Page 161 of Suite 7

“You look terrible,” he says.

“Thanks. You’re great for my ego.”

“I’m not here for your ego.” He takes a sip. “I’m here because I needed to see for myself that you’re upright.”

The concern underneath the bluntness nearly breaks me. I look away, blinking hard.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. But you’re surviving. That’s something.” He pauses. “How are you really doing?”

“How do you think?” The words come out sharp. “They lied to me for six weeks, Marcel. Six weeks. I’ve been going through every text, every cancelled plan, every excuse, trying to figure out what was real and what was a lie.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” My hands tighten around my cup. “And Kane texted this morning. Wants to meet Friday. And I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Part of me does. Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off.”

“Both can be true.” He leans forward. “What does the part of you that wants to see him need from Friday?”

“To understand why.” The words arrive before I’ve decided them. “And to know it’s real. If I’m going to lose — if this costs me what I think it’s going to cost me.”

He nods slowly.

“And Vera hasn’t even tried,” I say. “Not once this whole week. Like I don’t even matter anymore.”

“Sloane—”

“She’s probably with him right now. Both of them moved on. Forgot about me⁠—“

“Stop.” Marcel’s voice is firm. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they’re doing what you asked them to do.” He leans forward. “You told them not to contact you. You told them to leave you alone. So they are. Don’t blame them for respecting your boundaries.”

The words land before I’ve finished arguing.

“But I wanted—” I stop. What did I want? For them to fight? To push? To prove I matter?

“You wanted them to read your mind,” Marcel says, not unkindly. “To know that ‘leave me alone’ actually meant ‘fight for me.’ But they can’t read your mind, Sloane. All they can do is respect what you asked for.”

I’m quiet. Hating that he’s right.

“And for what it’s worth,” Marcel continues, “they’re not doing well. They’re as miserable as you are.”

“Good.” The word comes out vicious. “They should be.”

“You’re right to be angry,” Marcel says simply. “They should have told you. The lying was wrong. Full stop.”

The tightness in my chest loosens. Finally. Someone who says it without trying to fix it.

“Thank you.” I take a shaky breath. “Everyone else is going to tell me I’m overreacting⁠—“

“You’re not overreacting.” He cuts me off. “They betrayed your trust. You have every right to be furious.”