“Why is your office playing the worst music I’ve ever heard in my life?” I looked up from my laptop.
Sloane stood in the doorway looking personally offended by the existence of sound.
For a second, I just stared.
Not because of what she’d said.
Because of what she was wearing.
Plaid pajama pants and an oversized Reed Industries hoodie with bare feet Her hair was twisted into a bun that had clearly started the evening with ambition and steadily deteriorated over the course of the night.
She looked nothing like the woman who spent her days intimidating board members and negotiating billion-dollar deals.
She looked…
cute.
The realization annoyed me.
Sloane pointed toward the speakers.
“This.” I blinked.
“This what?” “This song.” The music blasted through the office.
It was bright, cheerful and extremely upbeat..
It was the kind of song that felt like it had been manufactured specifically for dancing around a bedroom with absolutely no witnesses.
I frowned.
“What about it?” “What about it?” she repeated.
“I’ve been listening to it through the floor for ten minutes.” I glanced at the ceiling.
“You can hear my office through the floor?” “Unfortunately.” “And your concern was…” I trailed off, letting my eyes rove over her features involuntarily.
“I thought you were having some kind of breakdown.” I laughed.
“Because of a song?” “Because of this song.” I listened again.
Then I looked at the speaker app open on my screen.
My brows lifted.
This was about to get interesting.
Very interesting.
“Sloane.” “What?” “This isn’t my music.” “Good.” “It’s yours.” She froze.
“What?” I turned the laptop toward her.
Her confidence disappeared instantly.
The screen showed exactly what I already knew.
Connected Device: Sloane Reed’s iPhone Current Playlist: Saturday Night Chaos Mix For three glorious seconds, she simply stared.
Then came the slow realization.
Then horror.
Then regret.
Then what looked suspiciously like a desire to throw herself into the nearest ocean.
“Oh no.” I leaned back in my chair.
“Oh yes.” “That can’t be right.” “It appears to be.” “No.” “Yes.” “I don’t even know how that happened.” “The technology remains mysterious.” I chuckled.
She narrowed her eyes at me and I smiled.
That made it worse.
She marched toward the desk.
“Give me the laptop.” I slid it just out of reach.
Her eyes widened.
“Zane.” “Yes?” “Give me the laptop.” “No.” “Why?” She whined.
Yet again, I found it cute.
“Because this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all week.” Her expression suggested she was considering murder.
I wasn’t particularly concerned.
She crossed her arms.
“You’re enjoying this.” “A little.” “A little?” “A lot.” I laughed.
She groaned.
I looked back at the screen.
“Saturday Night Chaos Mix.” I mocked her.
She glared at me.
“Don’t.” I ignored her.
“Two hundred and fourteen songs.” “Stop reading.” “That’s commitment.” I remarked.
“It was made years ago.” “Oh, good.” She frowned.
“Why is that good?” “Because for a second I thought this was a recent life choice.” She pointed at me.
“You’re being insufferable.” “And you’re apparently the owner of a playlist called Saturday Night Chaos Mix.” Her face reddened, just slightly.
Enough for me to notice and enough to make me want to keep going.
I scrolled.
“Oh, wait.” “Sloane.” “No.” She was horrified.
“There’s more.” I smirked, thoroughly enjoying her embarrassment.
Her eyes widened.
“Zane, no.” I started reading out loud.
“Kitchen Dance Party.” She slapped a hand over her face.
I nearly laughed.
“Volume Three?”.
There was silence so I looked up.
Sloaned looked ready to die.
“There are three volumes?” I was honestly surprised.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.” “There are three volumes.” I stated this time.
“There might be.” “There are.” “Oh my God.” I kept scrolling.
“Sad Girl Emergency.” “Zane.” “Absolutely Not Crying.” “Stop.” “Rainy Day Main Character.” She groaned loudly.
“I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” “I might.” “You definitely don’t.” Unfortunately for her, she started laughing.
Just a little.
But it was there.
And for some reason, hearing it made something tighten in my chest.
Because this wasn’t the laugh she gave reporters.
Or board members.
Or investors.
This was different.
Eventually I took pity on her and handed over the laptop.
She grabbed it immediately.
The music stopped and silence flooded the room.
Sloane straightened and adjusted her hoodie trying to recover whatever dignity she had left.
It wasn’t working.
Partly because her hair was falling apart and mostly because her face was still pink.
“This changes nothing.” She muttered.
I folded my arms and stared into her eyes.
“What exactly is it supposed to change?” “Nothing.” She shook her head.
“Good.” “I’m leaving.” “Sloane, you just got here.” “I was never here.” She was already walking away.
“Sloane.” She stopped at the doorway.
I thought about the playlist again.
“Tonight We Riot?” I teased her.
She made a strangled noise.
I smiled.
“It’s a good song.” “Is it?” “Yes.” She sighed dramatically.
“It has a great bassline.” I shrugged.
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” “It does.” “I’m sure.” “It really does.” The fact that she was defending the song somehow made everything funnier.
She must have realized it too because she shook her head.
“You are never letting this go.” I grinned.
“Absolutely not.” “I knew it!” “This information is far too valuable.” “You are the worst.” “I’ve been told.” I smiled, tongue in cheek.
She lingered in the doorway.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then she surprised me.
“Nobody knows about this.” The humor faded.
I looked up.
“What?” She glanced away.
“The playlists.” I stayed quiet.
After a moment she shrugged.
“Ninety percent of the people I know would probably assume I listen to podcasts and earnings reports for fun.” I laughed.
“Do you?” “No.” “You looked offended.” “Because that’s offensive.
I have a fun side.” The smile faded from her face.
“I mean it.” Something in her voice made me pay attention.
She looked down at the floor.
Afterwards, her eyes fell on anything but me.
“I don’t really…” She stopped.
The words seemed unusually difficult for her.
Finally she sighed.
“I don’t really get to be this version of myself very often.” I frowned.
“This version?” She gestured vaguely at herself.
“The one who listens to ridiculous music.” “The one who makes playlists called Kitchen Dance Party?” Her eyes closed.
“I regret telling you anything.” I grinned.
She pointed at me.
“See?
This is why.” “I’m listening.” “No, you’re making fun of me.” “Both things can be true.” That earned a reluctant smile.
Then it disappeared before I could get used to it.
“People expect things.” The words came out quietly.
“So eventually you start becoming those things.” I didn’t interrupt.
“You know what everyone expects when they hear my name?” “Sloane Reed.” “Exactly.” She laughed softly, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
“They hear Reed and immediately decide who I am.” I understood that.
More than she probably realized.
“They expect competence.” “You are competent.” I pointed out.
“They expect professionalism.” “You are professional.” “They expect control.” She looked at me.
“And eventually that’s all they see.” Something settled heavily between us.
For the first time all night, she looked tired.
Not physically tired.
The deeper kind that came from carrying something for too long.
“Nobody wants their CEO dancing around her room to terrible pop music.” I tilted my head.
“I don’t know.” “What?” “I think I’d respect you more.” I was being serious.
But she laughed, a real one.
The sound made me smile.
Without thinking, I reached for the speaker controls.
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
“Don’t.” Too late.
I reconnected her phone.
The music exploded back into the room.
The bass hit first.
Then the chorus.
Sloane stared at me in horror.
“Zane.” “You said it was a good song.” “Turn it off.” “You said it had a great bassline.” I said.
“I changed my mind.” I leaned back in my chair.
“I need more evidence.” “Zane.” I was already laughing.
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath.
Then something unexpected happened.
Her foot tapped a couple of times.
She froze.
She knew I’d seen it.
“I hate you.” “Your foot says otherwise.” She pointed at me threateningly.
“Not a word.” Unfortunately for her, the chorus arrived.
And she knew every word.
At first she only mouthed them.
It was barely audible but she knew the lyrics word for word.
I watched, completely fascinated.
Because she wasn’t thinking anymore.
For the first time since walking into my office, she’d forgotten to be embarrassed.
Forgotten to be careful.
Forgotten to be Sloane Reed.
The CEO disappeared.
The polished public image disappeared.
The woman constantly carrying the weight of expectations disappeared.
What remained was simply…
Sloane.
Her hips swayed slightly with the rhythm.
Her shoulders relaxed.
A smile tugged at her lips.
And for a few seconds she looked genuinely happy.
The realization hit me harder than it should have.
Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her look like that.
Maybe I never had.
Then she glanced up and caught me staring.
Everything stopped instantly.
The smile vanished.
The movement disappeared.
Color flooded her cheeks.
“Oh my God.” I couldn’t help it so I laughed.
She groaned, letting her embarrassment shine through.
“Stop looking at me.” She looked genuinely frustrated.
I laughed harder.
She covered her face with both hands.
And somehow that only made her more adorable.
The thought caught me off guard.
Not because it was new.
Because it wasn’t.
The problem was that I was starting to have those thoughts far too often.
I lowered the volume until the music became background noise.
Neither of us spoke.
And suddenly I realized something.
I’ve spent three months married to this woman.
Three months.
Living together.
Working together.
Traveling together.
Three months of boardrooms and meetings and negotiations.
Three months of carefully controlled smiles.
Carefully chosen words.
Carefully maintained distance.
And somehow this was the first time I felt like I was actually seeing her.
Not Sloane Reed.
Not the CEO.
Not the woman everyone expected her to be.
Just her.
The realization settled somewhere deep in my chest.
“You know what’s funny?” I said quietly.
She looked up.
“What?” I held her gaze.
“I’ve spent three months married to you.” A small furrow appeared between her brows.
“And?” I smiled.
“I think tonight is the first time you’ve forgotten to be Sloane Reed.” The room fell silent.
For a moment neither of us moved.
Neither of us looked away.
And for the first time since she’d walked into my office, Sloane didn’t have a response.
She just stood there looking at me.
Like maybe she was hearing something she’d needed to hear for a very long time.