, now finished with his dinner, appears in the doorway like he’s been summoned, blinking at me without a hint of judgment.
“Right. You’re useless.”
I don’t hang it back up. I place it on the bed and move to the bathroom.
I take my time getting ready. I don’t drag it out, but I don’t rush either.
I take sips of my wine between applying just a touch of makeup.
Enough to notice, but not overtly obvious.
I pull the pins out of the bun fastened to the back of my head and let my hair fall free.
Soft waves fall down my back, and I smile, because I remember this is how he likes it.
When I slide into the dress, it settles exactly the way I remember it does and it gives me an extra edge of confidence. My reflection looks back at me from the mirror, and for a moment, I stare at my reflection to try to see myself through his eyes. “You’re overthinking this.”
The words are quiet, but they land. Because I am. But I can’t help it. I don’t really know what this dinner means yet. Old friends catching up? An old flame reignited? Or something far less defined?
I reach for my heels, slipping them on before crossing back to the mirror, adjusting a strand of hair that doesn’t actually need adjusting. It’s just dinner. The thought lands with a faint, almost amused edge. There’s never anything that’s “ just ” with Hayden.
I pick up my phone, glancing at the screen without really expecting anything. There’s no message. I didn’t give him my number, but something tells me if he wanted it, he’d already have it. Not that I expected a change of plans. He’ll show up exactly when he said he would. That hasn’t changed.
I set the phone back down, reaching for a small clutch and sliding in what I need before pausing again, my hand resting lightly against the edge of the dresser.
Somehow this feels like something. Not the same.
Not even close. But not nothing, either.
I smooth my hand down the front of my dress, even though there’s nothing to fix.
The sound of the door buzzer cuts cleanly through the thought. I glance at my phone. 6:59. Right on time. I exhale once, steady and controlled, before moving toward the control panel, my finger settling on the button for just a second longer than necessary. Then I press it down.