The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 378

There was only one light on in the office—an old-fashioned brass desk lamp. The shade focused the beam onto the desk, leaving the rest of the room bathed in soft shadows. Garrison was leaning back in his chair, his head tilted to the side, his eyes closed. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic tide.

He was asleep.

Sloane's gaze drifted lower, then stopped cold.

He was holding something in his arms—a white sweater.

The sweater was neatly folded into a perfect square and rested against his chest.

His arms were crossed over it, his fingers curled slightly, looking just like a child clutching a security blanket in his sleep—natural, relaxed, entirely unguarded. The fabric was incredibly soft cashmere, catching a warm, fuzzy halo in the glow of the desk lamp.

A bit of a pale tag peeked out from the collar. The text was too small for Sloane to read.

But she didn't need to read it.

She recognized that sweater—it was her own!

It was an old sweater, and she remembered it vividly because it was her absolute favorite. She had worn it for years; the cuffs had even started to pill, but she could never bear to throw it away, always keeping it safely tucked in a box.

Lexi had told her that all her things were temporarily being kept safe at Lexi's house.

Sloane couldn't believe it. Right now, it was here.

In Garrison's arms!

Sloane felt as though something had exploded in her brain. It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head, freezing her down to her toes.

Her hands instinctively clenched the front of her cardigan, her nails digging into the knit fabric so hard her fingertips turned white.

Sloane stood just outside the gap, the baseboard lights from the hallway casting her silhouette into sharp relief. Her face was a mix of fury, terror, and the stunned disbelief of utter betrayal. Those three emotions twisted together into a single expression—

She was looking at him like he was human garbage.

Garrison glanced down at the sweater in his arms.

His fingers let go instantly, as if he had been burned. The white cashmere slid off his chest, tumbled onto his lap, and dropped to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, but the moment his fingers brushed the soft fabric, he yanked his hand back, as if even that contact was damning evidence.

"Ms. Taylor—" He stood up, his chair sliding backward, the wheels clattering loudly against the tiles. "You're misunderstanding, I was just... just..."

He choked on his words.

His mouth hung open, his Adam's apple bobbing once, twice, as if trying to speak, but whatever he wanted to say was trapped in his throat.