Page 2

Chapter 2

Charlie

‘D id you really not know Callum was balls-deep in someone else,’ Brodie snarls, ‘or were you too busy managing his image and ruining my career to care?’

I don’t flinch. Not outwardly. Inside? That one lands hard.

But I smile as coldly as possible. ‘And here I thought you had no interest in my personal life, MacRae.’

He’s seething. Every muscle pulled tight like he’s one insult away from snapping his chair in half.

Fine. Let’s go.

‘But since we’re trading blows… How does it feel to go from Scotland’s rising rugby star to a toxic PR nightmare?’

I’ve reached the edge of what I can fake. My pulse is rioting, my skin’s too hot, and rage is braided so tightly with shame I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I hate him right now. I want to scream at him. I want to throw something.

He feels the same. I can practically hear his teeth cracking.

‘That’s what I thought,’ I declare calmly. ‘We’re done here, for now.’ Another second and I might say something I can’t claw back from.

He stops at the door. ‘You think you know everything, don’t you?’

I don’t even look up. My voice is cold, controlled, and practised. ‘Not everything. But I know you’ll scramble back to the top where you belong, Brodie MacRae.’ I click my pen. ‘And when you do… you’ll thank me on your knees.’

He doesn’t respond. Just turns and walks out. No shouting, no slammed door, no parting shot. The quiet, furious click as it closes behind him hits harder than a bang ever could.

And something in me buckles.

I slump back in my chair like my strings just went slack. The armrests are the only thing keeping me from sliding to the floor.

Brodie MacRae. In my office. Eyes locked on me like he wanted to rip my throat out with his teeth.

My chest rises and falls too fast, adrenaline still racing through my veins. I press my palms flat against the cool glass of my desk, trying to ground myself. But the memory lingers – that barely-contained power simmering under his skin.

The sheer force of him. The primal heat.

And the fury.

Jesus, the fury.

I knew he’d be pissed off. I prepared for him to be pissed. But nothing could have braced me for the weight of that rage. It practically shimmered around him, thick as smoke, as if he’d combust any moment. And in the space between inhale and reason, my body reacted – before my brain could pull rank, before I reminded myself that Brodie MacRae might be volatile, but he wouldn’t touch me.

Yeah, it’s clear as day: Brodie MacRae hates my guts.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Focus, Charlie. You handled it. Stayed cool, stayed in control. Didn’t let him see how much he rattled you.

I pull up the spreadsheet for my next meeting. The numbers blur, but I read through them anyway. Just to be sure. Even though I know them by heart.

My mobile buzzes, and my pulse jumps.

What does my dad want?

He hasn’t been in touch since I left Harrington Sports Management at the end of March.

What is he up to now?

He’s not the type to chase, and he sure as hell isn’t calling for a chat.

I glare at the screen, pressure clamping around my ribs. Four months since I walked out of Harrington Sports, and he still can’t accept that his eldest offspring chose her self-worth over his empire. That I dare to exist outside of his shadow.

He never calls anyone unless he wants something. He most certainly never apologises. I could pick up to find out what my price is this time. But I don’t. I turn the phone face down until it silences itself. He lost that privilege four months ago.

I can still hear his clipped voice, exactly as he said it then. You’re being emotional, Charlotte. Boys will be boys. You’re tainting everything I built because Cal slept with another woman. So? Move on.

He still doesn’t get it.

Edinburgh summer rain lashes against the window. A steady drumming that matches the riot running through my bloodstream. The sky is slate grey, heavy, pressing in like it wants to crush the city. Feels appropriate.

I stare at my reflection. Tense shoulders, jaw set like I’m holding back a war cry.

This is what I wanted. What I chose.

To be the boss.

I glance around, corralling my thoughts into line. The office is small and practical. Nothing flashy. Glass, brick, and simple furniture. A single step up from a glorified start-up, but it’s mine. I’d scrounged together enough to rent this space for a year – my office and the two adjacent ones.

Theo’s in the smallest one right now, pacing like she always does when she’s planning a social media campaign. The other is shared between Alex and Mac, legal consultant and junior agent-slash-publicist, respectively. Frosted glass walls separate us, muting voices but never fully shutting them out. I can hear Alex murmuring into their headset and Mac clicking away at his laptop.

It’s not much. But it’s real. And I’m building it with my own damn hands.

On my desk, the only personal touch: a framed photo of Mum with my little sister Hannah. They’re laughing, heads thrown back, Hannah’s face lit up from some joke Mum cracked right before I took the picture. I know, London’s only a day away and the move to Edinburgh was the change I needed. But I miss them.

I’ve sunk everything into this agency. Leveraged my future on the gamble that I could make it without George Harrington’s safety net. Charmed investors. Hired three fabulous people whose ability to pay the rent depends on me.

And now I’m shackled to a ticking time bomb with a temper.

Shit.

I drag my fingers through my hair, pressing hard against my temples.

Shit, shit, shit.

Brodie fucking MacRae.

The man who’s been Callum Fraser’s nemesis since they were teenagers. The loose cannon. The walking PR disaster whose behaviour could single-handedly sink my fledgling agency before it gets off the ground.

A soft knock. Theo pokes her head in. ‘Charlie? Your ten o’clock is here.’

My spine straightens so fast it aches. I exhale through my nose. Damage control. Regroup. Fix things. That’s what I do. No time for panic. No time to fall apart. If I slip now, even for a second, it’s over.

I smooth my suit and force a cool smile. ‘Send him up. And then let him wait two minutes outside my door.’

I know how to play power games. Daddy taught his daughter well. Or did he? I’ve never beaten him before. Never even went up against him. Until now.

Theo hesitates, eyeing me. ‘You okay? You look…’ She gestures vaguely and lifts her shoulders.

I meet her gaze, expression bulletproof. ‘Like a woman about to close another contract with an up-and-coming golfer? Thanks, Theo. I appreciate the confidence.’

She doesn’t seem convinced, but she disappears.

I exhale slowly as I reach for the next folder—

And put it back down when I realise my hands are still trembling.

My gaze flicks to the chair Brodie just vacated. It’s too small for him. Everything is. He’s not a giant, not like a forward. His body is made for movement as well as confrontation. Hardly contained in that suit, broad shoulders straining against the fabric. He’s burned onto the back of my eyelids. The set of his jaw, how his nostrils flared when I told him to sit. That constant fidget in his hands, the way his throat worked when he swallowed back the instinct to throw my desk across the room.

He wanted to. I felt it. Hell, I dared him to.

My office still smells like him. Like rain and a hint of sweat and whatever aftershave he douses himself in. It lingers on my skin, in my lungs, like it’s marking me.

I close my eyes. This is becoming a problem.

Not the bare-knuckled temper. Not the straining suit. Not even the steel-threaded quiet in his voice when he told me to be careful.

No, the key problem is that I kind of own the most talented, uncontrollable player in Scottish rugby, and I don’t have the luxury of fucking this up. This agency, this office – it’s my one shot. I left London and moved to Edinburgh to be as far away as possible from my father and his cronies without actually having to leave the country. And if I let Brodie MacRae blow it up, I lose the only thing that’s mine.

He’s just a client.

Except…

Except I remember watching him play. Before everything. Before the scandal. Some players are a joy to watch, and Brodie is one of them. Because you don’t know what he’s doing next. He’s unpredictable in the best way. How he moves, like gravity is optional. Like he could shape the game around him with skill , instinct, and sheer, brute will.

That same energy was in my office today. But this time, it was focused on me .

My phone buzzes again. Not Dad.

Callum?

Cold pressure grips my insides. I don’t want to look. Shouldn’t. But I do.

(DICKHEAD 10:02) Heard you have MacRae. News travels fast in rugby circles. Desperate much?

Naturally, the gossip mill is already turning. Word gets around when Scottish rugby’s biggest fuck-up du jour shows up somewhere.

Fuck right off, Fraser.

Five months since I caught Callum shagging a sports presenter in his house in Glasgow. I was making a surprise visit to celebrate a new sponsorship I got for him. Guess how surprised I was when I saw him pumping a woman on the kitchen counter?

And Cal is still trying to twist the narrative, still playing the jilted victim, still sneering at my choices.

The laugh that leaves me is hollow and mean. Five months ago, I’d have called him just to hear him lie to me. Five months ago, I’d have let him spin it, let him make me feel like I was overreacting.

But I’m done being gaslit. Done playing his PR girl, starry-eyed ego-booster, and trad wife-to-be. I type back:

(ME 10:04) Jealous much? Leave me alone and go crack your skull.

Then I block his number. For good. The pressure in my jaw could make a diamond.

When the knot under my sternum doesn’t ease, I open the top drawer and pull out a compact mirror. My lipstick’s still intact, but there’s a smudge of mascara at the corner of one eye. I swipe it away, fix my hair, and tell myself to look the part. Confident and untouchable.

Four more meetings, two contract reviews, and a sponsorship crisis to handle.

Welcome to being the boss, Charlie.

This is what I signed up for, isn’t it? To prove them all wrong. To show Dad I’m more than his backup plan and mini me. To prove that walking away from Callum and our relationship wasn’t personal and professional suicide.

To build something that’s mine.

Even if it means handling Scottish rugby’s most competitive and combustible player and most gifted fly-half. Even if it means facing that ferocious stare and devastating scowl every day. Even if it means refusing to notice how devilishly handsome he looked wrapped in sleek black wool and attitude.

Which is irrelevant. The only reason my body had the audacity to react in the first place is because I haven’t had sex since Callum. Apparently, my vagina has developed an unfortunate soft spot for rough men with too much swagger and thighs like tree trunks.

I dig my nails into my palms to centre myself. It’s nothing. A physiological glitch. A side effect of prolonged abstinence. Because I refuse to be that woman. The one who gets weak-kneed over rugby players built like brick shithouses. Did that before. Look how brilliantly that turned out.

I nudge the framed picture of Hannah and Mum back into place. Centre it just so. Better.

I am Charlotte fucking Harrington. I don’t do attraction. I don’t do men with gambling problems and anger issues and enough baggage to sink a ship. Not anymore.

I do results .

A top-tier asset, that’s all he is. A chance to prove that I can turn water into wine. Even if he hates me for it. And step one? Figure out what Brodie MacRae wants more than he wants to fight me.

I grab my coffee, drain it, and put the empty cup on my desk. Before my next client walks in, I shove Brodie into a mental box and slam the lid. Time to get to work.

And time to figure out how to outplay the man who could destroy everything.