Page 8 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)

SIX

AIDEN

Professor Williams was droning on about stakeholder responsibility and corporate governance, but I might as well have been listening to white noise.

The words washed over me without sticking, just background static to the much louder conversation happening in my head, the one where my mother’s voice kept insisting that hockey was “a nice hobby,” but I needed to start thinking about “real responsibilities.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make my shoulders ache from yesterday’s practice.

The lecture hall was one of those old-fashioned tiered affairs with uncomfortable wooden seats that forced you to pay attention through sheer discomfort.

Usually I’d be taking notes, or at least pretending to, but today, my notebook remained closed while I stared at the back of Rhett Morrison’s head three rows down.

He was actually taking notes. Of course he was. Perfect student, perfect son, perfect hockey player with perfect parents who supported his perfect dreams. I watched his hand move across the page, steady and focused, like everything else about him.

The envy hit me like a punch to my chest.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, and I pulled it out to find another text from my mother: Dad’s asking about you. When can you come by for dinner? We need to discuss your schedule for next semester.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Next semester. Like she already knew I’d be cutting my course load to make room for company responsibilities. Like my hockey schedule was just an inconvenience to be managed around more important things.

I hadn’t called my father yet. Every day, I told myself I would, and every day, I found reasons to put it off.

What was I supposed to say? That I’d moved back to Chicago to be closer to him, but I was too much of a coward to actually face him?

That I’d been having nightmares about that phone call from the hospital, about losing him before I could prove that hockey wasn’t just some childish rebellion?

“Mr. Whitmore.”

I looked up to find Professor Williams staring at me with the exact expression that meant I’d been caught not paying attention. The entire class had turned to look at me, including Rhett, who was twisted around in his seat with barely concealed amusement on his face.

“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” I asked, slipping my phone back into my pocket and trying to look like I’d been deep in thought about corporate ethics instead of spiraling about my family drama.

“I asked for your thoughts on the responsibility of family-owned businesses to maintain ethical standards when personal relationships might conflict with business decisions.”

Oh, that was rich. Of course he’d ask me about family businesses and ethical conflicts. I could feel Rhett’s eyes on me, waiting to see how I’d handle this.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that family businesses face unique challenges when it comes to separating personal and professional obligations. Sometimes what’s best for the family isn’t what’s best for the business, and vice versa.”

“Interesting. And how do you think those conflicts should be resolved?”

I glanced at Rhett, who was still watching me with that intense focus that made my skin feel too tight. “I think you have to decide what your priorities are. Are you running a business or managing family relationships? Because trying to do both perfectly usually means you fail at both.”

Professor Williams nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a very pragmatic view. Some would argue that family businesses have additional ethical obligations precisely because of those personal connections.”

“Maybe,” I said, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention. “But in the real world, idealism doesn’t pay the bills or keep companies from being eaten alive by competitors who don’t have the same scruples.”

I saw Rhett’s jaw tighten at that, and I felt a small surge of satisfaction. Let him think about that the next time he wanted to judge my family’s business practices.

The professor moved on to someone else, and I spent the rest of the class period trying to focus on anything other than the way Rhett’s shoulders tensed every time Williams mentioned corporate responsibility or ethical leadership.

When class finally ended, I was one of the first ones out of my seat, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of academic judgment and theoretical ethics.

But as I made my way toward the exit, I found myself caught in the usual post-class bottleneck of students gathering their things and filing out slowly.

Rhett was lingering in the hallway, pretending to check his phone while obviously waiting for something. Or someone. When he saw me approaching, he moved slightly, not quite blocking my path but making it clear he wanted to talk.

I was not in the mood for whatever moral lecture he was about to deliver.

My phone had buzzed twice more during the remainder of class, once with another text from my mother and once with a missed call from my father’s assistant.

The pressure was building in my chest like steam in a kettle, and I needed air, not a confrontation with my self-righteous nemesis.

So when I reached the spot where he was standing, I bumped into him with my shoulder. Not hard enough to be obviously deliberate, but not soft enough to be accidental either.

“Problem, Whitmore?” he asked, his voice carrying that edge of challenge that made my blood run hot.

“You’re standing in the middle of the hallway,” I said tersely, not slowing down or looking back at him.

“Funny, seemed like you were the one who couldn’t walk straight.”

I should have kept walking. Should have left him standing there with his passive-aggressive comments and his judgmental stare. But something about his tone, about the way he was looking at me like I was some kind of spoiled brat who needed to be put in his place, made me stop.

“Got something to say to me, Morrison?”

He pushed away from the wall, taking a step closer. “Just wondering if you absorbed any of that lecture about corporate responsibility. You know, the part about ethical decision-making and not screwing over other people for personal gain?”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. As if the Morrison family was some paragon of ethical virtue.

“You want to lecture me about ethics?” I spun around to face him, stepping close enough that I could smell his cologne, something woody and clean that made my brain short-circuit for a split second.

“You want to talk about screwing people over? If you had nothing to do with my cock on the front page, why is it my fault your father’s business was almost swallowed? ”

The words came out harsher than I’d intended, loud enough that a few passing students turned to look. But I was past caring about appearances. I was tired of being the villain in everyone else’s story, tired of taking responsibility for things that were completely out of my control.

Rhett’s face went pale, then flushed red. “That’s not…”

“What? Fair? True? You want to talk about ethical business practices? Let’s talk about how your precious family company owns the magazine that published stolen private photos of me.

Let’s talk about how your father tried to destroy my family’s reputation while playing the victim when we fought back. ”

I was standing too close to him now, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes.

The hallway had mostly emptied out, but I was barely aware of anything except the way his chest was rising and falling too quickly, the way his hands had clenched into fists at his sides.

“You think you’re so much better than me,” I continued, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “You think because you live in the dorms and pretend you don’t have money that you’re somehow morally superior. But you’re just as much a part of this as I am.”

“I never asked for any of this,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Neither did I.”

We were staring at each other, the air between us crackling with tension that felt dangerous. I could see his pulse jumping in his throat, could feel the heat radiating off his skin. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

This was insane. We were standing in a public hallway, barely a foot apart, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to punch him or kiss him.

Maybe both. The fury was still there, burning bright and hot, but underneath it was something else, something that made my skin feel electric every time he shifted closer.

His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second, so quick I might have imagined it. But I didn’t imagine the way his breathing hitched, or the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Gentlemen.”

We sprang apart like we’d been electrocuted. Professor Williams was standing a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral in that way that meant he’d seen more than he was letting on.

“Is everything alright here?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Fine,” Rhett said quickly, his voice slightly hoarse. “Just discussing the lecture.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad to see you’re both so…passionate about business ethics. Perhaps you’d like to continue this discussion during office hours? I’d be happy to facilitate a more structured debate.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, grabbing my bag from where I’d dropped it. “I was just leaving.”

I could feel both of their eyes on me as I walked away, but I didn’t look back. My hands were shaking, and I needed to get somewhere private before I did something stupid.

Like march back there and finish what we’d started.

The hallway felt too small, too warm, like I couldn’t get enough air. I pushed through the exit doors and out into the late-afternoon sun, but even the fresh air couldn’t clear the scent of Rhett’s cologne from my senses.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the missed call from my father’s assistant. I should call back. I should find out what was so important that it couldn’t wait until evening. I should probably call my father directly and have the conversation I’d been avoiding for months.

Instead, I shoved the phone back in my pocket and started walking toward the parking garage. I needed to get out of here, needed to put some distance between myself and the memory of Rhett Morrison standing close enough to touch, looking at me like he wanted to devour me whole.

Because the worst part wasn’t the anger or the frustration or even the sexual tension that had been building between us for weeks.

The worst part was that for just a moment, when he’d been standing there with his defenses down and his carefully controlled mask slipping, I’d seen something in his eyes that looked almost like understanding.

And that scared me more than anything else.