Chapter 22 Sloane
Sloane
But right now, it's just me, walking toward whatever trap Vivian has laid.
Her assistant isn't at her desk yet, which means this meeting is off the books. No witnesses. No paper trail. Just two women and whatever venomous conversation Vivian has planned.
The door to her office stands slightly ajar, spilling warm light into the hallway like an invitation. Or a lure.
"Come in, Sloane." Vivian's voice carries that same sugar-coated menace from the phone call. "Close the door behind you."
I step inside, and the space feels smaller than usual despite its floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive furniture.
Vivian sits behind her mahogany desk like a queen holding court, perfectly put-together despite the early hour.
Her blonde hair is styled in its usual severe bob, her navy blazer immaculate, her smile as sharp as a blade.
"Coffee?" She gestures to the French press on the sidebar. "I made it myself. Didn't want to wait for anyone else to arrive."
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Of course you are. Always so... self-sufficient." The way she says it makes self-sufficiency sound like a character flaw. "Please, sit."
I choose the chair directly across from her desk, the one that forces me to meet her gaze head-on. Whatever game she's playing, I won't cower.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you in so early." Vivian leans back in her chair, fingers steepled. "I heard something troubling yesterday, and I couldn't sleep until we addressed it."
My pulse kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral. "I'm listening."
"There's a podcast. Sin Bin Scoop. Apparently, they're spreading some rather salacious gossip about our organization." Her smile never wavers. "Complete nonsense, of course. The idea that anyone on our team would be... inappropriate with a player is utterly ridiculous."
The word inappropriate drips from her lips like poison.
"I haven't heard it," I lie.
"I'm sure you haven't. But unfortunately, perception can be just as damaging as reality in our business.
Especially with the Northstar deal in such a delicate phase.
" She picks up a gold pen, twirling it between her fingers.
"Our investors are very concerned about optics.
Professional boundaries. The integrity of our brand. "
Every word is carefully chosen, each one landing like a small knife between my ribs.
"Which is why I wanted to check in with you personally," she continues. "As one of our most... visible marketing professionals, your conduct reflects directly on the organization. I trust that's something you take very seriously."
"Of course."
"Good. Because any hint of impropriety—any suggestion that personal relationships might be compromising our professional standards—would be catastrophic.
For everyone involved." The pen stops twirling.
"The person in question would find themselves in an impossible position. Professionally speaking."
The threat is crystal clear despite the flowery language. She knows. Maybe not specifics, but she knows enough to aim this directly at me.
"I understand," I manage.
"I knew you would. You're so intelligent, Sloane.
So strategic. I'm sure you recognize that some risks simply aren't worth taking, no matter how.
.. tempting... they might seem." She sets the pen down with deliberate precision.
"The Northstar presentation is in two weeks.
Until then, I need my entire team focused solely on the success of that deal. No distractions. No complications."
She pauses, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.
"No ammunition for gossip podcasts."
My throat feels tight, but I nod.
"Wonderful." Vivian's smile brightens, as if we've just discussed quarterly projections instead of my professional execution. "I knew I could count on your discretion. Your loyalty to this organization has always been exemplary."
The way she says loyalty makes it sound like a leash.
"Was there anything specific about the Northstar timeline you wanted to discuss?" I ask, grasping for some semblance of normal business conversation.
"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page about priorities." She glances at her Rolex. "You should get to your office. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead."
I stand on unsteady legs, the dismissal clear.
"Sloane?" Her voice stops me at the door. "I do hope you'll keep our little chat confidential. These types of conversations can be so easily misunderstood."
"Of course."
"Have a productive day."
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell door slamming shut.
The cursor blinks mockingly at me from my computer screen, a steady pulse against the budget spreadsheet I've been staring at for the past twenty minutes without comprehending a single number.
The familiar hum of the Mammoth Center's corporate wing—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the distant whir of the copy machine—feels amplified today, like my nerves are tuned to a frequency that makes every sound sharp and accusatory.
Any hint of impropriety would be catastrophic.
Vivian's words loop through my mind on endless repeat, each syllable a tiny blade cutting at my composure. The meeting wasn't a firing—it was something worse. A warning. A promise. She knows about Garrett and me, and she's given me a choice: end it, or watch her destroy us both.
I force myself to focus on the Q3 projections, but the numbers blur together like watercolors in rain.
Some risks simply aren't worth taking.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for my coffee mug—empty again, though I don't remember finishing it. The ceramic feels too light in my grip, another reminder that I'm operating on nothing but adrenaline and terror.
No ammunition for gossip podcasts.
A burst of laughter from the hallway makes me flinch. The paranoia tastes metallic on my tongue, sharper now because I understand exactly what I'm paranoid about. This isn't vague anxiety about rumors anymore. This is the specific, targeted fear of a predator who's already chosen her prey.
Vivian didn't just threaten my job. She threatened Garrett's reputation, the team's brand, the entire Northstar deal. She's made me the potential architect of everyone's destruction, and she's given me just enough rope to hang myself.
Your conduct reflects directly on the organization.
Every whispered conversation in the hallway now feels loaded with purpose. Every sideways glance carries the weight of Vivian's strategy. She's positioning me as a liability, and I can feel the narrative taking shape around me like a net.
I've built my career on being invisible until the moment I choose to be seen, on controlling every narrative and managing every perception. Now I'm the subject of a campaign I can't manage, targeted by someone who's better at this game than I am.
The powerlessness is suffocating.
My coffee mug sits empty on my desk like an accusation. I need caffeine. Need something to anchor me before my 2 p.m. meeting with Garrett—a routine check-in about playoff media coverage that now feels like walking through a minefield in heels.
The breakroom is mercifully empty when I push through the door, the scent of burnt coffee and microwaved lunches a familiar comfort. I'm reaching for the coffee pot when voices drift through the thin wall that separates the breakroom from the marketing bullpen.
"—honestly think she's sleeping with him?"
I freeze, my hand halfway to the pot handle.
"I mean, come on. Did you see the way he looked at her during that meeting last week? Like she was speaking in a secret language only he understood."
"Jennifer, you're being dramatic."
"Am I, though? And she's always got those little smiles when his interviews come on. Plus, she practically glows whenever anyone mentions his name."
The coffee I came for sits forgotten as my blood turns to ice water. This is exactly what Vivian warned me about. The whispers are already starting. The liability narrative is taking root.
"That doesn't mean anything," the second voice—Nikki from social media—argues. "Maybe she's just proud of her work. That campaign strategy was brilliant."
"Or maybe she's getting a little too invested in her subject. I'm just saying, if I were Vivian, I'd be asking some hard questions. Especially with everything riding on Northstar."
If I were Vivian.
The words hit me like a physical blow. This isn't organic gossip spreading through the office. This is Vivian's campaign in action. She's already planted seeds, already begun the process of making me look like the problem that needs to be solved.
"Think it'll blow up?" Nikki asks.
"Depends how smart they are about it. But honestly?
The writing's on the wall. You can't have that kind of distraction during playoff season.
Especially not with someone who's supposed to be managing team optics.
" Jennifer's tone carries the satisfied certainty of someone who's already decided the outcome.
"It's exactly the kind of professional liability that gets people fired. "
"Poor girl," Nikki says, but there's no real sympathy in her voice. "She's talented, I'll give her that. But talent doesn't protect you when you become the story instead of managing it."
Their conversation shifts to safer topics—weekend plans, the new coffee brand in the break room—but I'm no longer listening. The damage is done. My worst fears have been confirmed in stereo.
I wait until their voices fade down the hallway before emerging from my hiding spot, legs unsteady beneath me. The coffee I came for sits forgotten as I make my way back to my office, each step a heavy trudge through mud.
My sanctuary feels compromised now. Through the glass walls that once made me feel transparent and honest, I now feel exposed. Watched. Every movement catalogued for future judgment.