That night Sloan told him he would be a coward if he took the job. “You’d be letting her put you in the basement like a child,” she said. They were in Sloan’s apartment kitchen, a glass-walled high-rise space with pale counters and furniture selected more for photographs than comfort. Harrison stood at the window overlooking the city and felt, for the first time, how little of the place belonged to him.
“It’s not the basement,” he said. “You know what I mean.” “I misused company money.” “You shifted a budget.”
“I hid the vendor relationship.” “Because your mother would have killed the idea before it had a chance.” Harrison turned around. The sentence was almost identical to the argument he had been making for months.
Hearing it from Sloan suddenly made it sound different. Smaller. “You told me the work would pay for itself,” he said. “It would.”
“You told me if we got far enough, Mom would have to approve the building.” “She should have.” “That is not the same as authorization.” Sloan stared at him.
“Whose side are you on?” Harrison laughed once, without humor. There it was again. Sides.
He had spent nearly a year treating every boundary as evidence someone was either for him or against him. Eleanor’s refusal meant she did not believe in him. Claire’s custody boundaries meant she wanted control. Martin’s questions meant finance was timid.
Now accepting responsibility meant betraying Sloan. “What if this isn’t about sides?” he asked. Sloan folded her arms. “That sounds like something your mother would say.”