Page 1 of The Players We Hate (Rixton U #2)

Wren ~ Two Years Ago

It was amazing how invisible you could feel under a thousand lights.

The auditorium glowed amber, every seat filled. Applause and murmurs tangled with the staccato snap of shutters, while phones glittered like stars, desperate to capture history.

Just offstage, I stood in the shadows, the hem of my pale lavender dress brushing the edge of the carpet.

My shoes pinched, too narrow in the toe, too high in the heel, but that was nothing compared to the pressure building in my chest. My heart thudded against my ribs, as if it was trying to remind me I still existed.

My father’s voice boomed from behind the podium, echoing with practiced ease. “Together, with your support, we’ll build a better tomorrow.”

Polite applause rippled through the room. I already knew what came next.

The spotlight would shift, but it wouldn’t be to me .

I glanced across the stage. My father stood like a man carved from his portraits—silver at his temples, a billboard smile fixed in place, his hand gripping the podium as if he owned it.

Maybe he did. Some might believe he owned the whole room.

Beside him in the front row, my mother sat poised with her pearl-studded heels crossed at the ankle. Her makeup was flawless and frozen.

She knew how to work a crowd without saying a word. She leaned forward enough to be in every shot, always framing herself in the narrative. The media never let us forget how their story began.

My father cheated on his first wife with her. She was pregnant with me when the story broke, and they’d been playing defense ever since. No matter how poised she looked now, I knew how much she’d bled for this.

Wells stood backstage a few feet away, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

He had that restless energy built up inside him.

The Rixton University pin on his lapel gleamed under the lights.

His focus had always been football, but Dad had been quietly grooming him for something more—a future beyond the field, whether Wells wanted it or not.

A moment later, my father called out, “And now, let’s bring out the future.”

Wells stepped into the halo of light as if he belonged there, and maybe he did.

The crowd broke into applause again, louder this time, more charged.

He raised his hand in a practiced wave, all easy confidence and golden boy charisma.

By tomorrow, his face would be on every front page under headlines like Poised for Greatness or The Future Looks Familiar.

I stood frozen in place, my spine straight and my shoulders set. I knew what I was supposed to do—smile, walk out on the right cue, and be the perfect daughter in a dress handpicked by my mother’s stylist. But something in me resisted tonight, some quiet voice begging me not to perform again.

My father beamed at Wells, resting a hand on his shoulder like he was claiming a prize. “Proud of you, champ,” he said loud enough for the microphones to catch. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice enough that only those of us nearby could hear. “Let’s get the family photo.”

He said “family” with the confidence of a man who’d never had to earn forgiveness inside one.

Wells glanced back at me, and for a split second, our eyes met. I couldn’t read his expression. Was it guilt or discomfort? Before I could confirm, he looked away.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Mother said to me, rising from her seat. Her voice was smooth, sugary, with enough of an edge to let me know it wasn’t a suggestion. “Let’s make this quick.”

I stepped into the spotlight, heels striking the stage, and took my place beside Wells. The lights blinded me for a moment, but I knew how to smile through it. I’d been trained for this since I was old enough to hold still in a Christmas card photo.

Tatum, Wells’s girlfriend, stood offstage, tucked into the shadows where she preferred it. Her outfit was simple yet sharp, featuring tailored slacks and a silky emerald blouse that accentuated her eyes. Her hair fell in soft waves, a quiet rebellion against the sleek updo she was coached to wear.

We hadn’t known each other long, but I liked her. She didn’t pretend, didn’t perform. There was something real about her. In a room full of people playing a part, Tatum didn’t, and it was exactly why I trusted her.

Still, I felt the shift when Wells glanced her way, even as the camera shutters popped in rapid fire. My father noticed too. His expression sharpened with the same calculated approval he gave to donors and delegates.

Even without a spotlight, even without stepping forward, she fit here in a way I never had.

Wells’s arm slid around me with practiced choreography. His other hand settled on my mother’s shoulder, careful and calculated. I stood still, a placeholder in a photo I was never meant to headline.

The photographer lifted his hand. “Just one more. Everyone is a little closer now,” he called. “Great. Now smile.”

I smiled. Or at least, I showed my teeth. It didn’t reach my eyes.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

“Perfect,” my father said, voice still caught in that campaign-slick cadence. “Let’s make sure the Chronicle gets this one.”

The moment the final click echoed through the room, I stepped away, slipping offstage before someone thought of another angle or another pose.

The air clung to my skin, hot and stifling, as if it were soaked in spotlights and sweat. Staffers rushed by with purpose. I leaned into the railing, the metal cool against my palm. My heart was racing, but no one noticed .

“Wren.”

I turned at the sharp sound of my mother’s heels tapping across the floor.

She approached with purpose, her jaw tight, her voice low and clipped. “What was that out there?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You looked uncomfortable. Rigid.” Her eyes scanned me from head to toe. “And your lipstick—why on earth would you wear that shade? It washes you out and makes you look ill.”

I glanced down, suddenly aware of every inch of my body. “It’s the one that came with the stylist’s kit.”

“Well, it doesn’t photograph well,” she tutted, brushing a thumb against the corner of my mouth. “Next time, ask before you try something new.”

Her gaze dropped to my hands, and she grabbed one without asking. “And your nails,” she muttered. “Seriously, Wren? You couldn’t make time to make sure your nails weren’t chipped?”

I pulled my hand away, curling it into a fist at my side. “I’ve been helping with the volunteer schedule all week.”

She murmured, “Wren, I just need to know, are you part of this family or standing in the way of it?”

The words landed with familiar weight, sharper than they should be.

She straightened her posture and smoothed the front of her dress as if that ended the conversation. “Fix your lipstick before the donors start filtering back here. And smooth out your hair. It looks like you rolled out of bed and didn’t bother with a brush. ”

Then she turned and walked away, the scent of her stale perfume lingering long after she was gone.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I stood there, staring at the space she left behind, the warmth in my cheeks fading into something I couldn’t quite name.

Not anger. Not even sadness.

Just… worn thin. Like the edges of me had been rubbed raw by trying too hard for too long.

A quiet sound interrupted the silence, footsteps soft and slower than hers.

“Hey,” Tatum said.

I turned. She stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her slacks, her brows drawn together with concern. There was no pity on her face, only calm sincerity. And maybe something like understanding.

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” she said. “I was looking for punch and… walked right into whatever that was.”

I tried to smile, but it didn’t quite land. “You get used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though.”

Her words settled gently. The kind of touch you didn’t flinch from. She stepped closer without reaching for me or crowding, simply being present in that steady, quiet way people are when they truly see you.

“I thought you looked beautiful,” she said. “Confident. Like someone who knows exactly who she is.”

I laughed, but it was quiet and fragile. “I was just trying to stay upright.”

“Well, you did.” Her smile was soft. “And you didn’t disappear, even if they tried to crop you out of the frame. ”

I nodded, looking down at my chipped thumbnail and the smudged lipstick on the edge of my finger.

She followed my gaze. “By the way, your lipstick’s great. It doesn’t scream vote for me, but that’s probably why I like it.”

That earned a smile. A real one.

She nudged her shoulder lightly against mine. “Let me know if you want to duck out early. I got bored backstage and found where they’ve stashed the good cookies.”

She started to walk away but glanced over her shoulder once more.

“I see you, Wren. Just so you know.”

Then she was gone, slipping into the noise.

And for a moment, I didn’t feel quite so invisible.