Page 159 of Suite 7

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I freeze for a moment, then pull it out with shaking hands.

A text. From Sloane.

I open it.

Sloane: Friday. Seven PM. My place. Come alone.

No warmth. No I love you too.

But it’s a yes.

It’s a door left open. Not wide, barely cracked, one hand still on the edge, ready to close it again if I say the wrong thing. But it’s open.

I’ve spent my career learning that the hardest part of any structure isn’t the building. It’s the repair. Knowing which wall to touch first. How much weight it can bear before it needs to rest. When to push and when to wait.

Friday, I find out if I’ve learned anything at all.

Me: I’ll be there. Thank you.

No response to that.

But it doesn’t matter.

She left the door open.

Now I have to figure out how to walk through it without breaking anything else.

29 Sloane

Monday, eleven forty-seven AM

* * *

The text sits on my phone, unanswered.

Kane: 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’ve read it twenty-three times. Typed and deleted responses fourteen times. My thumb hovers over the screen, frozen.

There’s a tension headache building behind my right eye. I’ve been crying on and off since that Sunday, sometimes angry tears, sometimes hurt ones.

My office door is closed. I told my assistant I’m not taking calls. The presentation due Thursday sits untouched on my laptop, cursor blinking at me.

I can’t focus. Can’t think about campaign strategies or quarterly projections or anything except: Vera on Kane’s counter, legs around him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, both of them looking at me with the same expression of horror.

My best friend and my brother.

Six weeks. They said six weeks when I demanded to know how long.

Six weeks of lying to my face.

I open our text thread, mine and Vera’s. Scroll back.

October 19th. Vera: Can’t make brunch Sunday, something came up.

I’d responded.