I looked at her across the counter where she sat in her robe with her hair down and arms crossed like she was bracing for something.
Sloane had schooled her face into being expressionless and unwavering.
I turned and took a mug from the cabinet.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” I broke the silence.
“Coffee?” I added before she could form a response.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t sleep, you know.” I nodded slightly.
” I know.
Do you want coffee or not?” She stared at me for a long moment, probably calculating whether to push back or take the coffee and find another angle to argue with me.
I had learned in the two uninterrupted weeks we spent together that whenever she paused, it meant she was trying to choose her battles.
“Fine,” she went with the latter option.
“I wouldn’t mind the coffee.” Without another word, I went about making it the way I knew she liked it.
I had never in my life imagined making coffee at midnight for anyone.
I mean, that was one of the reasons I had a team of kitchen staffs that arrived at seven and a housekeeper who anticipated things before they needed to be done just so I didn’t have to do all the menial tasks.
And standing at a counter in grey sweatpants grinding beans for another person at eleven-forty PM was part of the definition of menial tasks and so far outside the structure of my life.
I would have found it absurd just three months ago.
And yet, here I was.
Sloane had moved from the doorway to sitting on the actual counter watching me with her arms still crossed and her question still hanging.
“I heard you,” She said quietly.
“On the phone the other night.” I said nothing and let the grinder run its course.
“You said you didn’t think she knew what you were hiding.” She held my gaze when I turned.
“I assume she was me.” “What time do you need to be in by tomorrow?” I asked, changing topic.
I knew it would tick her off but it needed to be done.
Her jaw tightened.
“Zane, do not change the subject.” “I’m not.” I poured the water.
“I’m establishing what kind of conversation we can have at midnight versus what we should wait for in the morning.” Great excuse.
I almost pat myself on the back.
It went very quiet.
So quiet, I felt a bit of trepidation that I shook off.
“It can wait,” she said finally for the case of peace and not because she believed it.
For the first time, I looked at her and saw the extent of how tired she was, and I could see clearly the exhaustion that lived under her composure.
She had probably been tired for years.
A part of me wanted to pull her close and hug all of that away if possible.
I brought her the coffee and proceeded to join her to sit at the kitchen island on opposite stools.
We talked about the committee meeting on Thursday, about the PR strategy now that we were back, about the careful performance of normalcy that the coming weeks required.
We had conversations that gave us both something manageable to hold on to as a plan on how we were going to keep fooling everyone with our fake arrangement.
But underneath all of that her question still lingered there, patiently waiting for an answer.
We said goodnight at twelve-thirty as she slid off the counter, took her cup, and went upstairs, thankfully without pushing for answers I wasn’t ready to give again.
I stood in the kitchen for a while after.
The next morning between us was early, separate and professional.
She left before I came down, which I knew because her coffee cup was in the sink, rinsed.
I made my own quietly and proceeded to the office to spend twelve hours doing the work that reduced during the honeymoon but picked up after it.
But by evening, we accidentally arrived at the same time.
The agreement was to eat dinner separately and we kept to it until this evening.
I was at the dining room table with a plate from the warming oven, reading through Patrick’s documents, when I heard the front door.
I looked up when she passed the doorway and she stopped.
“I didn’t know you’d be eating,” She mentioned in her typical measured tone.
“I didn’t know you’d be home.” I returned in the same manner.
She looked at the table and the sideboard.
“There’s food,” I told her.
“The housekeeper left enough for two.” She stood in the doorway for a moment contemplating and then decided to take my offer.
She served herself, and sat at the other end of the table with her own laptop comfortably.
In no time, her phone rang, and she answered.
Whoever was on the other end immediately had her attention that it made her jaw set.
She ended the call four minutes later.
“Whitmore.” She set the phone down.
“The shareholder?” “He called to express his concerns about the leadership stability at Reed Industries.” Her voice was calm with anger.
“Which is a very polite way of saying that Veronica has been in his ear.” “What did you tell him?” “That leadership stability has never been stronger and that I would be happy to arrange a formal presentation of our Q3 projections at his earliest convenience.” She said as she picked up her fork.
“And then I ended the call before he could respond.” I looked at her in amusement.
She was eating.
But was more focused on using the mechanical act of chewing to manage what she was actually feeling.
“He’ll call back.” It was a fact.
“I know.” “Probably with something more specific.” “I know that too.” She looked up at me, meeting my eyes for a brief second.
“I’ve been managing Veronica’s interference for years now.
I know every move she makes two steps before she makes it.” I nodded in agreement.
“Then you know she’s building up something.” “She’s always building up something.” She set her fork down again.
“The question is what she has that she thinks is enough.” We staredat each other across the table, the files between us, the laptops and the remnants of a dinner neither of us had planned to share.
I wanted to tell her then, clear it from the space between us before it became something she had to discover.
But she was already tired.
Whitmore’s call was sitting in her chest on top of everything else.
It was always the wrong timing.
We talked for another forty minutes, not knowing when either of us stopped noticing the clock.
At some point the laptops closed, the plates moved aside and we were simply two people at a table talking about work and shareholders and strategy, and it was ten o’clock when I finally looked at the time.
She noticed when I glanced at my watch.
“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.
“Neither did I.” She got on her feet and collected her things like someone comfortable in a space.
Her posture had changed from when she’d come through the door earlier.
She was less armored and soft.
“Good night, Zane” she said a little more courteous than usual.
“Goodnight, Mrs Della-Ross.” There was a hint of a smile as she walked away.
I bit on the inside of my cheek to hide mine.
The second evening was the same.
She complained about a logistics partner for twenty minutes and I told her about the Della-Ross acquisition that was going sideways in a way that made her laugh once.
The third morning I came downstairs at seven and the coffee was already made.
A full pot that was still warm, sat waiting for me.
Her cup was rinsed in the sink..
I stood at the counter and poured myself a cup.
She’d made extra, like any normal person would do when you had been living alongside someone long enough to factor them in without thinking about it.
I stood there with the coffee and felt something tighten in my chest that I had been deliberately not examining.
She was factoring me in naturally, like this was now a routine that built itself when no one was watching.
I drank the coffee, praying for the warmth to burn what was forming in my chest.
And somewhere in the quiet of a morning that had started to feel like ours rather than just mine, I understood that I had made a miscalculation.
I hadn’t planned for the coffee or the dinner table conversations that had started to feel less like a formality.
I hadn’t planned on wanting her to stay.