Page 41 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

THE brEAKING POINT

JESSICA

“Jessica.” His plastic smile clicks into place. “Please, sit.”

“It’s about Chad Vanderbilt.” I get straight to the point as I settle in the chair designed to make visitors feel small, each word precise as a scalpel.

My spine is straight, legs crossed at the ankle, tone steady.

“I have serious concerns regarding his recent interactions with our sponsorships, specifically the Under Armour deal involving Finn O’Reilly. ”

His eyebrows arch slightly, interest sparked. “I’m listening.”

Behind him, the Stanley Cup gleams on its pedestal, the team’s triumph turned into his office decor.

I fold my hands in my lap. My nails bite into my palms, but my smile never wavers.

“Vanderbilt’s firm has historically managed our financial and sponsor relationships effectively.

However, I’ve uncovered that Chad Vanderbilt deliberately diverted Under Armour’s interest away from Finn O’Reilly based purely on a personal vendetta.

His actions weren’t strategic or data-driven, and they directly damaged the Defenders’ bottom line. ”

He shifts subtly, settling back into his chair.

“His actions were personal, vindictive, and nearly cost the Defenders a seven-figure sponsorship. More importantly, they put our reputation at risk. Because when a deal collapses without explanation, it doesn’t just disappear, it lingers. And it reflects badly on the entire brand.”

I press forward firmly, unwilling to lose momentum.

“This interference could have seriously harmed the Defenders. Given these circumstances, I strongly advise engaging another financial and sponsorship management firm going forward. He has crossed professional boundaries, and the risk he poses to our team’s reputation is unacceptable.”

Rothschild’s fingers steeple under his chin. Gray eyebrows don’t even twitch. His Patek Philippe ticks between us, counting money while I count reasons not to scream.

React, you fossil. Pretend you care about something besides your portfolio.

“I verified with the outlet that the information for the article was provided by Chad Vanderbilt,” I slide my tablet across his pristine desk. “Under Armour confirmed they nearly pulled out based solely on that hit piece.”

He glances at the screen, disinterested. Like he’s checking the weather app.

My heel digs into the Persian rug.

“I recommend we terminate our relationship with Vanderbilt Financial. Engage another firm. One that can separate professional obligations from personal grudges. I’ve prepared a list of alternatives, firms with better track records, competitive rates, and most importantly, ethical standards.”

Silence stretches between us, thick as the cigar smoke that clings to these walls. Rothschild’s expression shifts slightly, his mouth tightening just enough to suggest displeasure, but his voice remains carefully measured. Then he leans back in his chair and sighs.

“Jessica, your diligence is commendable, as always.” His tone carries that particular brand of condescension reserved for mansplaining things to children and women. “I appreciate your...thoroughness. But you need to understand how these relationships work.”

My jaw locks. I keep my face neutral.

Here it comes.

I feel my spine lock vertebra by vertebra, like armor clicking into place.

“My family’s relationship with the Vanderbilts goes back generations. Cutting off their firm isn’t an option.”

My pulse spikes, heat surging beneath my skin. But I keep my expression perfectly neutral, refusing to betray the turmoil inside me.

“With respect, Mr. Rothschild,” my voice is level, “this isn’t about personal connections. His actions were unethical. He weaponized his access and nearly tanked a major sponsorship. Loyalty should lie with the players, and the brand we’re supposed to be protecting.”

I stop there. Because what I want to say, what’s blistering just behind my teeth, is that tradition has limits.

That honoring some dusty old handshake between rich people at a fraternity isn’t loyalty, it’s fear disguised as legacy.

It’s terror enforced by dead men. But I bite it down.

Because saying that to his face would be career suicide.

For now .

My lungs burn. I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

Rothschild’s eyes flash briefly, a flicker of irritation or perhaps disappointment.

He leans forward a smidge, words quieter, more patronizing.

“Jessica, I appreciate your passion, but there are complexities here beyond just business decisions. Connections matter in ways you may not fully appreciate.”

My nails dig discreetly into my palms, the sting grounding me.

My voice stays calm, cool, utterly stripped of emotion.

“I understand complexities perfectly well. But this situation is straightforward. Chad put his personal feelings above his professional duties. It’s reckless and damaging to the team. ”

Rothschild’s mouth tightens. “You’re letting emotions cloud your judgment.”

Heat crawls up my neck as his Yale class ring catches the light; even his jewelry dismisses me.

Emotions. Of course. When a woman identifies a problem, it’s emotions. When a man does it, it’s leadership.

“This is pure business logic,” I counter, tone steady despite the fury building in my chest. “We can’t have sponsors questioning our stability because our financial partners can’t maintain professional boundaries.”

“The boy comes from good stock. His family has ties to half the boardrooms in Manhattan. Cutting those ties would be inadvisable.”

“Inadvisable,” I echo, tasting the word like poison.

“Besides,” he continues, straightening his cufflinks, “young men sometimes let personal matters affect their judgment. He will learn from this. Consider it handled internally.”

Handled internally. Like a boys’ school disciplinary hearing. Slap on the wrist. Don’t do it again, sport .

“And O’Reilly?” I ask. “What do I tell him when another ‘mistake’ happens? When Vanderbilt decides to inspire another outlet to revive stories of his father?”

“That won’t happen.” Rothschild’s tone sharpens. “I’ll speak to him personally. Make expectations clear.”

A conversation between old friends. Between men who summer in the Hamptons and winter in Aspen. Who trade favors like baseball cards and consider the rest of us pieces on their board.

“Sir—”

He nods slightly, offering an indulgent smile that sets my teeth on edge. “I’ll discuss this with Chad personally. However, our association with his firm remains. I’m sure you can manage this situation effectively from your end.”

My jaw tightens minutely as I stand, smoothing my skirt deliberately. “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” He slides my tablet back across the desk. “I suggest you focus on the team optics. Make sure our players present well. That’s what we pay you for.”

That’s what we pay you for.

Not strategy. Not protecting our assets. Not identifying threats. Just making sure the boys look pretty for the cameras.

Every muscle is screaming to flip his desk, to tell him exactly where he can shove his institutional relationships. Instead, I gather my tablet and meet his eyes with a smile that could cut glass.

“Of course,” I say, voice sweet as arsenic. “I’ll make sure everyone looks perfect.”

“Good,” he dismisses me, already turning to his computer. The click of his keyboard is deliberate, I’m already forgotten, already furniture .

The word lights a fuse in my chest, burning slow and inevitable toward detonation. I walk out of his office with measured steps. Professional and composed. The perfect fucking lady.

The elevator doors close, and I finally let myself breathe. My hands shake as I hit the button for my floor. Not from fear. From rage so pure it feels like clarity.

Old money protecting old money. Boys protecting boys. The same circle jerk that’s run this city since before I was born.

Chad tries to destroy Finn over a bruised ego, and Rothschild’s response? Boys will be boys. We can’t upset the country club.

The elevator dings. I step out, heels clicking against marble like a countdown.

Fuck this.

I stride past Joy’s desk, ignoring whatever she’s trying to tell me, and push into my office. I need five minutes. Just five minutes to pull myself together.

My office door clicks shut behind me.

Standing in front of my window, arms crossed, posture stiff, is the one man I don’t want to deal with right now.

“Dad?” My voice is flat. Not confused. Not welcoming. Just done. “What can I do for you?”

He turns, and I already know from his expression this isn’t a social visit. His gaze is sharp, jaw tight. Whatever Rothschild didn’t manage to break, this look tries to finish.

“We need to talk.” His words are thunder and judgment, already halfway to shouting.

“Not now.” I move toward my desk, calm and cutting. “Book a time. Or wait for Sunday dinner.”

He ignores that.

“Wai Po called the house this morning asking about her great-grandchildren. ”

My stomach drops.

“Plural. Jessica.” His voice cracks. “Twins?”

The room tilts. I don’t answer. Just slide my tablet onto the desk like this is a regular fucking workday.

“This is how I find out?” His voice spikes, red coloring his cheeks. He folds his arms like he’s conducting a goddamn disciplinary hearing. “When were you planning on telling me? They’re O’Reilly’s, aren’t they? The one player I specifically warned you about.”

The heat that’s been building since my meeting with Rothschild detonates, igniting all the fury, all the pressure, all the bullshit I’ve swallowed for too long.

“You’re kidding me.” I spin on him, full force. “You barge into my office, uninvited, and demand an update on the state of my uterus? Are you hearing yourself?”

My voice is steel. My hands land on my hips, my spine straightening until I’m eye-level with him. He still has inches on me, but I don’t give a damn.