The same movement I couldn’t see before.But it doesn’t hold my attention now.Not because it’s changed.Because something else has.
She hadn’t hesitated.Not when she stepped beside me.Not when she spoke.Not when she left.There wasn’t a single second of uncertainty in her actions.No adjustment.No attempt to match where I was or meet me halfway.She set the pace.
My jaw tightens slightly, the realization settling in with a weight that doesn’t sit comfortably.Vanessa Caldwell is the only woman I’ve ever loved.She walked away from us because she said she couldn’t build a life with a man who needed control the way I did.I didn’t agree then, and I’m not sure I agree now.
I’ve spent years understanding how people move.How they respond.Where they bend and where they don’t.She doesn’t fit into any of it.Or at least she didn’t.
I exhale slowly, dragging my attention back to something that makes sense.She works here.She has a routine.She chose Gild.She chose this version of herself.And she chose to ask me to meet her.
That last part lingers.Not because I don’t understand it.Because I do.Better than I should.It just isn’t how this usually works.I’m usually the one making the choices.I step back, creating distance from the painting, from the space, from the exact point where everything shifted without asking for my permission.
Thursday.Three days.Too long.Not because I don’t have things to fill the time.I do.The studio.Recording with the band.Running.The routines that keep everything where it belongs.
But none of them are going to answer the questions I still have.None of them are going to explain how she walked into a private room at the club without hesitation.Or how she stood next to me just now like nothing between us had ever existed before.Or why she didn’t feel the need to explain any of it.
I turn, moving through the gallery at a measured pace, aware of the way my focus has narrowed into something sharper than it was when I walked in.She set the terms.The day.The time.And I agreed.For now.But three days is a long time to wait without understanding what I’m walking into.And I don’t walk into anything unprepared.
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.
