CHASE
The pillow wall was hilarious in theory.
In practice, it was a joke.
Seven pillows stacked like a soft barricade down the middle of the queen bed—neutral territory in a war nobody had officially declared. I lay on my side staring at the fabric mound, listening to Sloane breathe on the other side. Slow. Steady. Not asleep yet.
Dinner had been good—lobster, corn, bread still warm, wine that went down too easy. Sloane ate like she was proving a point, fork moving with precision. I caught her glancing at me twice. Once when I complimented the garlic butter (genuine). Once when Victoria asked if we were “getting along.” We both answered “fine” at the same time, then glared at each other like it was a personal betrayal.
Now the room was dark except for moonlight slicing through the
