Page 11

Ken

I crashed on Ashton’s couch last night—told him her snoring was too much. He laughed, offered bourbon. Didn’t ask questions. That’s why he’s my brother.

My phone buzzes just past nine, dragging me out of the shallowest excuse for sleep. My neck’s wrecked from the couch, and I’m already in a mood before I even check the screen.

Matthews : Ken? Vince Matthews. Got your number from Ashton.

The name makes my jaw clench.

Me: What’s up?

Matthews : Tennis match?

Me: Your ass ready to be handed to you?

Matthews : My ass is laughing. Court in 30?

Me: Make it 45. Need to grab my gear .

I end the call, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Maybe hitting something—even just a tennis ball—will help.

The walk to Bree's suite feels longer than it should. I use the keycard, half-hoping she'll be there, half-dreading it. But the room is empty.

Empty except for the evidence of her morning: discarded ice cream containers on the bed, those weird European cookies she stress-eats scattered across the sheets. Two spoons. Clara's work, probably.

My bag is where I left it, but there's an envelope propped against it. Not the same one. This one doesn’t have the company logo, just a plain white envelope. My name in her handwriting.

I shouldn't read it.

I do anyway.

Her perfume hits me as I open it—that subtle mix of flowers and something expensive I could never name. I try not to remember how that scent filled my nose when I kissed her neck last night.

Ken,

I've spent an hour trying to write this. Nothing sounds right. Nothing fixes what I did.

You were right about everything. About me trying to control things with money. About me being no better than the people who treated you like a commodity. About me being terrified of actually feeling something real.

The truth is, I've spent so long protecting myself from men who want my money that I forgot how to recognize someone who just wants me.

What I did was unforgivable. I took everything genuine between us and turned it into a transaction. I became exactly what I hate—someone who thinks love can be bought.

You deserve better. You always did.

I'm sorry.

- B

I should crumple the letter.

I don’t.

I fold it carefully, tucking it into my bag.

Then I change into tennis whites.

I catch our reflection in the mirror—or rather, the ghost of it. Her pressed against my chest last night, laughing as I kissed that spot behind her ear that made her shiver.

I grab my racquet, and head for the courts.

I don't let myself think about the way her words made my chest tight.

Don't let myself remember how she looked this morning, soft and happy before I saw that envelope.

Don't let myself wonder if maybe...

No. Kicking assholes’ asses first. Feelings later.

Or better yet, never.

I towel off after the match, enjoying how Matthews is still gasping for air, face red as a lobster.

I bet this asshole’s used to people kissing his ass, throwing games to stay in his good graces.

Wrong guess, dickhead.

I played him like a lab rat in a maze—gave him just enough hope to get cocky. By the third set, he could barely lift his racquet, but his ego wouldn't let him quit. Then I crushed him so hard he nearly had a heart attack on the court. Pretty sure his ego's still twitching on the baseline.

"Drink?" he wheezes, trying to sound casual. Like his designer tennis whites aren't soaked through with sweat.

"Pass." I start packing my gear.

"Come on. One cognac. In celebration of a good match."

I eye him. "You lost 6-2, 6-1, 6-0."

"Exactly why I need a drink." He attempts a smile. "And why you deserve one."

Something in his tone makes me curious. "Fine. One drink."

He leads me to the house's private bar—all dark wood and leather, trying too hard to look old money. Matthews moves behind the bar like he owns it, which tells me everything I need to know about him.

"Make yourself comfortable." He pours two cognacs, heavy on the pour. "You know, I've been wanting to talk to you."

"About getting tennis lessons?"

He forces a laugh. "About business, actually. You've impressed a lot of people this weekend."

"Just doing my job." I accept the drink but don't taste it.

"That's exactly what I mean. Your presence, your understanding of the industry, the way you handle yourself..." He leans forward. "Have you ever considered corporate PR?"

I keep my face neutral. "Can't say I have."

"Well, start considering. Because I'm prepared to offer you a position. Two million dollars a year to be the face of Carmichael Chemicals."

The number hangs in the air. Two million. More money than I've ever seen.

"Generous offer." I study my glass. "But I already have a job."

"Hockey?" He waves dismissively. "That's temporary. One bad hit and it's over. This? This is security."

"And what exactly would this job entail?"

"Being our spokesperson. Supporting our initiatives. Using that charm of yours to help modernize our image." His smile turns predatory. "Especially after tomorrow's announcement."

"What announcement?"

"When old man Carmichael names me as his successor."

I take a careful sip of cognac. "Thought that wasn't decided yet."

"Oh, it is. He just doesn't know it yet." Matthews pulls out an envelope. "Which brings me to the timing of this offer."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I know you and Bree aren't what you seem. My staff notices things. Like separate rooms last night."

I keep my expression bored. "Fascinating surveillance system you've got."

"I also had someone look into your past. Interesting career choices before hockey."

There it is.

"That’s not public knowledge."

"Nothing's really private these days. But..." He slides the envelope closer. "Sign this non-disclosure agreement and this contract, and I'll make sure your past stays buried. Carmichael never needs to know about your more... creative employment history."

I pick up the envelope but don't open it. "And if I don't sign?"

"Then tomorrow becomes very uncomfortable for everyone. Especially Bree."

My hand tightens on the glass. "Leave her out of this."

"I'm trying to. Sign the contract, take the money, and this all goes away. You get rich, I get my spokesperson, and Bree..." He shrugs. "Well, she was never going to end up with someone like you anyway."

I stand, tucking the envelope into my pocket. "I'll have my lawyers review it."

"Of course. But these opportunities? They're time-sensitive."

"These projects you want me to push—does Carmichael know about them?"

Matthews waves dismissively. "The old man's stuck in the past. Once I'm CEO, we'll modernize. Streamline. Maximize profits."

"By cutting the water treatment program?"

"Among others. This company needs fresh blood, new ideas."

"Right." I finish my cognac. "I'll let you know."

"By tomorrow mo rning," he calls after me. "Clock's ticking."

I walk out without looking back, the envelope heavy in my pocket. Another rich asshole thinking he can buy whatever—whoever—he wants.

Tempting offer, no doubt.

Back in Ashton's suite, I pull out my phone and the envelope.

And try to sleep—knowing I won’t.