Page 18 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)

TWELVE

AIDEN

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment, and for a moment, I couldn’t figure out why everything felt different.

Then the memories came flooding back in vivid detail.

Rhett underneath me, his head thrown back in pleasure, my name falling from his lips without an end.

The way his hands had gripped my shoulders, the soft sounds he’d made, the way his entire body had trembled when I’d finally pushed him over the edge.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest like I could somehow slow it down.

This was exactly what I’d been chasing for weeks, what I’d been pushing toward with every flirtatious comment and calculated touch.

I should have felt victorious. I should have been smug with satisfaction, ready to add another conquest to my impressive collection.

Instead, I felt like someone had handed me something priceless and incredibly fragile, then told me to walk across hot coals without dropping it.

The memory of Rhett’s face in the heat of passion was burned into my mind with startling clarity.

Not just the physical beauty of it, though that had been devastating enough, but the vulnerability he’d shown me.

The trust. He’d let me see him completely undone, had given himself over to me in a way that felt significant beyond just physical pleasure.

And I had no idea what to do with that.

I dragged myself out of bed, muscles still loose and satisfied from the night before, and padded to the kitchen without bothering to get dressed.

The apartment felt too quiet, too empty, like it was echoing with everything I couldn’t process.

My phone sat on the marble countertop where I’d left it when I’d gotten home, and I studiously avoided looking at it.

I was afraid there might be a good-morning message from Rhett, and I didn’t know how to handle that.

I’d never been particularly good at the day after, at navigating the awkward territory that followed a hookup.

Most of the time, the guys I slept with left right after we were finished, or I did what I’d done last night and slipped out while they were still processing what had happened. It was cleaner that way. Simpler.

No expectations, no complications, no messy emotions to untangle.

But this felt different, and that scared the hell out of me.

I opened a cabinet and pulled out a box of cereal, some overpriced organic thing that my housekeeper had stocked the kitchen with. The milk was fresh, the bowl was clean, everything in my life was perfectly organized and controlled. So why did I feel like I was spiraling?

The cereal tasted like cardboard, but I ate it anyway, chewing mechanically while I stared out at the Chicago skyline.

The city looked the same as it always did, busy and indifferent, people going about their lives without any awareness that mine had shifted fundamentally sometime around midnight last night.

I was halfway through the bowl when my phone started ringing, the sound cutting through the quiet like an alarm. For a moment, I considered letting it go to voicemail, but the ringtone told me it was my mother, and ignoring her calls was never a good idea.

I picked up with a heavy heart, bracing myself for whatever crisis or guilt trip was about to be dumped on me.

“Aiden, sweetheart, I’m so glad you answered.”

Her voice sounded normal, which was simultaneously a relief and somehow more unsettling. I’d been expecting panic, tears, bad news about my father’s condition. Instead, she sounded like she was calling to chat about the weather.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

“I’m fine, dear. Just calling to check in. You’ve been so busy with school, and I know you’re probably overwhelmed with everything.”

“I’m managing. How’s Dad?”

There was a pause, just long enough for my stomach to clench with worry. “He’s recovering well. The doctors are pleased with his progress, and he’s been following all their recommendations about diet and exercise.”

“That’s good. That’s really good.” I set down my spoon, appetite gone. “Is he at home?”

“Yes. He’s comfortable, getting plenty of rest. He’d love to see you, you know. He asks about you every day.”

The guilt hit me across the face. I hadn’t even called, let alone visited. What kind of son did that make me? “I’m sorry, Mom. I should have been there. I should have made time.”

“You’re busy with your final year, I understand. But Aiden, there are things you need to start learning. Sooner is better than later.”

“But if he’s recovering well, he’ll be back to work soon, right? He’ll be running things for years to come.”

Another pause, this one longer and more pointed. “Aiden, this wasn’t a nasty flu. Your father had a heart attack. A serious one. Even if he makes a full recovery, he needs to change his entire lifestyle. Less stress, fewer hours, different priorities.”

The implication hung in the air between us, unspoken but perfectly clear. My father’s heart attack meant changes for all of us, and those changes included me stepping up to take on responsibilities I’d been avoiding for years.

“I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I did. Not really.

“Do you? Because your father has been building this company for thirty years, and he’s not going to live forever. Someone needs to be prepared to take over when the time comes.”

I found myself thinking about those hostile takeover attempts, the corporate warfare that had defined so much of my father’s career.

The late nights, the eighteen-hour days, the constant stress that had probably contributed to his heart attack in the first place.

Was that really what I wanted? Was that the life I was supposed to inherit?

“The Morrison situation was just business,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Dad was just doing what he had to do to protect the company.”

“Of course it was just business. That’s how these things work, Aiden. You can’t take it personally.”

But I was taking it personally. More than I wanted to admit. Last night had changed something fundamental about how I saw the rivalry between our families, had made it impossible to think of Rhett as just collateral damage in my father’s business strategies.

“I know,” I said. “I just…sometimes I think maybe Dad takes on more than he needs to. Gets involved in things that create unnecessary stress.”

“Your father is a visionary, Aiden. He sees opportunities that other people miss, and he’s not afraid to pursue them. That’s how he built everything we have.”

“And look where it got him.”

The words came out sharper than I’d intended, and I immediately regretted them. There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the line.

“Aiden William Whitmore,” my mother said, her voice going cold in a way that took me right back to childhood. “Show some respect.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…maybe there are ways to be successful without taking on so much stress.”

“Perhaps. But that’s a conversation for you and your father to have. When you’re ready to have it.”

The conversation continued for another ten minutes, and every minute felt like walking through quicksand.

My mother dropped hints about business meetings I should attend, mentioned that my father was reviewing acquisition targets that would be “perfect learning opportunities” for me, and made several pointed remarks about hockey being “a nice hobby” but not something to build a career around.

I gave weak promises about catching up with the business, deflected her questions about my course load and future plans, and somehow managed to avoid committing to anything concrete.

When she started talking about holiday plans and family obligations, I felt the familiar tightness in my chest that always came with extended conversations with my parents.

It was the weight of expectations I’d never asked for, responsibilities I’d been running from since I was old enough to understand what my last name meant.

The assumption was that I would naturally want to follow in my father’s footsteps, that I would be grateful for the opportunity to inherit his empire.

But what if I wasn’t grateful? What if I wanted something different?

“I should let you go, dear,” my mother said finally. “I know you have classes today.”

“Yeah, I do. Tell Dad I love him, okay? And that I’ll call him soon.”

“I will. And Aiden? I love you, too.”

The words felt automatic, a ritual we went through because it was expected rather than because either of us particularly felt it in the moment.

When the call ended, I sat in my expensive kitchen in my expensive apartment, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and privilege, and felt absolutely empty.

Nothing about the conversation had been resolved. I’d avoided making any real commitments, she’d avoided addressing the underlying tension between us, and my father remained this looming figure who controlled both our lives, even when he wasn’t physically present.

I looked at my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. Part of me wanted to call my father directly, to have the conversation my mother had been hinting at. But I wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t prepared to deal with whatever expectations and demands he would place on me.

Instead, I noticed the notification I’d been fearing all morning. A text message from Rhett.

My heart jumped, and I had to take a deep breath before opening it. This was it, the potentially awkward morning-after communication that would determine how we moved forward from here. Would he pretend nothing had happened? Would he regret what we’d done? Would he want to talk about what it meant?

But when I read the message, I found myself laughing out loud for the first time all day.

“Good morning, sunshine. Hope you slept better than I did. Kept thinking about last night. Also, you definitely ruined my sheets with that cologne of yours.” The text was followed by a winking emoji and another message: “Seriously though, that was…yeah. Hope you’re having a good morning.”

The casualness of it, the humor mixed with just enough sincerity to be genuine, was so perfectly Rhett that I felt some of the tension in my chest ease. He wasn’t freaking out, wasn’t demanding explanations or promises I wasn’t ready to make. He was just…being himself.

I stared at the messages for a long moment, trying to figure out how to respond.

Part of me wanted to match his casual tone, to pretend that last night had been just another hookup.

But that felt wrong, dishonest in a way that made my stomach twist. Instead, I typed: “Sorry for keeping you up thinking about me. Can’t help that I’m unforgettable.

And my cologne is expensive. You should be honored your sheets smell like success now. ”

I sent it before I could second-guess myself, then immediately worried it was too much. Too flirtatious, too presumptuous, too something. But my phone buzzed with his response almost immediately.

“Smooth, Whitmore. See you at practice.”

Three little words that shouldn’t have meant anything significant but somehow made everything feel manageable again. See you at practice . Like we were going to be okay, like last night hadn’t made everything more complicated between us.

I finished my cereal, which suddenly tasted better than it had all morning, and started getting ready for the day. Classes, practice, normal college student activities that felt surreal after the emotional whiplash of the morning.

But as I showered and dressed, I found myself thinking about Rhett’s text messages, about the easy humor and underlying warmth. About the way he’d handled the morning after with grace and intelligence, giving us both space to figure out what came next without making it weird or complicated.

Maybe this didn’t have to be the disaster I’d been imagining. Maybe we could figure out how to navigate whatever this was between us, how to balance the attraction and the family complications and all the other messy realities that came with crossing the line we’d crossed last night.

Or maybe I was being naive, and everything was about to get infinitely more complicated.

Either way, I was going to see him at practice in a few hours, and I had no idea what that was going to be like.

Would things be awkward between us anyway?

Would I be able to focus on hockey when all I could think about was the way he’d looked underneath me, the sounds he’d made, the way he’d said my name, or the way his eyes widened in the moment he came?

I grabbed my gear bag and headed for the door, trying to push those thoughts out of my mind. Whatever happened at practice, whatever came next between us, I would deal with it when I got there.

But as I waited for the elevator, I found myself smiling despite everything. The conversation with my mother, the family pressure, the guilt about my father—all of that was still there, still waiting to be dealt with.

But Rhett’s text had made me laugh, and somehow, that felt like hope.

Maybe that had to count for something.