Chapter 7 Sloane Moves In

• Marisol
• Three days after the divorce papers are signed. Thats all it took before Sloane moved into the house.
• Dominic’s house has always been quiet. Controlled. Everything happens behind closed doors. That was the point. Privacy isn’t just comfort in his world—it’s protection.
• Sloane doesn’t understand that.
• By noon, staff I haven’t spoken to in years are texting me screenshots.
• She’s in the kitchen first. Barefoot. Wearing one of his shirts like it’s cute instead of disrespectful. She posts a mirror selfie and tags the location without realizing what that does. The caption is something smug about fresh starts.
• By evening, there’s music. Loud enough to carry past the walls. Cars pulling up that don’t belong to anyone I recognize. Strangers laughing like they’re invincible because they don’t know where they are.
• I watch it on my phone from the guest house couch, legs tucked under me, glass of water untouched on the table.
• Dominic always said visibility was a liability.
• I wonder if he told her that.
• The next morning, there’s another post. Breakfast on the terrace. Champagne flutes. The sun catching the marble like it’s a set piece. She captions it home.
• I feel something then.
• Annoyance.
• She’s not wrong to move in. That house is his. That space was always temporary for me, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
• But she’s loud in a way that invites attention.
• And attention gets people killed.
• By the third night, she throws a party.
• Not a gathering. A party.
• I know because one of Dominic’s neighbors calls me instead of him. That alone tells me how badly this is going.
• “I thought you should know,” she says, voice tight. “There are a lot of unfamiliar faces.”
• “Thank you,” I reply. “I’m sure it’s handled.”
• It isn’t.
• Sloane posts everything. Drinks. Dresses. People leaning too close to Dominic, arms slung around shoulders that don’t belong to them. She doesn’t blur faces. She doesn’t care who sees.
• She wants to be seen.
• The next morning, I get a call from someone I haven’t spoken to since before the wedding. A name I haven’t said out loud in years.
• “Is that Dominic’s new girl?” he asks without preamble.
• “Yes.”
• “She’s very public.”
• “Yes.”
• “That’s dangerous.”
• “I know.”
• Silence hums on the line. “Does he?”
• I glance at my phone again, at Sloane’s latest post. A photo taken from the front steps. The gate visible behind her. The street just beyond.
• “He will,” I say.
• By the end of the week, the parties stop being contained to the house.
• She hosts people by the pool. She invites influencers. She tags brands. She brings attention Dominic spent years avoiding because it made business complicated.
• She doesn’t understand the difference between attention and exposure.
• On Friday night, I get another call. This one shorter.
• “You might want to tell your ex,” the voice says, low and serious. “There’s chatter.”
• “About what?”
• “About the woman he brought into his home.”
• I close my eyes. “From who?”
• “A family that doesn’t appreciate surprises.”
• I thank him and hang up.
• I open the camera feed again and watch her step out onto the balcony in a red dress.
• She lifts her phone, smiling into the screen, unaware of the way eyes have started to linger.