The Confession
title: "Surrender" wordCount: 5706
My back hits Dominic's bedroom door and his mouth is on my neck and I think, This is the last time I'll let myself have this.
His hands frame my face, thumbs at my jaw, and he's kissing me like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Like tomorrow I'll be gone.
Maybe I will be.
"Sloane." My name breaks between his lips. "I need—"
"Yeah." I pull at his tie, the silk sliding through my fingers. "No talking."
Because if we talk, I'll ask about the investigation. About my mother. About those emails on my laptop that say make sure she doesn't suspect anything.
His jacket hits the floor. My dress follows, the zipper catching halfway down until his fingers find it, patient and deliberate even now. The fabric pools at my feet and I'm standing in his childhood bedroom in my underwear and heels, and the absurdity of it should make me laugh except his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"You're sure." Not a question, but he waits anyway.
I step out of my shoes. "Do I look unsure?"
"You look—" He stops. Swallows. "Come here."
I cross the space between us, and his hands settle on my waist, warm through the thin lace. My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one. There's a scar below his collarbone I've never seen before, pale and thin.
"Skiing accident," he says. "I was twelve."
"That tracks." I press my palm flat against it. His heart is racing under my hand, fast and unsteady, and something in my chest cracks open. "You're shaking."
"So are you."
Yeah. No kidding.
He walks me backward to the bed, his mouth on mine, and when the mattress hits the back of my knees I pull him down with me. The sheets smell like cedar and something expensive I can't name. His weight settles over me and I arch up into it, needing the pressure, the proof that this is real.
His hand slides up my thigh, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear, and I bite down on his shoulder to keep from making a sound.
"Don't." His voice is rough against my ear. "I want to hear you."
So I let him. Let myself make noise when his fingers slip inside me, when his mouth finds my breast, when he finally—finally—pushes into me and I forget every reason this is a terrible idea.
It's not gentle. Neither of us wants gentle. I dig my nails into his back and he pins my wrists above my head and we move together like we're fighting, like we're trying to hurt each other, except it doesn't hurt. It feels like falling and being caught at the same time.
When I come, I say his name. Just once. Quiet.
He follows a moment later, his face buried in my neck, and I feel the exact second he lets go of whatever control he's been holding onto since the moment we met.
After, we lie tangled in his sheets, both breathing hard. His hand finds mine in the dark, fingers threading through mine, and I should pull away. Should get up and go back to my room and put distance between us before this gets worse.
Instead I turn into him, press my face against his chest, and let myself have this one thing.
I wake up to gray light filtering through the curtains and Dominic's arm heavy across my waist.
For a second, I forget. Forget the emails, forget Marcus, forget that I'm supposed to be pretending to sleep in a car while Dominic orders someone to investigate my dead mother. I just lie here in his bed, warm and sore in all the right places, and let myself feel safe.
Then I remember.
His breathing is even behind me, deep and slow, and I should slip out now while he's asleep. Should go back to my room and figure out what the hell I'm going to do about all of this.
But his arm tightens around me, and I realize he's awake.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." His voice is rough with sleep. His hand spreads flat on my stomach, pulling me closer. "How long have you been awake?"
"Few minutes."
"And you stayed."
"Yeah." I lace my fingers through his. "That okay?"
"More than okay." He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then another to the curve of my neck. "I need to tell you something."
My stomach drops. "Okay."
"About your mother—"
A door slams somewhere in the house. Footsteps in the hallway, quick and light.
"Daddy?" Iris's voice carries through the walls. "Daddy, are you awake?"
Dominic goes rigid behind me. "Shit."
I'm already moving, grabbing my dress from the floor, looking for my shoes. "Where's the bathroom?"
He points to a door on the far wall, already pulling on his pants. "I am sorry. She usually sleeps until seven."
"It's fine." I slip into the bathroom and close the door just as I hear Iris knock.
"Daddy? I had a bad dream."
"I am coming, sweetheart. Give me one moment."
I lean against the sink, my dress clutched to my chest, and stare at my reflection. My hair is a mess. My lipstick is gone. There are marks on my neck that I definitely didn't have yesterday.
The door opens and closes. Dominic's voice is soft in the hallway, soothing Iris, and I can hear them walking away toward her room.
I should get dressed. Should sneak back to my room before anyone else wakes up.
Instead I turn on the shower and step under the spray, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders. Trying to wash away the feeling of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the way he said my name like it meant something.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in one of his towels, the bedroom is empty. There's a note on the bed in his precise handwriting: Had to stay with Iris until she fell back asleep. There is coffee downstairs. We need to talk.
Yeah. We really do.
I pull on my dress, zip it up as far as I can reach, and I'm looking for my other shoe when I see his phone on the nightstand.
The screen is dark. I should leave it alone.
I pick it up.
It lights up at my touch, no passcode, and there's a notification at the top of the screen. An email from someone named J. Torres with the subject line: Eleanor Whitley Investigation - Results.
My hand is shaking. I set the phone down carefully, exactly where I found it, and back away like it might explode.
He's investigating my mother. I knew that—I heard him on the phone last night. But seeing it there, in black and white, makes it real in a way that twists something sharp behind my ribs.
I find my shoe under the bed and slip it on. My hands won't stop shaking.
The smart thing would be to confront him. To ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, digging into my mother's past without telling me.
But I'm not feeling particularly smart right now.
I'm feeling like I just slept with a man who's been lying to me since the day we met. Who brought me into his life for reasons I still don't understand. Who holds my hand in the dark and investigates my dead mother behind my back.
I open the bedroom door and nearly run into Mrs. Chen in the hallway.
"Oh." She looks me up and down, taking in my evening dress and bare feet and the shoes dangling from my hand. "Good morning, Miss Whitley."
"Morning." My face is on fire. "I was just—"
"Mr. Ashford is with Iris." Her expression doesn't change. "There is coffee in the kitchen, and I have set out breakfast in the dining room."
"Right. Thanks."
I make it to my room without seeing anyone else, close the door, and lean against it. My laptop is still on the desk where I left it, the screen dark. Those emails are still there, waiting.
Make sure she doesn't suspect anything.
I cross to the window and look out at the garden below. The sun is just starting to break through the clouds, turning everything gold and green. It's beautiful. Peaceful.
I want to throw something through the glass.
Instead I pull out my phone and text Jenna: Need to talk. You free today?
Her response comes back immediately: Always. What's wrong?
Everything, I type. Then delete it. Can I come over this afternoon?
Of course. I'll make mimosas.
I set the phone down and strip off the dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor. The shower in my bathroom is smaller than Dominic's, the water pressure not as good, but it's mine. Private.
I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbing away the scent of his soap, the feeling of his hands, the memory of how he looked at me in the dark like I was something precious.
When I finally get out, there's a text from Dominic: Iris is asking for you. Breakfast?
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then I type: Be down in 10.
Because I'm not ready to run yet. Not until I know what his investigation found. Not until I understand what Marcus wants from me. Not until I figure out if the man I slept with last night is the same one who's been manipulating me for months.
I pull on jeans and a sweater, twist my wet hair into a bun, and head downstairs.
Iris is at the dining room table, still in her pajamas, drawing on a large pad of paper with colored pencils. She looks up when I walk in and her whole face lights up.
"Sloane! Look, I'm drawing the garden."
I lean over her shoulder. The drawing is surprisingly good for a six-year-old—careful lines, deliberate color choices. "That's really pretty, Iris."
"Daddy says you're good at art. Can you help me with the roses? I can't get them right."
"Sure." I slide into the chair next to her and pick up a red pencil. "So the trick with roses is—"
"Good morning." Dominic's voice comes from the doorway, and I look up to find him watching us. He's changed into jeans and a navy sweater, his hair still damp from the shower. There are shadows under his eyes.
"Morning," I say.
Iris doesn't look up from her drawing. "Daddy, Sloane is helping me with the roses."
"I can see that." He crosses to the sideboard where Mrs. Chen has laid out breakfast—pastries, fruit, coffee. "Have you eaten, Sloane?"
"Not yet."
He fills a plate and brings it to me, along with a cup of coffee. His fingers brush mine when he hands it over, deliberate, and I see Iris glance up at us with something close to a smile before returning to her drawing.
Great. Even the six-year-old can tell something's changed.
I take a sip of coffee and nearly burn my tongue. "Thanks."
"Of course." He sits across from me, his own plate untouched. "Did you sleep well?"
The question is innocent enough, but there's weight behind it. Meaning.
"Yeah," I say. "You?"
"Better than I have in months."
Iris makes a frustrated noise and holds up her drawing. "The roses still look wrong."
I lean over to look. "Here, try this." I take the pencil and show her how to layer the petals, working from the center out. "See? You want them to overlap a little."
She tries it, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, and after a moment she grins. "It works!"
"Told you."
Dominic is still watching me, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Something that makes my chest tight.
"What?" I say.
"Nothing." He sets down the cup. "You are good with her."
"She's easy to be good with."
Iris beams at that and goes back to her drawing, humming under her breath.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I almost let myself believe this could be normal. That I could have mornings like this, with Dominic across the table and Iris drawing beside me and sunlight streaming through the windows.
Then his phone buzzes.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and his whole body goes tense.
"I need to take this," he says. "Excuse me."
He's gone before I can respond, disappearing into the hallway with the phone pressed to his ear.
Iris doesn't seem to notice. She's completely absorbed in her drawing, adding tiny details to the flower petals.
I pick up my coffee and try to ignore the knot in my stomach.
He's gone for ten minutes. When he comes back, his jaw is tight and there's a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Iris," he says. "Why don't you go get dressed? We can go to the park this afternoon if you would like."
"Really?" She jumps up, scattering pencils. "Can Sloane come?"
"If she wants to."
They both look at me.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "Sounds fun."
Iris runs off, her footsteps thundering up the stairs, and then it's just the two of us in the too-quiet dining room.
Dominic sits back down. Picks up his coffee. Sets it down again without drinking.
"That was my investigator," he says finally.
My heart stops. "Okay."
"He found something. About your mother's time at Meridian Tech." He looks at me, and there's something raw in his eyes. Something that looks like guilt. "Sloane, I need to tell you—"
"Mr. Ashford?" Mrs. Chen appears in the doorway. "I am sorry to interrupt, but your father is on the phone. He says it is urgent."
Dominic closes his eyes. "Of course he does."
"Should I tell him you will call back?"
"No." He stands, his napkin falling to the floor. "I will take it in my office."
He looks at me one more time, and I can see him trying to decide whether to ignore Marcus or finish what he was about to say.
Marcus wins.
"I will be right back," he says. "Please. Do not leave."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the dining room with half-eaten breakfast and the knowledge that whatever he found about my mother, it's bad enough that he looks sick about telling me.
I should wait. Should sit here like he asked and let him explain.
Instead I stand up and follow him.
His office is at the end of the hall, the door half-open. I can hear his voice, low and tense.
"I do not care what you think is best for the company, Marcus. This is not about the company."
Silence. I press myself against the wall, out of sight.
"No," Dominic says. "I am not going to do that. She deserves to know the truth."
My pulse is hammering in my ears.
"Because it is the right thing to do. Because I—" He stops. "That is not relevant."
More silence. Longer this time.
"Then you do what you need to do," Dominic says finally. "But I am telling her today. All of it."
The phone clicks off.
I should move. Should get back to the dining room before he comes out and finds me eavesdropping.
But my feet won't work.
The office door opens wider and Dominic steps out, and we're standing three feet apart in the hallway, both of us frozen.
"How much did you hear?" he asks.
"Enough."
He nods slowly. "I was going to tell you. I am going to tell you. Right now, if you will let me."
"Tell me what? That you've been investigating my mother behind my back? That you found something so bad you look like you're going to be sick? That Marcus knows about it and is using it as leverage?"
"Yes." His voice is quiet. "All of that."
"Great." I cross my arms. "So tell me."
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can see him choosing his words, trying to figure out how to say whatever it is he needs to say.
"Your mother," he starts. "When she worked at Meridian Tech—"
"Daddy!" Iris's voice echoes down the stairs. "I can't find my purple jacket!"
Dominic's hands curl into fists at his sides. "I need to—"
"Yeah. Go help your daughter."
"Sloane—"
"It's fine." I'm already backing away, toward the stairs. "We can talk later."
"We need to talk now."
"Later, Dominic."
I take the stairs two at a time, past Iris's room where she's tearing through her closet, and lock myself in my bathroom.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—pale, wide-eyed, the marks on my neck standing out like accusations.
I turn on the faucet to cover the sound and pull out my phone.
There's a text from Jenna: Mimosas are chilling. Come whenever.
And one from a number I don't recognize: Did you think about my offer? The clock is ticking. - M
Marcus.
I delete it without responding and grip the edge of the sink, trying to breathe.
Dominic is going to tell me something about my mother today. Something bad enough that Marcus is using it as a weapon. Something that Dominic has been investigating for months without telling me.
I should leave. Should pack my bag and get out of this house before I hear whatever truth is going to change everything.
But I can't. Because I need to know.
I need to know what my mother did. What Dominic found. Why Marcus thinks it's worth destroying us both over.
I need to know if the man I slept with last night is trying to protect me or use me.
I splash cold water on my face and unlock the bathroom door.
Dominic is standing in my bedroom, his hand raised like he was about to knock.
"Iris found her jacket," he says. "She is getting dressed."
"Good."
"Sloane." He steps closer. "I know you are angry. You have every right to be. But I need you to understand—"
"Understand what? That you've been lying to me? That you brought me into your life for reasons you still haven't explained? That you're investigating my dead mother like she's some kind of criminal?"
"She is not a criminal." His voice is sharp. "She was a victim."
The word hangs between us.
"A victim of what?" I ask.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away.
"I cannot tell you here," he says finally. "Not with Iris in the house. Not where Marcus might—" He stops. "Tonight. After Iris goes to bed. I will tell you everything."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
I want to believe him. Want to trust that he's going to finally be honest with me.
But I've wanted a lot of things that turned out to be lies.
"Okay," I say. "Tonight."
He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, gentle, and for a second I see the man from last night. The one who shook when he touched me. The one who said my name like a prayer.
Then Iris calls for him again and the moment breaks.
"I should go," he says.
"Yeah."
He leaves, and I sink onto the bed, my phone still clutched in my hand.
Tonight, he'll tell me the truth.
Tonight, I'll have to decide what to do with it.
I pull up Marcus's deleted text and read it again. Did you think about my offer?
Then I open a new message and type: What do you want?
The response comes back in seconds: To give you what you deserve. Meet me tomorrow. Noon. The Paramount. Come alone.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
Then I get dressed for the park.
The afternoon passes in a blur of playground equipment and ice cream and Iris's endless energy. Dominic pushes her on the swings while I sit on a bench nearby, pretending to read on my phone while actually watching them.
He's good with her. Patient. Present. When she falls and scrapes her knee, he's there in seconds, cleaning the wound with a wipe from his pocket and kissing it better like it's the most natural thing in the world.
This is the man who's investigating my mother. Who's been lying to me for months. Who looked sick this morning when he tried to tell me the truth.
I don't know how to reconcile those things.
"Sloane!" Iris waves from the top of the slide. "Watch this!"
I wave back, and she goes down headfirst, shrieking with laughter.
Dominic catches her at the bottom, swinging her up into his arms, and she wraps her legs around his waist like a monkey.
"Again!" she demands.
"One more time," he says. "Then we need to go home for dinner."
She runs off, and he walks over to me, slightly out of breath.
"She is going to sleep well tonight," he says.
"Yeah. That tracks."
He sits beside me on the bench, close enough that our shoulders touch. "Are you all right?"
"I don't know." I watch Iris climb the ladder again. "Ask me tonight."
"Fair enough."
We sit in silence for a moment, and then he says, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For staying. For not running when you had every reason to."
I look at him. At the scar on his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the way he's watching his daughter like she's the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"I'm still here," I say. "That doesn't mean I'm staying."
"I know."
Iris goes down the slide again, and this time she runs straight to me, throwing her arms around my neck.
"Did you see? I went so fast!"
"I saw. You were amazing."
She pulls back and looks between me and Dominic, her expression suddenly serious. "Are you going to live with us forever?"
My throat closes up. "I—"
"Iris," Dominic says gently. "That is not a question for right now."
"But I want her to stay."
"I know, sweetheart. But sometimes adults need time to figure things out."
She considers this, then nods. "Okay. But I hope you stay, Sloane."
"Me too, kid."
We walk home as the sun starts to set, Iris between us, holding both our hands. She chatters about the park and her drawing and whether we can get a dog, and neither Dominic nor I say much.
When we get back to the house, Mrs. Chen has dinner ready. We eat together, the three of us, and it feels like playing house. Like pretending at a life I'm not sure I'm allowed to have.
After dinner, Dominic takes Iris upstairs for her bath and bedtime routine. I clean up the kitchen, load the dishwasher, wipe down the counters. Anything to keep my hands busy.
My phone buzzes. Jenna: You still coming over? I'm worried about you.
I type back: Tomorrow. I promise. Something came up.
Her response is immediate: Everything okay?
No, I think. But I type: Yeah. Just complicated.
Story of my life.
I'm drying the last plate when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Dominic appears in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up, his hair mussed from Iris's goodnight hug.
"She is asleep," he says.
"Good."
He crosses to me, takes the dish towel from my hands, and sets it on the counter. Then he takes both my hands in his and looks at me with an expression I can't read.
"I need to show you something," he says. "In my office. Will you come with me?"
My heart is pounding. "Yeah. Okay."
He leads me down the hall to his office and closes the door behind us. There's a folder on his desk, thick with papers, and he picks it up with hands that aren't quite steady.
"This is everything my investigator found about your mother's time at Meridian Tech," he says. "I am going to tell you all of it. But first, I need you to know something."
"What?"
"I did not start this investigation to hurt you. I started it because Marcus threatened to use your mother's past against us, and I needed to know what he had. What he could do." He pauses. "But the more I learned, the more I realized you deserved to know the truth. Not because of Marcus. Not because of the company. Because it is your history. Your mother's story. And you have a right to it."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He opens the folder and pulls out a photograph. It's old, the colors slightly faded, and it shows a young woman with dark hair and my eyes standing in front of a building I don't recognize.
"That is your mother," he says. "Outside Meridian Tech headquarters in 1997."
I take the photo with shaking hands. She looks so young. Younger than I am now.
"What happened to her?" I ask.
Dominic takes a breath. "She invented something. A piece of software that would have revolutionized data encryption. She filed for a patent through Meridian Tech, as was required by her employment contract. And then—"
His phone rings.
We both stare at it. The screen shows Marcus's name.
"Do not answer it," I say.
"I have to. If I do not, he will—"
"Let him." I set down the photograph. "Whatever he's going to do, he's going to do it anyway. So just tell me. Tell me what happened to my mother."
He looks at the phone, then at me. The ringing stops.
"All right," he says. "Your mother invented—"
The phone rings again. Marcus.
Dominic silences it and sets it face-down on the desk.
"Your mother invented a data encryption algorithm that Meridian Tech patented under the company's name. She received no credit. No compensation beyond her salary. And when she tried to fight it, they—"
A text notification lights up the phone. Then another. And another.
Dominic picks it up, his face going pale as he reads.
"What?" I ask. "What is it?"
He hands me the phone without a word.
The texts are from Marcus: I warned you. Check the news. This is on you.
I open the browser and search for Meridian Tech.
The top result is from twenty minutes ago: BREAKING: Meridian Tech Founder Accused of Patent Theft and Employee Exploitation. Former Employee's Daughter Speaks Out.
My hands go numb.
"I did not do this," Dominic says. "Sloane, I swear, I did not—"
I scroll down. There's a photo of me leaving the board dinner last night, Dominic's hand on my back. The caption reads: Sloane Whitley, daughter of Eleanor Whitley, whose groundbreaking work was stolen by Meridian Tech in 1998, now working closely with Ashford Industries CEO Dominic Ashford.
"Who did this?" I ask. My voice sounds far away. "Who talked to the press?"
"Marcus." Dominic's jaw is tight. "He must have leaked it. He has been threatening to expose the patent theft for months, but I thought—" He stops. "I thought I had more time."
My phone starts ringing. Unknown number. I decline it.
It rings again immediately.
"You need to turn that off," Dominic says. "The press is going to be relentless."
I power down the phone and set it on the desk next to his. "What does this mean? For you? For the company?"
"I do not know yet. But Sloane—" He reaches for me. "I am so sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have—"
"Yeah." I step back, out of reach. "You should have."
"Let me finish telling you. Let me explain what really happened to your mother."
"Not tonight." I'm moving toward the door, my body on autopilot. "I can't—I need to think."
"Sloane, please."
I stop with my hand on the doorknob. "Did you know? When you hired me? Did you know about my mother and Meridian Tech?"
The silence stretches too long.
"Yes," he says finally. "I knew."
The floor drops out from under me.
"Get out," I say.
"This is my office."
"Then I'll get out."
I wrench open the door and nearly run to my room, slamming the door behind me. My laptop is still on the desk, those emails still waiting, and I want to throw it through the window.
Instead I sink onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
He knew. The whole time, he knew.
Everything—the job, the contract, bringing me into his life—it was all because of my mother.
I'm not here because I'm good at my job. I'm here because of something that happened before I was born.
There's a soft knock on the door.
"Go away," I say.
"Sloane." Dominic's voice is muffled through the wood. "I know you are angry. But I need you to understand—"
"I don't want to understand. I want you to leave me alone."
Silence. Then: "I am not going anywhere. When you are ready to talk, I will be here."
His footsteps retreat down the hall.
I lie there in the dark, my mind racing, until I hear water running in the bathroom next door. Dominic's bathroom.
I should stay here. Should lock the door and ignore him and figure out what the hell I'm going to do.
But I need answers. Real ones. Not half-truths and interrupted confessions.
I get up and walk to his room. The door is open. The bathroom light is on, and I can hear the shower running.
His phone is on the nightstand, right where he left it this morning.
I pick it up. It's still unlocked.
The email from J. Torres is at the top of his inbox. I open it.
Mr. Ashford - Investigation complete. Please see attached report. Key findings: Eleanor Whitley's encryption algorithm (Patent #5,847,392) was filed under Meridian Tech's name in 1998 despite being her sole invention. She was terminated two weeks after filing. Cause of termination listed as "performance issues" but internal memos suggest retaliation for questioning patent ownership. She attempted legal action but lacked resources to fight Meridian's legal team. Patent generated $847M in licensing revenue between 1998-2015. Eleanor Whitley received $0. Additional finding: Marcus Ashford was VP of Technology at Meridian Tech during this period and personally signed off on the patent filing and Ms. Whitley's termination.
The phone slips from my hands.
Marcus. It was Marcus.
The shower turns off. I hear Dominic moving around in the bathroom.
I should leave. Should go back to my room before he finds me here.
But I can't move.
The bathroom door opens and Dominic steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair.
He sees me standing there with his phone at my feet and goes very still.
"You read it," he says.
"Yeah."
"I was going to tell you. Tonight. All of it."
"Marcus destroyed my mother." My voice is shaking. "He stole her work and fired her and she couldn't fight back because she didn't have money for lawyers. And you knew. You've known this whole time."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He crosses to me slowly, like I'm something that might bolt. "Because I was a coward. Because I did not know how to tell you that my family destroyed yours. Because I—" He stops. Swallows. "Because I was falling for you, and I knew that once you learned the truth, you would leave."
The words hang between us.
"I'm not falling for you," I say.
"I know."
"I'm not."
"All right."
"Stop agreeing with me."
"What would you like me to say?"
"I don't know!" I'm shouting now, and I don't care. "I don't know what I want you to say. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know why I slept with you last night when I knew—when I knew you were lying to me."
"Because you wanted to," he says quietly. "The same reason I wanted to. Because for one night, we could pretend none of this existed."
"Well, it does exist. And now the whole world knows about it."
"Yes."
I sink onto the edge of his bed, suddenly exhausted. "What happens now?"
"I do not know." He sits beside me, careful to leave space between us. "The board will want answers. The press will want a statement. Marcus will—" He stops. "Marcus will do whatever he thinks will hurt me most."
"And what's that?"
He looks at me. "Taking you away from me."
"I'm not yours to take."
"I know that too."
We sit in silence for a long moment. Then I say, "I need to see the rest of the report. All of it."
"Of course." He stands and pulls on a pair of sweatpants, then retrieves his phone from the floor. "I will forward it to you."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out—I must have turned it back on without thinking—and there are forty-three missed calls and twice as many texts.
One is from Marcus: I told you the clock was ticking. See you tomorrow at noon.
I show it to Dominic.
His expression goes cold. "You are not meeting him."
"Yeah, I am."
"Sloane—"
"He has information about my mother. Information you clearly don't have, or it would have been in that report. So yeah, I'm meeting him."
"Then I am coming with you."
"No."
"This is not negotiable."
"Everything is negotiable." I stand up. "I'm going to bed. In my room. Alone. And tomorrow I'm meeting Marcus, and you're going to let me because you owe me that much."
I'm halfway to the door when he says, "I am sorry. For all of it. For not telling you sooner. For letting you walk into this blind. For—" His voice breaks. "For everything my family did to yours."
I don't turn around. "Yeah. Me too."
I go back to my room and lock the door.
Then I open the email from J. Torres and read every word of the report. All forty-seven pages