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I leave the equipment room with my spine straight and my jaw clenched, refusing to feel guilty for calling Slater out. He needed to hear it. Someone needed to tell him that the world doesn’t revolve around his wants and his money and his ability to intimidate people into submission.

My heels click against the polished floor as I walk away, each step echoing in the empty hallway. He thinks he can just throw his weight around, threaten my boss, risk my career, and I’m supposed to what—thank him? Fall at his feet because he’s Slater Castellano?

The man is a grade-A arrogant dick, and I should have seen it coming.

I should have known better than to let another man ruin my life.

My ex destroyed my reputation so thoroughly I had to flee halfway across the country, and now here I am again—career in shambles because I was stupid enough to get involved with someone who thinks rules don’t apply to him.

But this is different. This is worse. With my ex, the damage was quick. One bad night, and I moved fast. This with Slater has been drawn out. He made my old boss quit. His presence made me lose my rental. And now I’m about to lose my job.

My stomach churns as I quicken my pace down the hallway, scanning for any sign of Tanya. I find her near the main entrance, typing furiously on her phone, her face a mask of professional displeasure.

“Tanya, please,” I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.

She looks up, her expression cold. “Come with me.”

We walk to her office in silence, and I can feel the weight of every stare from staff members we pass. They can tell something’s up because of our expressions.

Tanya closes the office door with a soft click that sounds final, like a coffin lid closing. The small space feels suffocating, all beige walls and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look harsh and unforgiving.

“Are you dating him?” she asks, settling behind her desk like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.

I shake my head quickly. “No.”

“Is he always like that?” Her fingers drum against the desk surface. “I haven’t had time to review his file yet.”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” The lie tastes bitter in my mouth. I do know. I know he’s arrogant and used to getting his way. I know he has a temper that flares hot and fast. I know he thinks money can solve any problem. “He seemed... nice.”

Tanya’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “Boys like him are never nice, Sage. They just pretend to be when it serves their purposes.” She leans forward, her voice dropping.

“He can probably follow through on his threats—men like that usually can. But I still have to report this. I have to report him for threatening me.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. Of course, she does. Of course, this is going to get worse before it gets better.

“Okay,” I manage. “I understand.”

She starts to rise from her chair, reaching for a file folder, but I can’t let her leave. Can’t let this spiral completely out of control.

“Tanya, wait.” The desperation in my voice surprises even me. “I’ll quit.”

She freezes. “What?”

“I can’t get fired.” Or get him in trouble. Hockey is all he has. My voice cracks, and I hate how small I sound. “Please. I’ll quit. Leave on good terms so I can find work somewhere else. This job—this field—it’s all I have.”

Something that might be sympathy flickers across her face, but her tone remains businesslike. “It’s my first day here, Sage. I can’t just ignore what I saw. You crossed a serious line.” She pauses, studying me. “Unless he forced you? Coerced you in some way?”

I inhale sharply, automatically shaking my head. Jesus, that would make everything infinitely worse. Sexual assault allegations against a star athlete? That’s a media circus I could not survive.

“No,” I say firmly. “Nothing like that.”

“Then it’s settled.” She straightens her blazer with sharp, efficient movements. “Let’s go to the University’s HR. Now.”

The walk to the HR office feels like a death march.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at any of the players or staff we pass.

My hands are trembling slightly, and I clench them into fists to make it stop.

I feel like I’m floating outside my body, watching this disaster unfold from a distance.

The HR office is exactly what I expected—neutral colors, motivational posters, and the smell of stale coffee. Tanya walks straight up to the receptionist.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Martinez about an urgent matter,” she says.

Mrs. Martinez emerges from an inner office within minutes—a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and the weary expression of someone who’s seen every workplace drama imaginable. She gestures for us to sit in the uncomfortable chairs across from her desk.

“I quit,” I blurt out before anyone else can speak.

Mrs. Martinez’s eyebrows raise. “Excuse me?”

Tanya jumps in, her voice crisp and professional. “I just caught Ms. Monroe in a compromising position with one of the hockey players. When I attempted to address the situation, the player became aggressive and threatening. He told me to walk away and pretend I hadn’t seen anything.”

Mrs. Martinez’s attention shifts to me, her expression neutral but not unkind. “Was this encounter consensual?”

Heat flushes my cheeks, but I nod. “Yes.”

“And you want to resign?”

I nod again, the word “yes” sticking in my throat. This was supposed to be my fresh start. My chance to build something real, something that mattered. Instead, I’m back where I started—running from the wreckage of my own poor choices.

“Who was the player involved?” Mrs. Martinez asks, though something in her tone suggests she already knows.

Tanya and I exchange glances. There’s no point in lying now.

“Slater Castellano,” I say quietly.

Mrs. Martinez doesn’t look surprised. If anything, she looks tired. “He has quite a reputation. Well then.” She turns to her computer and starts typing. “I’ll process your resignation, Sage. Tanya, thank you for bringing this to my attention. What a first day indeed.”

The words hit me hard, and I have to stop the tears from falling.

Just like that, it’s over. Everything I’ve done to get here.

Years of school, the luck of job searching, I only moved here because I got this job, hoping that I could finally build something stable—all gone because I couldn’t keep my hands off a man who sees me as nothing more than a conquest.

I walk back through the hallways on unsteady legs, every step feeling like I’m walking through quicksand.

The equipment room where it all went wrong is empty.

I gather my few personal belongings—a water bottle, some pens, the small plant I’d brought to make my desk feel more like home—and shove them into my bag.

My throat burns with unshed tears, but I refuse to cry here. Not where anyone might see. Not where it might become just another piece of gossip for people to whisper about.

The parking lot is a blur of concrete and cars, the late afternoon sun too bright and cheerful for the way my world is imploding. I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get them in the ignition.

As soon as I’m in my car with the doors locked and the windows up, the dam breaks.

I cry like I haven’t cried since the night I left San Diego—great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body.

For the job I just lost. For the career that feels over before it really began.

For the stupid, naive part of me that thought maybe this time would be different.

For the way Slater looked at me when I told him he couldn’t understand. Like I’d physically struck him. Like I’d taken something precious and shattered it beyond repair.

But mostly, I cry because deep down, I know this is my fault. I let him in. I kissed him back. I wanted him just as much as he wanted me, and now I’m paying the price for forgetting that men like Slater Castellano don’t face consequences.

People like me do.

I drive to Slater’s house because where else can I go? The irony isn’t lost on me—running back to the very person who destroyed my life, because I have nowhere else to turn.

The house feels different. It’s less like a sanctuary and more like a prison. Every surface seems to mock me with memories. The kitchen where we made lunch together. The couch where we watched that stupid reality show. The bathtub I fell in.

I lock my bedroom door behind me and sink onto the bed, still wearing my work clothes that now feel like a costume for a role I’m no longer playing. My phone buzzes against the nightstand.

Unknown number. I almost don’t answer, but something makes me swipe to accept.

“Hi, is this Sage Monroe?” The voice is bright, cheerful—everything I’m not feeling right now.

“Yes.”

“This is Madison from Riverside Garden Apartments. You submitted an application for our one-bedroom unit? I’m calling to schedule a viewing. Would tomorrow afternoon work for you?”

Tomorrow.

“Um, yes. Tomorrow works.”

“Perfect! How does two o’clock sound?”

“Great.” The word comes out flat, lifeless.

After I hang up, the reality hits me like a fresh wave of nausea. I just lost my job. I won’t qualify for that apartment or any other decent place. My credit isn’t good enough to rely on savings alone, and what little money I have won’t last long without steady income.

I fall back onto the bed and let the tears come again, quieter this time but somehow more devastating. When I finally lift my head, my eyes land on the dresser Slater assembled for me. White, tall, with four drawers instead of three.

“This is the nicest thing someone’s ever done for me,” I’d told him.

And I’d meant it. The gesture had felt like something real, something that mattered. Not because of the money but because it seemed like he cared.

But maybe that’s exactly what Tanya was talking about. Men like Slater throw money at problems, buy affection, use their resources to make people dependent on them. Maybe the dresser wasn’t kindness at all—maybe it was just another form of control.

I pull out my laptop and start job searching, trying to focus on practical next steps instead of the tight feeling in my chest. There are opportunities in the area—not many, but some.

I apply to a pediatric rehabilitation center downtown and a youth sports program that focuses on injury prevention for young athletes.

Neither position would pay as well as the university job, but they’re honest work in my field.

The sound of Slater’s car pulling into the driveway makes my stomach clench. I hear his heavy footsteps on the front porch, the jingle of keys, the click of the front door opening.

I stay in my room with the door locked, continuing my job search until my eyes burn from staring at the screen.

By the time I need to shower, the house has gone quiet again. I creep down the hallway like a thief in my own temporary home, ears straining for any sign of him. The coast seems clear—his bedroom door is closed, no light visible underneath.

In the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. Red-rimmed eyes, blotchy skin, hair falling out of its ponytail in defeated wisps. I look exactly like what I am—someone who keeps making the same mistakes over and over again.

The hot water feels good against my skin, washing away the day’s humiliation and the lingering scent of that equipment room.

But it can’t wash away the memory of how right it felt to kiss him, how perfectly I fit against his body, how for just a moment I thought maybe I’d found something worth staying for.

When I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the house is still silent. Slater’s door remains closed, no sound coming from within. It’s like he’s avoiding me as much as I’m avoiding him.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe we both know that there’s nothing left to say.