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And what happened after those photos? Not even I know.
My mind races, searching for answers, something to prove I didn’t cheat on her. I grab my phone and force myself to scrutinize every damning image.
Thank fuck, there are no pictures of me touching these girls intimately. I can deal with the pics of me doing lines and drinking, but if I’d touched someone else, slept with someone else…I’d find the tallest building in Vegas and end this.
Odd to consider right now, but I’m reasonably certain I’m demisexual or some shit. My dick isn’t attracted to anyone else, especially someone random. I have trust issues.
I’m scrolling through the pictures again when it hits me, the dots connecting in my lagging brain. I’m dumb as fuck. Each image features me alone, photographed from a single perspective, nothing in the background. There are no photos of Kyle or anyone else—only me.
This has never happened before because Kyle carefully covers all his bases. He’s in the public eye, and evidence of his vices would lead to his political downfall, if not an indictment.
How does he assure fidelity besides an ironclad NDA? Blackmail.
One person took and sold last night’s photos.Kyle. I’m fucking sure of it. He has done it to others—senators, cops, celebrities, friends, women…in compromising positions.
But to his own son?
Why am I even questioning it?
He revels in his ability to control me, using my vulnerabilities as a weapon to maintain his twisted hold. My mother, my mental health, Aurora—they’re all pawns in his sick game.
I’ve lost everything, all so he can keep me on a tight leash, support his perverse lifestyle, and prove that without him, I’m fucked.
Desperation turns to fury, and I clench my fists until my nails dig into my palms.
He set me up. He destroyed my relationship—not only with Aurora, but with Ethan too.
And he finally pushed me over the edge.
Before I can think it through, I pick up the phone and call his number.
“Jack—”
“What the fuck do you want? You want my trust fund? You can have it.”
In the background, a crowd of voices babble, and I realize he’s at the game.
“Why aren’t you on the ice?”
“Are you that fucking stupid? You think Ethan would play me after last night?”
A moment of quiet follows, and the noise dissipates before I receive his usual entitled response. “He can’t do that. Without a drug test, he can’t prove anything. I’m calling the GM.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already left. You’ve outdone yourself this time. You’ve fucked us both.” This splitting headache is the only reason I’m not laughing at how spectacularly his plan failed. “Did you think I’d try to save myself and my career? Did you think I’d come crawling back, begging you to fix my reputation, to fix my inevitable drug test, forgetting all about Aurora?”
“Boy,” he snarls, a warning that, as a child, would accompany his fist.
“You can’t hurt me. The only thing I want is Aurora, and since you obliterated that, I’ll spend all my time in New York groveling. Forget my trust fund. Forget hockey. I quit. Have fun explaining that to your entourage.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Get your ass on the ice.”
“You won’t see me on the ice until I have Aurora. I’ll do everything in my power to get her back, and I’ll make sure it’s as public as possible. I’ll rent billboards in Times Square if I have to. Fuck, I’ll move to New York.”
“Jackson. Don’t you fucking dare! I told you last night, I’ll destroy her!”
His intimidation tactics are meaningless. The damage is done.
“They’ll find you dead before I allow you to take another person from me. You’re fucked. When I’m through, you’ll have the same as me: nothing.”