Sloane pov
I stand and let him say it. Then he's gone, and the house resettles around his absence, and I'm standing in the entrance hall with something sitting in my chest that I have decided not to examine closely.
"He meant well," says a voice behind me.
I turn. Caelan is at the study door, jacket off, which means he's been working and not, as I suspected, monitoring the clock.
"I know," I say.
Something moves in his expression as he looks at me for a moment. "Whatever he told you," he says, "verify it independently."
He says it quietly, and then he goes back into the study and pulls the door behind him, and I stand in the entrance hall alone with the weight of all that was happening around me. Verify it independently.
Not a threat or dismissal. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary. Then I go upstairs, find Gerald's share documents in Vivienne's correspondence file where I now know to look, and I spread them across the writing desk and begin to read. The portfolio review clause is on page three.
I find it at four in the afternoon, in the grey light of a Tuesday, and I sit with it for a long time before I decide. By evening, I've decided.
******
I can't sleep. This is not new, i haven't slept properly since I arrived in this body, which makes sense — I am a woman running on adrenaline and forward momentum in a life that is not mine, in a house that is not mine.
I give up, pull on the robe hanging behind the door and walk.
Thornfield at night is different. During the day, the house performs—staff move with purpose and everything looks functional. At night, it just exists as a cold, empty space where people grieve alone.
I walk the east corridor by memory, feeling every draft and creak. I am dwelling on Gerald's words, Vivienne's files, and Caelan's demand for proof when I see a small shape at the end of the hall.
It is Emmet. He sits huddled against the wall in his boat-patterned pajamas, weeping.
He doesn't hear me. From a few feet away, I watch him clutch that photograph—his father's face worn thin from being held every day. A heavy, nameless feeling pulls at my chest.
I should offer the standard comfort. I know the adult script by heart: it's okay, don't cry, go back to bed. Those words aren't really for him; they are just a way to make the crying stop so I choose not to use them. Instead, I sink to the floor and sit beside him.
He startles when I sit down, scrubbing at his face fast with the back of his hand.
"You don't have to do that," I say quietly.
He looks startled.
"The face-wiping thing," I say. "You don't have to."
A long pause. Then, very small: "I woke up and couldn't remember his voice."
The corridor is very quiet.
"I keep trying," he says, his voice fracturing on the last word in the way children's voices do when they're holding something that's too heavy, "and I can't — I can't hear it anymore and I "
He stops, pressing his lips together hard.
I look at the photograph in his hands. Dorian's face, open and warm.
"Yeah," I say. "Me too, honestly."
He looks up at me, startled out of his misery for one second.
His face crumples. He begins to sob—the deep, let-down kind of crying that comes when someone finally gives permission. Before I can react, he climbs into my lap with the total trust of a child. I sit frozen, my arms hovering, unsure of where to put them.
The hesitation lasts only seconds. I wrap my arms around him. He tucks his head under my chin and cries while I say nothing, because silence is exactly what he needs.
Eventually, his crying slows and stops. His breathing shifts into the heavy rhythm of sleep. I adjust my position to support his weight and look up.
Caelan is there.
Caelan stands in the shadows near the library. He isn't wearing his suit jacket, and his collar is open. This is his private, late-night look. He must have heard Emmet crying and came out to see what was happening. I'm not sure how long he's been standing there.
We look at each other. I don't look away or try to hide. I just sat there holding the sleeping boy and his father's picture.
For just a second, Caelan's face changes. He doesn't look cold or like he's solving a problem. He looks soft and sad. He quickly hides it, but I know what I saw.
Neither of us moves. We stay still in the dark, quiet house. Then, he turns and goes back into the library, shutting the door without a sound.
I sat there for a long time. I feel the weight of the sleeping child and a strange feeling that things are starting to change between us.
Keep your distance, he had warned me on the first night.
Looking at the closed door, I realize it's already too late for that.
I tuck Emmet into bed with his photograph and pull up his blanket. Looking at his sleeping face, I realize my hands are shaking. I know why. Holding a sad child while Caelan watched from the shadows has broken through my shell but I'm not ready to deal with that feeling yet.
I need a hot shower to stop thinking. I step into the steaming water and lean my head against the wall, trying to relax.
The water is so loud that I don't hear the door open. The only reason I know someone is there is the sudden burst of cold air.
I turn around but Caelan is standing in the doorway.
He still looks the way he did by the library—shirt open, sleeves pushed up. He looks like he started walking with a plan but ended up here by mistake. For a second, we both freeze.
The glass door is foggy, but he can still see me. The way he looks at me isn't controlled or cold like usual. "Get out," I say.
He doesn't move.
"Caelan," I say again.
The steam swirled between us like a thin veil, but it didn't hide anything. I stood under the spray with water streaming down my skin, my heart beating so fast I was sure he could hear it. Caelan stayed frozen. His shirt was open at the collar and his sleeves were pushed up. For the first time, his usual control looked weak. He gripped the doorframe so hard his knuckles were white, as if he needed to hold on to stay still.
"You walked into my bathroom," I said.
His eyes moved over me slowly. He looked hungry and angry at the same time. I could see his jaw tighten. "Get out," he said.
I gave him a small, sharp smile. "Make me."