Chapter 29 Sloane
Sloane
The atmosphere curdles instantly. The air goes heavy, unbreathable, like someone sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
I watch Mr. Blackwood’s expression shift—his brows draw together, his jaw tightens.
Across the table Frank Miller lets his smile drop completely, his face hardening into something cold and unyielding.
Every word of Garrett’s speech lands like a blow. He might as well have stood up and announced we’re sleeping together.
Then Vivian leans forward, and I see it—the calculated gleam in her eyes. The move she’s been waiting to make.
“Well,” she says, voice sweet as honey laced with arsenic. “As you can see, Garrett’s passion for Sloane’s work is... considerable.”
She lets the implication hang heavy and suffocating in the air.
“It’s hard to ignore, isn’t it? Especially now that podcasts are hinting about a certain alternate captain and a ‘petite redhead in marketing.’”
The words detonate in the room. Every molecule of air vanishes.
“But I hesitated to act,” Vivian says, shaking her head with performative regret. “It felt like malicious gossip. And I refused to jeopardize careers based on rumors. I hoped it was a misunderstanding.”
She turns her gaze on Garrett. Her expression softens into what almost looks like sorrow.
“But now, after this public declaration—after witnessing this personal, emotional bias firsthand—it confirms my worst fears. His speech wasn't a professional endorsement; it was a confession. This relationship has compromised their judgment. It’s no longer speculation. We’re watching the consequences unfold right here in this boardroom. ”
She’s not accusing. She’s regretting. Not striking, but sacrificing. It's genius. She’s framed it perfectly: the concerned executive forced into action by someone else’s recklessness.
Mr. Blackwood sets his pen down with the slow, quiet finality of a man delivering a verdict.
His voice, when it comes, is stripped of all warmth.
“Frank,” he says, cool and clipped. “Our partnership discussions were built on the promise of a professional, no-tolerance environment.
We're a bank, not a tabloid—our brand can't afford this kind of public drama. This—” he gestures to the space between Garrett and me, “—is precisely the kind of brand liability we require our partners to avoid.”
Liability. The word hangs there, final.
Frank turns to me. The rage I feared isn't there. Something worse has taken its place—cold, icy disappointment.
He addresses Blackwood first, the display of control deliberate. “Mr. Blackwood, please accept my apologies. This organization upholds its standards, and we act decisively when they’re violated.”
Then his gaze shifts, and the full weight of his authority lands on me.
“Ms. McKenzie, you’ve put this organization in an untenable position. This is a blatant breach of conduct—made worse by the timing, the venue, and the company present.”
Each word strips something from me. Piece by piece.
“Effective immediately, you are suspended pending a full HR investigation,” Miller says, flat and final. “You may leave. Now.”
The words land like physical blows. My world reduces to two points of focus: the gleaming conference table and Garrett’s face as it finally hits him—
He didn’t protect me. He destroyed me.
I watch his expression crumble. I see the exact second his pride morphs into horror.
The promotion. The respect. The career I bled for. Gone.
Frank’s voice fades into static. My hands move mechanically, closing my laptop with a quiet click that sounds unnaturally loud in the silence.
I gather my portfolio—the same one I thought would secure my future. Now it feels like evidence. A relic from a fantasy that never stood a chance.
I don’t cry. Don’t argue. I won’t give them that satisfaction. There’s nothing left to say.
I rise, legs numb and alien, each step toward the door loud in the silence. Behind me, I hear Garrett's sharp intake of breath, the scrape of his chair as he starts to move.
"Sloane—"
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge the broken sound of my name on his lips.
The heavy boardroom door clicks shut behind me with a finality that resonates through my bones, leaving my career and my heart scattered like wreckage on that polished table.
The hallway stretches before me, surreal—polished marble reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights in distorted patterns that make my vision blur. Each footstep is a drumbeat of humiliation.
One step. Then another.
The elevator is ahead. Escape.
My fingers clutch the portfolio I once believed would launch me to the next level. Now it feels like the punchline to a cruel joke. The leather is slick with sweat, and every fiber of my body wants to throw it away. Burn it. Forget this ever happened.
The air smells sterile—industrial cleaner and expensive cologne. The aftershocks of the boardroom collapse still cling to me. Everything’s too bright, too sharp, like reality’s contrast dial has been cranked to maximum.
Behind me, the boardroom door explodes open with enough force that the sound ricochets down the corridor with startling force.
I freeze mid-step, my body moving on pure instinct. There's an alcove ahead—a recessed nook where they keep the emergency equipment—and I press myself against the wall, making myself as small as possible. The marble is shockingly cold against my back, seeping through my blazer like liquid ice.
"Sullivan."
Frank Miller’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold.
Not yelling—that would be unprofessional, undignified.
Instead, it's low and tight with a fury that's infinitely more terrifying than screaming would be.
One word, delivered with the absolute authority of a man who holds careers in his hands and isn't afraid to crush them.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, moving toward my hiding spot. I hold my breath, pressing deeper into the shadows, praying they'll walk past without noticing me.
They stop.
"Let me be crystal clear.” Frank is right outside the alcove now. “Your little performance just jeopardized a nine-figure partnership. You’ve made this organization a joke.”
Nine-figure partnership. Jeopardized.
This isn’t about us anymore. It’s about millions of dollars. Reputations. Power.
“Pursuant to Section 8 of the Standard Player Contract and the CBA,” Frank says, slipping into legal execution mode, “you are being fined the maximum allowable amount for conduct detrimental to the team. That’s fifty thousand dollars.”
The number lodges sharp and ugly in my brain. Fifty grand. Gone. For one reckless act of love.
“Furthermore,” he continues, voice now cold and mechanical, “you are suspended. Indefinitely. You will not attend practice. You will not enter the facility. You will not speak to media. Understood?”
Indefinitely. During playoff season. My breath catches.
Garrett says nothing. For a moment, I wonder if he’s still breathing.
Then, “Understood.”
His voice is level. Steady. Too steady. And that breaks me more than anything.
Fight it, I want to scream. Say it was worth it. Say I was worth it.
But he doesn’t. He just accepts the sentence. Shoulders the blame. Like he always does.
Then he speaks again, and it cuts through every remaining defense I have.
“Which way did she go? Was she okay?”
Not “Is she suspended?” Not “Will she be investigated?” Just me. Was I okay.
Even in the wreckage—he’s looking for me.
Frank doesn’t flinch. “Worry about yourself, Sullivan. You’ve got bigger problems than her hurt feelings.”
Footsteps retreat. Silence follows.
And I realize—this wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a slaughter.
And I was the reason.
The numbness is gone. In its place: guilt so heavy I can barely breathe.
Easton was right. Vivian was right. My mother was right.
I thought I could be the exception. I thought I was smart enough to navigate both worlds.
But I’m not. I’m just the cliché they warned me about. The woman who ruins everything.
I press the elevator button. It glows blue beneath my finger. The reflection in the polished metal stares back at me—pale, hollow-eyed. Not a hero. Not a victim.
Just the villain.
As the doors open, one truth follows me in, heavy and inescapable:
I didn’t just lose my career today. I destroyed his too. And the worst part? His mattered.