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Chapter twenty-nine

Katarina

S unlight claws at the edges of the blinds like it knows something I don’t.

I stretch my hand across the bed—still warm, still tangled in the sheets that reek of him—and find nothing.

Not even a fucking indent in the pillow.

He’s gone.

No note. No jacket left behind. No whisper of “be back soon.”

Just the echo of last night on my skin, the throb between my thighs, and the silence that settles like a verdict.

Of course he left.

I sit up slowly, like moving too fast might shatter the spell—or me. My body aches in the best and worst ways. I’m still sore from the way he wrecked me. Still raw from how I let him.

And still stupid enough to think he might be here when I woke up.

I glance around the room, half-expecting to see him leaning against the doorframe, cocky grin in place, gray sweats slung low on his hips like some kind of cruel daydream.

But no. Nothing.

Just my phone on the nightstand.

I grab it, more out of habit than hope.

It buzzes in my hand before I even unlock the screen.

Griffin.

Because obviously this morning needed another complication.

I stare at the name for a second too long, trying to decide if I’m emotionally equipped to deal with whatever righteous fury my brother’s about to unleash.

But I swipe to answer anyway, because ignoring him only makes it worse.

“What now, Griff?”

“You tell me,” He barks. “You didn’t see my text? Why the hell are there pictures of you and Liam all over the internet?”

I blink, still half-asleep. “What?”

“You heard me. Some charity event. You two cozy as hell in front of a million damn cameras. You smiling like he’s Prince Fucking Charming.”

I open Instagram with trembling fingers. There we are—me in that black dress, Liam in the suit I peeled off him hours later. His hand on my hip. His lips at my ear. One shot where I’m laughing, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room.

We look real.

Too real.

“It was PR,” I say flatly.

He scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You think I planned this?”

“I think you let it happen. I think you wanted it to.”

My voice stays cool. “Honestly, Griffin, it’s none of your damn business.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

He’s in full big brother mode now. Condescending. Furious. Protective in the most suffocating way.

“I warned you about him. You think he gives a shit about you? You think this ends with anything but disaster?”

My throat tightens. “He left.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Good.”

That one word punches harder than all the rest.

“I swear to God, Kat. You don’t even know him. You think because he made you feel something for five minutes, he’s yours?”

I hang up.

Not because I’m done—but because I can’t breathe.

My fingers tremble as I set the phone down. I stare at the spot on the bed where Liam should be, and I feel it hit me.

Not just the weight of Griffin’s words.

But the weight of everything I let myself feel last night.

I stumble to the bathroom on autopilot. Drop to my knees.

And vomit.

All of it—grief, guilt, whiskey, and shame.

My body folds in on itself, shaking, sweat cold on my back. When it’s over, I rinse my mouth and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Smudged makeup. Swollen lips. Bite marks. Love bruises.

A woman who let a man in, just long enough for him to walk out.

I drag myself back to the bed, limbs heavy, the ache between my thighs feeling more like betrayal than pleasure.

I sit. Stare at the phone. The feed. The headlines. The fantasy I let myself believe.

Last night, claimed me like he meant it.

This morning, he vanished like it never happened.

And now the world knows. Griffin knows. Not just from some gossip post—he saw it. The headline. The photos. Liams arm wrapped around my waist. The way he looked at me like he wanted to ruin me in front of everyone.

And me...

I feel like I’ve been split wide open—cut with a blade I handed him myself.

Every pulse between my thighs a reminder.

Every beat of my heart one breath closer to a scream.Because whatever this was—whatever game we told ourselves we were playing—it stopped being pretend the second his mouth was on mine and I let myself believe.

Believe in the way he touched me like I was the only thing worth holding.Believe in the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just Griffin’s little sister.Believe that maybe—for once—I wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen.

And now?

Now I get to sit in the wreckage. Sore. Shaking. Stripped bare.Every part of me still humming with the echo of his name…And no one here to say it.

Not even him.

The texts keep coming.

From Aurora. From my mom. Even from one of the interns from the arena who’s not so subtly asking if it’s true I slept with our newest player.

Girl, i’ll Txt u back when I get my shit together.

Aurora:

What the hell happened?

Kat, U there???

I turn my phone off. Toss it on the floor.

Then I scream into my pillow.

One of those full-body, ugly cries that starts deep in your gut and rips its way out.

Because I’m not just pissed at Liam.

I’m pissed at myself.

For letting him in. For falling for him. For pretending it didn’t mean something.

There’s a knock at the door a few hours later. I ignore it at first, thinking maybe it’s my neighbor or a delivery I didn’t order. But it comes again. Louder.

I peek out the window and freeze.

Aurora.

Phone in one hand, Starbucks bag in the other.

I open the door in a hoodie and yesterday’s eyeliner.

She looks at me with eyes, doesn’t flinch. Just walks in like she’s been here a hundred times and knows exactly where the emotional wreckage lives.

Sets the bag on the counter, pulls me into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of me.

She doesn’t say are you okay? Just,“I saw the pics.”

Then softer, “And I saw his face.”

I nod into her shoulder. “He left.”

“I figured.”

No judgment. Just that calm, steady thing she does—like she’ll hold me up if I need it, no questions asked.

We sit. She hands me coffee. I take it like it might glue me back together.

“What now?” she asks, eyes on me, not pushing—just there.

“Don’t know—guess I should go to work. Pretend I’m a functional adult.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Or you could just sit on the floor and cry into a muffin. I’ve done both. Equal results.”

I huff a laugh. “I’m not ready to cry. Not anymore.”

“Then don’t. You don’t owe anyone that kind of unraveling.”

I look at her. “Including him?”

“Especially him.”

We sit in silence for a second. Just sipping. Breathing.

Then she says, “But when you are ready? Fall apart properly. Not halfway. Ugly cry, throw a plate. Don’t bottle it.”

I nod. “Yeah. just did”

“Then slap on some concealer and fake it ’til you can breathe again.”

My shoulders drop a fraction, just enough to notice how tight I’d been wound.

Aurora doesn’t try to fix me. She just helps me stand.

She stays while I shower. She helps me pick out something sharp, not soft.

Nothing that says please come back.

Just clean lines, clean slate.

She doesn’t say revenge outfit, but we both know what it is.

Griffin calls twice.

I send him to voicemail both times.

Not in the mood for a lecture about how I’ve embarrassed him, ruined my career, or thrown myself to the wolves. I’m not some princess he gets to lock in a damn tower ’til the right guy shows up.

I’m a grown-ass woman who fell for a man that made me feel more seen in one night than anybody ever has. “I think Griffin means well, but in his overbearing, overprotective, ass-backward way—he’s never once asked what I actually want.” “I get to screw up on my own terms.”

“Girl, you’re totally right.” Aurora says as she applies mascara to my lashes. “Maybe it’s time to start showing these guys who you really are.”

“Not the version they want to see. Not the one Griffin’s been curating like your life is a family brand.”

“Shit, you’re not wrong.”

She meets my eyes in the mirror. “So stop playing their game.”

I think about that.

About the way Liam looked at me.

About how real it felt until it didn't.

And I decide—

If he won't stay, I won't wait.

He left, and I'm not chasing him.

But I'll make damn sure he knows what he walked away from.

When Aurora leaves, I light a candle, finish my now-cold coffee, and open my laptop.

I start drafting a nutrition plan for a player I haven’t even met yet.

Not because it matters.

But because I do.

And I’m still here.