Page 158 of If You Claim Me

“’Night.” He ends the call.

I curl myself around his pillow and promise myself that this is the last night I’ll spend in this bedroom. I’ll wait until Meems is managing on her own, but then I have to go. I won’t allow myself to be what Connor’s father accused me of.

I hate everything about this plan, but I’ve survived worse.

CHAPTER 43

CONNOR

The house is eerily quiet when I arrive.

The first thing I should do is go see Meems, since she’s home now, but my headspace is rotten, and I can’t handle her disappointment over my game play and attitude during the away series. So I take the elevator upstairs to unpack, shower and get my emotions under control.

The last three games have been some of the worst of my career. It’s as though the universe gave me one good thing, and then decided everything else had to be taken away to balance it out.

I step into my bedroom, breathing in the comforting scent of my wife’s strawberry lotion. I drop my bag, my doomsday mood darkening as I take in the space, registering that something isn’t right.

Dewey’s enclosure is missing.

I cross to the bathroom, stomach already in knots. Mildred’s things have vanished from the vanity. I throw open the doors to the walk-in closet. Everything I’ve ever bought for her hangs in neat rows, but her favorites that came with her, as well as her work clothes, are gone. The same with the contents of the dresser.

I stalk across the hall, anxiety and anger warring as I burst through her bedroom door. Dewey grunts his surprise. Relief hits hard and fast, followed by more anger. She left, but she stayed.

Because she’s bound by a contract that doesn’t have a clause in it for the current situation.If she leaves, she doesn’t get the money. And wouldn’t it serve me right? I locked her into this. I saw an opportunity and claimed her, with strings and a promise of compensation for her time.

My father was right, again. Of course she’s tired of my shit. I’m tired of it. Being the scapegoat for my family and my team is exhausting. But I’ve convinced myself it’s better—or safer, at least—to be the villain everyone expects than to try and fail to be the hero. Or even just be myself.

Mildred is my wife, and this is my family’s home, yet I don’t feel like I have a right to be in here when she’s not here. So I go back to our bedroom—my bedroom—unpack my bag, and cross to the bar. Scotch won’t make things better, but it might help me forget the mess I’ve made of my life.

I pour three fingers into Mildred’s favorite crystal glass and drop into the chair she likes. That’s over now. I made sure of it. My phone buzzes with a message, and then another and another. I slip it out of my pocket, ready to put it on do-not-disturb, because I’m in no mood to deal with anyone, but the messages are from my sister.

Isabelle

Are you home?

Have you seen the news?

It has to be a lie.

I dial her number, already bracing for the shitstorm. It must be bad if she’s messaging me.

“What’s going on?” I ask as soon as she picks up.

“Have you seen?”

“I just walked through the door, and before that I was on a plane, and then in my car, so I haven’t seen anything. What happened, Izzy?” I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve made it onto my dad’s radar with my poor performance this past series, always dragging the Grace name through the mud.

“It can’t be real. It has to be fake.” She hiccups through a sob.

I rub my temple and work to keep my tone even. It’s not Isabelle’s fault I’ve turned my life into a shitshow. “What has to be fake?”

“There are pictures of Dad and, and—and, oh my gosh, I think I’m going to be sick, Connor.” The phone clatters, and it’s followed by heaving.

“Izzy? What pictures of Dad?” I put her on speaker and perform a quick search on the Grace name. There are a few hits about my recent performance on the ice, but they are hugely overshadowed by my father. “Oh fuck.”

“It’s not real,” she says, her voice a little steadier now. “It’s a deep fake. Someone used AI to make those. Father wouldn’t do this.”

I don’t know if I envy my sister’s faith in my father or pity her willingness to keep her head buried in the sand. I can’t even imagine how horrified my mother must be.