Page 5

Chapter

Five

A fter her completely unexpected confrontation with Jason, Stacia needed an escape.

She had barely held it together in that tiny office, her heart pounding, her mind racing to hide any trace of recognition when she saw him sitting across from her. It was a miracle she hadn’t just turned and walked straight out of the building.

Instead, she had done what any self-respecting woman in crisis would do—she sought comfort food.

The small pizzeria she retreated to was one of Savannah’s hidden gems, tucked between a boutique wine shop and an old record store. It was the kind of place where the scent of garlic, bubbling mozzarella, and crisped dough wrapped around her like a warm hug the moment she stepped inside. The owner, Tony, had perfected the art of New York-style pizza, and it was the one indulgence she allowed herself when life became too much.

Right now, life was more than too much.

Seated in the back booth, she took a slow, deliberate bite of her slice, savoring the sweet tang of the sauce and the salty richness of the cheese. The crust crunched just enough, the grease threatening to drip onto her laptop as she scrolled through the latest headlines, looking for any mention of Jason.

She was not going to Google his name.

She was not going to obsess over the fact that he had asked for her—that he had chosen her to be his image consultant after their one-night stand.

She was absolutely not going to think about how his lips had felt against hers, or the way his hands had gripped her hips, or how he had?—

Her phone rang, jolting her from dangerous territory.

She wiped her fingers on a napkin and clicked the call on. “Hello?”

“Stacia!” Sophie’s voice blasted through the phone, thick with concern. “I’ve been worried sick. I almost called the cops, but Michael talked me down. What the hell happened last night?”

Stacia exhaled, rubbing her temple with her free hand.

Was it really only last night?

It felt like an entire lifetime had passed in the span of twenty-four hours. She had woken up tangled in Jason’s sheets, spent the morning scrambling to salvage her career, and now she was facing the absurd reality that the man she had slept with—who she hadn’t even known by name at the time—was now her client.

Her headache pounded again, a dull, insistent reminder that she had been drinking last night, and that today’s stress wasn’t helping.

She grabbed the bottle of aspirin from her purse, dry-swallowing two, and sighed.

“Stace? Hello?”

“Sorry, Sophie. Just thinking.” She popped the last bite of crust into her mouth, chewing quickly. “Michael talked to you?”

“Forget Michael. What happened last night? I want details.” Sophie’s tone had shifted from worry to excitement, her words rapid-fire, her voice practically vibrating through the phone.

Stacia winced.

Yeah, this was coming.

“It’s… personal,” she hedged, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

Sophie scoffed. “Personal? Stacia, please. If you didn’t want to tell me, why didn’t you just say so last night? Why did you send me away?”

Stacia smirked. “I seem to remember you leaving first.”

Sophie’s voice cooled a fraction. “Didn’t want to be the third wheel. And I had to make an appearance at the manse for the latest ‘Sophie Needs to Fix Her Life’ lecture.”

Stacia nearly choked on her soda. “Oh, no. Tell me they didn’t try to fix you up with another country club heir.”

Sophie groaned. “Not after I dumped an entire plate of shrimp cocktail on the last one.”

Stacia snorted, laughing as she imagined the scene.

“No, this time it was worse,” Sophie continued. “This time, it was about my career. Apparently, being a social media consultant—managing multi-million-dollar brands and people, thank you very much—isn’t ‘real’ work. They want me to get my PhD in psychology so I can be ‘respectable.’”

Stacia winced. That hit too close to home.

Her father’s voice echoed in her head—You’re wasting your talent. You could be running campaigns, shaping real power.

She swallowed hard. “But your skills are essential. You drive public narratives. You shape how people see politicians, athletes, businesses. What you do matters.”

“Don’t tell them that,” Sophie muttered. “Anyway, I’m at loose ends right now, so let me live vicariously through you. Was he as delicious as he looked?”

Stacia leaned back in her seat, pizza finished, appetite still present—for something far more dangerous than food.

She couldn’t help teasing one last time. “Well, if you hadn’t tried to interfere, it would have gone smoother.”

“I was worried!” Sophie shot back. “You were acting completely out of character.”

“I was only doing what my best friend has been preaching for months.”

Sophie had been relentless—telling her to loosen up, to stop being all work and no play. Now that she had let loose, Sophie didn’t approve.

Typical.

A slow smile curled her lips.

Jason had approved, though.

Very, very much.

Until he saw her at the stadium.

Sophie grumbled. “You never listen to me.”

“Fine,” Stacia relented, grinning. “It was magnificent. Best ever.”

Sophie gasped. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re actually holding out on me!”

Before Stacia could respond, Sophie steamrolled ahead. “Wait. So, what’s the new job? Another politician?”

“No, I’m working with the Georgia Knights. One of their players. Jason Friar.”

Stacia took a sip of her soda, but the moment the words left her mouth, her stomach twisted.

Jason had requested her.

Why?

Did he think she was going to be some kind of… perk? A private plaything while she polished his image?

Her stomach soured.

“Oh.” Sophie barely blinked. “Better than the alternative. Maybe it’s time you broke away from your father’s shadow. Do something you enjoy. Or… someone.”

Stacia froze.

Please. Please let Sophie not know baseball.

“Oh. Crap.” Sophie groaned, voice full of dawning horror. “Tell me he’s not that Jason.”

Stacia cursed under her breath.

Sophie was obsessed with baseball players. Of course she knew exactly who Jason Friar was.

“You slept with Jason Friar?” Sophie screeched. “Bad Boy of Baseball? The one man every woman in America wanted to screw?”

Stacia opened her mouth, but Sophie kept going.

“Sweetie, he’s a train wreck. A complete mess. Even you can’t fix him.”

“I’m not trying to fix him,” Stacia shot back. “I’m polishing his image. Keeping him out of trouble.”

“Oh please,” Sophie huffed. “At some point, you’re going to try to fix him. You always do. And when the job is over, he’ll move on, and you’ll be left with a broken heart.”

Stacia closed her eyes, sighing.

She wanted to say Sophie was wrong.

That Jason was just a job. That she wouldn’t let herself care.

But deep down, she wasn’t sure.

She had already started seeing him differently.

“Just be careful, sweetie,” Sophie said softly.

“I will,” Stacia promised.

She had to be careful.

Or she risked losing everything—including her heart.

J ason sat in the dim light of his rented condo, his jaw tight as he studied the swing on the screen. Frame by frame, he analyzed it, rewinding and slowing it down, trying to figure out where the magic had gone.

Two years ago, every baseball looked the size of a grapefruit when it came off the pitcher’s hand. He saw it, tracked it, crushed it. His swing had been damn near perfect, earning him the Triple Crown—most home runs, most RBIs, highest batting average. He had been untouchable.

Now? Now he was older, slower, and his shoulder still wasn’t quite right. If he didn’t get back to that swing—and fast—this last-ditch contract would be his final one.

A sharp pounding on the door jerked him out of his focus.

His grip tightened on the remote.

Who the hell had the nerve to show up unannounced?

The pounding came again.

“Goddamnit! Hang on.”

He pushed up from the chair, dodging the still-packed boxes in the hallway, and promptly slammed his shin against one.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered, wincing.

Whoever was on the other side of that door better be worth it.

He yanked it open, ready to rip into whoever was interrupting him, but the words died in his throat.

Stacia Kendall stood on his doorstep, her foot tapping impatiently, a smartphone in hand, her polished, professional mask firmly in place.

“Great, you are here,” she said, tucking her phone into her bag and stepping past him without waiting for an invitation.

The scent of her perfume trailed behind her, something warm and subtly sweet—vanilla and spice, but with a hint of citrus.

It slammed into him like a line drive to the chest.

His body remembered that scent. Remembered her.

Damn it.

She paused inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the stacks of unopened boxes cluttering the living room. One perfectly arched brow lifted.

“Interesting furniture,” she said dryly.

“I’ve been busy.” He shut the door, crossing his arms as he watched her take in the barely settled chaos.

Her hazel eyes flicked back to him. “You’ve got a media announcement in two days,” she reminded him.

He scowled. “Yeah, that too.”

“You can’t skip it,” she said, stepping farther into the room, her gaze zeroing in on the lone chair positioned directly in front of the TV.

He dropped into the chair, picked up the remote, and clicked play. “I have work to do.”

She snorted. “Oh, so I was standing outside for ten minutes while you watched a movie?”

His eyes narrowed. “Not a movie. My swing. I was studying tape.”

She folded her arms. “Well, before you can watch yourself play baseball, we need to get through this signing. It won’t be easy. You have a lot of work to do.”

He brushed past her, ignoring the way her perfume curled around him like a damn siren’s call. She smelled like temptation, and his body was already way too interested.

He dropped back into his chair, clicking the remote again.

Stacia stepped right in front of the screen, arms on her hips.

“Yes, we do,” she said. Then, before he could react, she snatched the remote out of his hand and turned off the TV.

His head snapped up.

She wasn’t intimidated. Not by him, not by his temper, not even a little.

“Need I remind you,” she said, voice smooth but firm, “you don’t have the best reputation with the press. They tolerated you when you were at the top of your game. But now? Well, let’s just say they’re looking for blood.”

He let his gaze drag over her, from the form-fitted business suit to the blouse buttoned all the way up, to the sleek, no-nonsense heels.

Buttoned up. Closed off.

The complete opposite of how she’d been the last time he’d seen her.

Instead of pissing him off, the realization stirred something darker inside him—something dangerous.

She must have seen it, because she stepped back.

Too slow.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist, and with a quick twist, he pulled her down onto his lap.

She landed with a startled gasp, her firm, toned ass nestled perfectly against his already half-hard cock.

Oh yeah. His body still remembered everything about hers.

Her fingers dug into his arm, her breath coming faster, and he could feel the moment she realized just how much trouble she was in.

He reached around her, his other hand slipping to the collar of her blouse. Before she could react, he flicked open the top two buttons.

Her sharp inhale sent a pulse of heat straight through him.

She squirmed, struggling for balance, trying to push away, but he held her steady. He leaned in, letting his nose brush just beneath her ear, inhaling deep.

God, she smelled good.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched.

Then—

“Are you sniffing me?”

Her outraged voice snapped him out of the haze, and he let her go.

She scrambled off his lap, taking several steps back, her hands smoothing her skirt and jacket.

But her blouse?—

The top remained open, just enough to reveal the wild pulse at her throat, the way her chest lifted and fell with each rapid breath.

His lips curled.

Mission accomplished.

She looked flushed, slightly mussed—more like the Stacia from that night, not the prissy, locked-down version standing in front of him now.

She swallowed, her hand flying to her throat.

“We agreed this couldn’t happen again,” she said, her voice steadier than he expected.

He stretched, letting his legs splay slightly. “You agreed. I never did. I just said no one could know.” His gaze locked onto hers, slow and deliberate. “Besides, there’s something here, and we both know it.”

She snorted. “It’s just sex. Nothing more.”

If only it were that easy.

She pulled out her phone, clearly done with the conversation.

“We have a lot to do before you join the team. First, the press conference. Then, I convinced some local stations to do interviews with you.”

“Absolutely not.” He shot to his feet. “No fucking way.”

He stalked into the kitchen, yanked open the fridge—then cursed.

Empty. Except for beer, a couple of waters, some mustard, and a sad-looking carton of takeout.

Stacia leaned around him, her breath teasing the back of his neck.

He jerked up, smacking his head against the freezer door.

“Damn it, woman.” He rubbed the sore spot. “How the hell do you sneak up on anyone in those?” He pointed at her stilettos.

She smirked. “Practice.”

Then she eyed the fridge contents. “Typical bachelor fridge.”

He grabbed two waters and handed her one. “What’s in your fridge? A five-star meal?”

She hesitated. “I haven’t had time to shop.”

He watched her sip, his gaze trailing the curve of her throat, the way her lips wrapped around the bottle’s rim.

Heat stirred again, low and insistent.

She flipped through her phone. “We need to fix your image.”

He laughed, sharp and bitter. “My image? You mean, ‘train wreck Jason Friar’? That image?”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “I know it’s been awful for you. But it’s time to get over it.”

He moved before he could think, caging her against the counter. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your name dragged through the mud? Every single thing you do or say, or don’t do or say, dredged up and thrown in your face constantly, whether it’s true or not?”

She didn’t flinch.

“I grew up the daughter of a senator,” she said quietly. “Everything I did, said, wore was reported on, including my mother’s funeral.”

Her voice sharpened. “And I’m not sitting here whining about it. So get the fuck over it.”

Her words slammed into him like a fastball to the ribs.

He stared at her. Shit. He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair.

“Stacia,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

She inhaled, straightened. “Forget it. We have work to do.”

And just like that, she was back to business. But he saw it. That glint of something in her eyes.

You’re a fucking idiot, Friar.

S tacia bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, but it didn’t stop the coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

Only a few days had passed since she had been introduced to Jason Friar—formally, at least—and today, the press conference would announce his signing with the Georgia Knights. In less than an hour, he would be seated in front of a firing squad of reporters, forced to answer questions about his career, his personal life, and the mountain of scandals that trailed behind him like an unwanted shadow.

If he showed up.

She should have gone to his condo and escorted him here personally. Should have camped outside his door like an overbearing parole officer. Jason had spent the last few days avoiding her calls, dodging every attempt she made to prepare him for this moment. I know how to be a nice guy. Really. Lay off.

He had better not screw this up.

The door to the players’ area swung open, and Jason pushed past security, his towering frame filling the narrow hallway.

“You could’ve left my name at the desk,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his thick, dark hair.

Her heart slammed into her ribs at the sight of him.

She hated that reaction.

It was the same damn thing that had happened the moment she’d spotted him at the hotel bar that night—the immediate, unmistakable pull of attraction that made her knees weak and her common sense nonexistent.

But she wasn’t here for that.

She was here to make sure he didn’t humiliate them both.

“It’s about time you got here,” she snapped, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the media room. His bicep flexed under her grip, solid and warm, and she released him immediately before she made an even bigger mistake. “I need to go over a few key responses before we start.”

Jason didn’t budge.

Instead, he smirked down at her, eyes dark with amusement. “Good morning to you too, Miss Stacia. I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’m reasonably sure I know how to speak, so I can answer my own damn questions, thank you very much.”

She yanked him to a stop, her pulse a drumbeat of frustration.

Then, she took in his outfit.

Her eyes widened.

“What the hell are you wearing?” she demanded, gesturing at the wrinkled khakis and button-down shirt that looked like it had been balled up in the backseat of his car for a week. Or slept in.

Unbelievable.

She had spent hours picking out the perfect, polished outfit for him—one that would make him look professional, confident, reliable. She had even ironed the damn thing herself, a rare act of domesticity.

And this was what he showed up in?

“Where’s your tie?” she added, her voice rising. “Did you even look in your closet?”

Jason glanced down at himself, then shrugged. “Didn’t have time to iron. Actually…” He rubbed his jaw, looking vaguely sheepish. “I don’t own an iron.”

Stacia threw up her hands. “I told you yesterday when I dropped your clothes off! Along with actual food, since I noticed your fridge was a wasteland.”

He frowned. “You left stuff at my place?”

“Of course I did! Because I knew you wouldn’t think ahead.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I was busy working on my swing, studying pitchers, getting ready to do my fucking job. I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Oh, he did not just say that.

She grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the hall. “Well, make time. You will not show up looking like that.”

He let out a growl of frustration but followed. “You do realize this job requires me to hit baseballs, not strut a damn runway, right?”

“Your job requires people to actually like you,” she shot back.

She stormed into her office, flipping the light on and pointing at the neatly pressed ensemble hanging on a hook. Then she planted herself in front of the door, crossing her arms.

“Change.”

Jason folded his arms across his broad chest and sat on the edge of her desk.

“I can dress myself.”

She snorted. “Clearly not. I’m not letting you out of my sight until this press conference is over. Change.”

He didn’t move.

She sighed. “Seriously? Are you shy? You walk around naked in locker rooms all the time. And believe me, buddy, I’ve seen you naked. I’m not going anywhere.”

A knock on the door. “Ms. Kendall? We’re waiting on you.”

She cracked the door open. “We’ll be right there.”

Jason sighed dramatically, then started unbuttoning his shirt.

Stacia’s throat went bone dry.

He peeled the fabric away, revealing smooth, tanned skin stretched over a broad chest, every ridge of muscle sharply defined.

Her fingers clenched into fists.

She had touched that chest.

Had kissed her way down it.

Had—

Her entire body burned at the memory.

Jason smirked, watching her like a predator who had just cornered his prey.

His fingers went to his belt buckle, and her brain short-circuited.

She fumbled for the doorknob, yanking it open in a rush.

“I—I’ll be outside.”

His laughter followed her out. “Coward.”

She took a full minute to breathe. To reset.

Then Jason stepped out of her office, fully dressed in the outfit she had picked, looking every bit the golden boy she needed him to be.

Except—

Her gaze drifted lower, catching on the very noticeable bulge in his pants.

Heat seared her cheeks.

Jason’s hand closed around her elbow, pulling her down the hall. His voice was low, rough.

“Stop looking at me like that, or we’ll never make it to the press conference.”

Her lips curved.

Oh, he was affected too.

She stumbled slightly in her heels, trying to keep up. “Grouchy today, aren’t we?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

She ran through his instructions again, rattling them off while he listened with a mix of boredom and restrained amusement. “We keep questions limited, we avoid any discussion of your personal life, and if someone tries to bait you, do not react. Grin and deflect.”

“Relax, Stacia.” He pulled her to a stop, hands resting on her shoulders, firm and warm. “I’ve done thousands of interviews. I can handle this.”

But as soon as Jason stepped onto the stage, it became painfully clear that this was not going to be a normal press conference.

The reporters attacked like sharks.

Flashbulbs exploded.

“Mr. Friar, any comment on the allegations about your illegitimate daughter?”

Stacia flinched.

Jason’s jaw locked.

“Mr. Friar, you’re as well known for your off-field antics as your plays at first base. Do you think those contributed to your decline?”

Her stomach plummeted.

Then—

“Mr. Friar, is it true that the Knights were the only team willing to take you?”

That was the one that did it.

“How the hell do you think it makes me feel?” Jason growled.

And just like that?—

It was over.

He ripped off the mic, storming off the stage.

Cole Hammonds turned to Stacia, eyes burning. “Fix this. Now.”

Stacia stormed through the stadium’s underground corridors, her heels clicking furiously against the polished concrete as she tried to keep pace with Jason’s long strides.

Her heart was still hammering from the sheer disaster of the press conference. She had seen plenty of political careers go up in flames, had watched candidates tank their reputations in a single moment of arrogance or idiocy.

But this?

This had been a slow-motion car crash—one she had warned him about, coached him through, begged him to avoid.

And Jason had still taken the bait, let them win, let the vultures rip him apart in front of the cameras.

She reached for his arm, fingers curling around his tense bicep as she yanked him to a stop just outside the players’ parking lot.

He whirled so fast she nearly stumbled backward.

“Are you insane?” Jason’s voice was a low growl, his breath still ragged from the adrenaline coursing through him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What I’m doing?” She shoved his chest, and while he barely moved, the contact sent a current of heat through her already-overloaded system. She ignored it. “What you just did in there was career suicide! Do you have any idea how much damage you just caused?”

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as he raked a hand through his thick hair. “They were asking bullshit questions, Stacia. That wasn’t about baseball—that was about tearing me apart for sport. And you want me to smile through that?”

“Yes!” she snapped, throwing her arms wide. “That is exactly what I wanted you to do! Grin and deflect, remember? Instead, you threw a tantrum and walked off like a damn toddler!”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You think that’s what this is? Me being a toddler?”

“Yes!” she spat, pointing a shaking finger at his chest. “And now, I get to spend the rest of my very limited free time cleaning up your mess! Because, newsflash, Jason—when you signed that contract, you didn’t just sign away your stats, you signed away your image. That means you don’t get to storm off. You don’t get to lash out. You don’t get to let them win.”

Jason exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, hands settling on his hips as he glared at the ground.

A sharp breeze rushed through the tunnel, sending a loose strand of auburn hair into her face. She shoved it away, still shaking from the confrontation.

She had known this was going to be hard.

She had known Jason Friar wasn’t an easy fix.

But this?

This was unfixable if he didn’t stop sabotaging himself.

Jason scrubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It shouldn’t be this way.”

His voice was quieter now. Rough.

Stacia swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. “No, it shouldn’t,” she admitted. “But it is. And you knew that when you took this deal.”

He finally met her gaze, something raw flickering behind those dark eyes.

She had seen Jason angry. She had seen him smug. She had seen him charming as hell when he wanted something.

But she had never seen him look like this.

Defeated.

It cracked something in her.

Damn it.

She softened, just a fraction. “Look… I know it isn’t fair. I know the media is relentless, and I know they’re going to push every button you have to get a reaction. But you can’t give them what they want.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. It’s not just about baseball. They think I’m a joke. And I can’t sit there and just… take it.”

Her throat tightened.

Because that she understood.

More than she wanted to admit.

She had spent her whole life carefully constructing a persona, perfectly curating an acceptable version of herself, so no one—no one—could pick her apart.

Jason had never bothered with that. He had been raw, unfiltered, untamed.

Until now.

And now, he had to learn.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “You want to prove them wrong?”

His gaze flickered down to her mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes.

Her pulse jumped.

“Then show them,” she whispered. “Show them you’re not a joke. Show them you can still play. Show them that you’re worth betting on.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The space between them hummed, electric and charged.

God, she hated how much she wanted him.

It wasn’t fair, this pull between them, the way she felt like she was on fire every time he looked at her like that.

Jason finally let out a slow breath and glanced away.

“I have to catch a flight,” he muttered.

Stacia forced herself to step back.

Right.

He had a team to join. A season to try and salvage.

And she had damage control to do.

She squared her shoulders. “Fine. Go. But when you come back, we fix this.”

He hesitated. Then, just before turning toward his car, he looked at her again.

There was something else in his gaze now. Something dark. Something dangerous.

And damn it, she felt it everywhere.

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips.

“Careful, Stacia,” he murmured. “I might start thinking you actually believe in me.”

Her stomach flipped.

But before she could find a response, Jason climbed into his SUV and drove off, leaving her standing there with a storm raging inside her chest.

And, for the first time, she wasn’t entirely sure who the real challenge was here—Jason Friar’s image…

Or the way he made her feel.

S tacia’s phone rang, jolting her from the bottomless pit of Jason Friar’s past. She flinched, rubbing her eyes as she blinked at the laptop screen, the words blurring from hours of staring at the glowing display. Five hours. That was how long she had spent combing through articles, interviews, and viral posts about Jason’s rise and fall.

The fall had been spectacular.

A year ago, he had been a golden god—baseball’s Triple Crown winner, the darling of the media, the poster child of athletic dominance. And then, in the blink of an eye, his body had betrayed him. The shoulder injury, the missed season, the whispers of drug use and womanizing that had once been shrugged off suddenly became daggers, each one carving a little more away from his reputation.

And now, here he was, the prodigal son begging for a second chance.

Or at least, she was supposed to make it look that way.

She sighed, glancing at the caller ID.

About time he called me back.

She clicked to answer. “Hey, Michael. Glad you finally returned my call.”

“Hey, Stace.” Michael’s voice was breezy, unaffected by her sarcasm. “How does it look?”

She leaned back in her chair, swiveling to face the back wall where a framed picture of the team’s championship win hung. A stark contrast to the mess she was dealing with now.

“He’s a freakin’ train wreck, that’s what he is. A complete disaster. And he has zero interest in changing.”

Michael exhaled in amusement. “None of them ever do. And that’s not our job. We’re not therapists, Stace. We polish them up, slap a fresh coat of paint on whatever mess they’ve made, and send them back out into the world looking shiny. Doesn’t matter what’s under the surface, just that the public buys it.”

His irritation was obvious, as if she were questioning something that had already been decided. And maybe she was.

Her fingers twirled absently around a loose strand of hair. “Yeah. I know.”

Except she wasn’t sure she did anymore.

Something had shifted over the past few years, a creeping discomfort that had started during her last campaign with Glazier. That gnawing feeling in her gut every time she had to spin a half-truth or outright fabricate a version of events that didn’t exist.

That feeling had been growing steadily.

Maybe it was the politicians—the smug, self-serving way they took her work for granted while they lied, cheated, and smiled their way through elections. Maybe it was the realization that she wasn’t helping anyone, just making it easier for them to keep getting away with things.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that for the first time, she was looking at a client and seeing something other than a paycheck.

Jason wasn’t a politician. He wasn’t a manipulative, two-faced careerist who fed off public opinion.

Jason was real. Flawed, infuriating, but real.

And that scared the hell out of her.

“Stacia?” Michael’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?”

“What? Yeah, I’m here.”

“You better be,” he muttered. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but get your head on straight. You need this job.”

A few years ago, his warning would have sent a chill down her spine.

Now?

Now, all she felt was tired.

Bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that had nothing to do with sleepless nights and everything to do with the growing realization that she was wasting her life turning rotten things into something palatable.

Was this really it?

Was this what she had worked so hard for?

She had spent years chasing approval, working tirelessly to make herself indispensable, telling herself that if she worked hard enough, her father would finally—finally—respect her.

But all she had gotten in return was a sense of emptiness she couldn’t shake.

What about my needs?

The thought hit like a slap.

What do I want? What do I need? What do I feel?

Then, her own words came back to haunt her, the ones she had thrown at Jason in the parking lot after his disastrous press conference.

Stop whining. Grow up. Take responsibility for your actions.

She inhaled slowly.

It was time she took her own advice.

After this job, maybe it was time to reconsider everything.

Michael, oblivious to her mental unraveling, kept talking. “Look, I took you on when you had zero experience, and you’ve handled yourself pretty well. Your biggest selling point is your connections and your ability to handle politicians. But if you can’t close the deal on a slam dunk like Glazier, then we’re going to have issues. And I may need to rethink this relationship. Got it?”

Her spine stiffened at the thinly veiled threat.

Then, barely skipping a beat, he continued, “Now, talk to me about Friar. What’s the plan?”

She exhaled, forcing herself to push everything else aside.

For now.

She whirled back to her laptop, staring at Jason’s face on the screen—one of the few photos from his prime where he wasn’t scowling or smirking.

For just a moment, she let herself wonder.

Who was Jason Friar?

The arrogant bad boy who had thrown away his career on reckless choices?

Or the man she had glimpsed beneath the mask—the one who still wanted something beyond the wreckage of his reputation?

Did he even know?

She wasn’t sure.

But one thing was becoming painfully clear.

Jason Friar wasn’t the only one hiding behind a carefully constructed image.

Ignoring the chill creeping up her spine, she squared her shoulders and started debriefing Michael on the situation, detailing the damage control plan she had spent the last five hours crafting.

But the small voice in the back of her mind refused to be silenced.

For the first time in years, she felt the distinct, nagging pull of something she had long since buried.

Her conscience.