Page 158 of Suite 7

She pours me a cup.

We drink in silence. Morning light strengthens through the windows.

Finally, I pull out my phone. Open messages. Scroll to Sloane’s contact.

That Christmas photo stares back at me. Both of us laughing.

I start typing.

Me: Sloane,

Delete. Too formal.

Me: Hey,

Delete. Too casual.

I try again.

Me: I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. I’d like a chance to talk. Friday at 7? Your place or mine or somewhere neutral. Your choice. I love you.

I show Vera.

She reads it. “It’s good. Not too much. Not too little. Respectful.”

“What if she doesn’t respond?”

“Then you try again next week.” She takes my hand. “But she will. I think she will.”

I stare at the message for another moment.

Then I press send.

Delivered.

Vera’s hand tightens on mine.

“Now we wait,” I say.

I set the phone face-down on the counter. Can’t bear to watch it.

I go to the office. Owe Rachel at least a few hours.

She looks up when I walk in. “Kane. You’re here.”

“I’m here.” I drop into my desk chair. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

She fills me in. The Richardson project. The Zhao consultation. Three new inquiries from last week. I try to focus. Try to care. But my phone sits on my desk and all I can think about is whether my sister will ever speak to me again.

The day drags. I go through motions. Answer emails. Review blueprints. Pretend everything’s normal.

But every five minutes, I check my phone.

Still nothing.

By five PM, the hope fades. Maybe she won’t respond at all. Maybe the silence is her answer. Maybe this is what the rest of my life looks like, the Richardson project, emails, blueprints, and the absence of one person who I’ve known since she was born.

I pack up my things. Head for the elevator.