Page 26 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)

He looked beautiful standing in my doorway, eyes shining with brilliant tears drawn by the November wind and his cheeks flushed from the cold. He was carrying our usual Sunday morning spread from the café, and his smile was so warm and genuine that it made my chest ache.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, rising on his toes to kiss me briefly before pushing past me into the apartment. “You look like you haven’t had coffee yet.”

“I’ve had coffee. Just not enough of it.”

He set the pastries down on my kitchen counter and started unpacking them with the efficient familiarity of someone who’d done this dozens of times before.

Watching him move around my space, so comfortable and natural, usually filled me with contentment.

Today, it just reminded me how much I had to lose.

“Everything okay?” he asked, glancing at me with concern. “You seem tense.”

“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. I’d slept fine until my phone had started buzzing with news of my family’s crisis. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, wasn’t sure how to explain the complicated mess of emotions churning in my chest.

“Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

He studied my face for a moment, clearly sensing that something was off but not wanting to push. Instead, he handed me one of the coffees he’d brought and settled onto my couch, patting the cushion beside him in invitation.

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really. Tell me about your week instead. How’s that paper coming along?”

“Which paper? I have three due in the next two weeks.” He launched into a description of his contemporary literature assignment, something about magical realism in Latin American fiction, and I tried to focus on his words instead of the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach.

But my mind kept drifting back to the headlines, to the implications of what this scandal might mean for my family’s company.

To the stock prices that were probably continuing to plummet while we sat here talking about Gabriel García Márquez.

To the reporters who were probably still trying to reach me for comment.

“Aiden,” Rhett said, and I realized I’d been staring out the window instead of listening to him. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem really distracted.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking about some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

The question was gentle, concerned, exactly the kind of caring inquiry that partners made when they sensed something was wrong.

But instead of feeling comforted by his concern, I felt trapped by it.

Because how could I explain that my entire world might be falling apart without dragging him into the mess of my family’s business dealings?

“Nothing important,” I lied. “Just family stuff.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than I’d intended, and I saw Rhett blink in surprise at my tone. He set down his coffee and turned to face me more fully, his expression shifting from casual concern to something more serious.

“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

But I could see in his eyes that he wanted to know more, that he was hurt by my refusal to open up.

And that just made the pressure in my chest build higher, because I didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t about trust or intimacy.

This was about protection, about keeping him separate from the toxic mess of corporate politics and media manipulation that had shaped my entire life.

We spent the next hour in strained conversation, both of us trying to pretend that nothing had changed while the tension built between us like a gathering storm.

Rhett told me about his classes and going out with his friends.

We talked about practice and upcoming games, made all the usual small talk that normally flowed so easily between us.

But I couldn’t focus on any of it. My responses were distracted, perfunctory, and I could see him growing more frustrated with each passing minute.

“Aiden,” he said finally, setting down his empty coffee cup with more force than necessary. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing because you’ve been somewhere else entirely for the past hour.”

“I told you, it’s just stuff. Nothing I want to get into right now.”

“But maybe I could help. Or at least listen. Isn’t that what couples do?”

The word “couples” should have warmed me, should have reminded me of everything good we’d built together over the past weeks. Instead, it just made me feel more cornered, more aware of how much I was risking by letting him get this close to my life.

“Not everything needs to be dissected, Rhett. Sometimes things are just private.”

“Private from me?”

“Private from everyone.”

I could see the hurt flash across his features, and I hated myself for putting it there. But I didn’t know how else to handle this, didn’t know how to explain that the last thing I wanted was to drag him into the middle of a corporate scandal that could destroy everything we’d built.

“Look,” he said, his voice careful and controlled, “I know your family situation is complicated. I know there’s history there that’s difficult to talk about, especially to talk to me about it.

But we’ve been together for months now, and I feel like I barely know anything about that part of your life. ”

“Maybe because it’s not important.”

“How can it not be important? It’s your family, Aiden. It’s a huge part of who you are.”

“No, it’s not.” The words came out more vehemently than I’d intended. “I’m not defined by my father’s business dealings or my family’s reputation. I’m my own person.”

“I know that. But pretending like none of it exists isn’t healthy, either.”

“I’m not pretending anything. I’m just choosing not to let it control my life.”

“There’s a difference between not letting it control your life and completely shutting me out of it.”

The accusation stung because there was truth in it. I was shutting him out, deliberately and completely. But I didn’t know how else to protect what we had, how to keep the toxicity of my family’s world from poisoning the one good thing I’d managed to build.

“I’m not shutting you out,” I said, but even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.

“Yes, you are. Every time anything related to your family comes up, you change the subject or shut down entirely. Do you know how that feels? Like there’s this huge part of your life that you don’t trust me with.”

“It’s not about trust.”

“Then what is it about?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. How could I explain that I was trying to protect him without sounding patronizing? How could I tell him that I was terrified of losing him without revealing just how deep this thing between us had gotten?

“It’s about keeping things simple,” I said finally.

“Simple.” He repeated the word like it tasted bitter. “Right. Because God forbid our relationship should be complicated.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it? Because it sounds like you want to keep me in some separate compartment of your life. The fun part, the easy part, but not the real part.”

“That’s not true.”

“Prove it. Tell me what’s going on with your family. Tell me why you’ve been distracted and tense all morning.”

The demand hung in the air between us, and I felt my defenses slam into place like armor. This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid, this moment when I’d have to choose between protecting our relationship and protecting him from the mess of my family’s scandal.

“Why?” I asked, and I could hear the edge creeping into my voice. “Why do you need to know? What possible good could come from dragging you into corporate politics and manipulation?”

“Because we’re dating,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because when something’s bothering you, it bothers me, too. Because I care about you, and I want to understand what you’re going through.”

The sincerity in his voice should have melted my resistance, should have made me want to open up and let him help carry whatever burden I was struggling with. Instead, it just made me more defensive, more convinced that he couldn’t possibly understand the implications of what he was asking.

“Or maybe,” I said, the words coming out cold and calculated, “you’re just curious about the drama. Maybe you want the inside scoop on whatever crisis is happening with Whitmore Entertainment so you can share it with your family.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d gone too far. I could see the exact instant when my accusation hit him, when hurt transformed into something harder and more dangerous.

“What did you just say to me?” His voice was quiet, deadly quiet, and I realized I’d crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.

“I didn’t mean…”

“No, I think you meant exactly what you said. You think I’m what, fishing for information?”

“That’s not…”

“You think I’m circling around whatever’s happening like some kind of vulture, looking for scraps I can take back to Morrison Media Group.”

When he put it like that, when I heard my own paranoid thoughts reflected back at me in his voice, I realized how insane they sounded. But the damage was done, and I didn’t know how to take it back.

“Rhett, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. And you know what? You’re right about one thing. This was foolish. It was foolish of us to think we could bridge the gap between our families, that we could somehow transcend decades of corporate warfare.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? Your family sees mine as the enemy, and my family sees yours the same way. We were kidding ourselves if we thought we could be different.”

“We are different.”

“Are we? Because right now, you’re looking at me like I’m the enemy, too.”