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JACKSON

No phone. No Uber. Just a slow, mindless walk back to the hotel with a throbbing headache. Reporters swarm me with their never-ending questions. One blocks the door, and I shove him aside. He falls to the ground, dropping his camera, and I don’t give the slightest fuck.

Things aren’t adding up. I can’t remember returning last night—I woke this afternoon in my bed, fully dressed and feeling like death.

The Hard Rock isn’t within a reasonable walking distance. Maybe I took a taxi, but how’d I find my hotel room blackout drunk?

I want to throw myself in bed and sleep off this hangover, but my paranoia mounts when I find my phone and an envelope on my bed.

I know my phone wasn’t there earlier; I practically tore this room apart looking for it.

A glance around shows my clothes still strewn across the floor.

No maid found it while cleaning and placed it there.

And the envelope… I doubt it’s a receipt for my hotel stay.

When I pick up my phone, I’m not blasted with notifications—someone has already cleared them. There’s only a text message from Kyle.

I can make this all go away.

Kyle protects my image solely because it reflects on him, but it always comes at a cost.

Ignoring him, I check for anything from Aurora.

Nothing.

Despite knowing what I’m in for, I attempt to call her. No answer, no voicemail. She’s blocked me, as expected. I honestly don’t blame her, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

In the envelope, I discover what Kyle threatened me with last night, how he got me to the Hard Rock: pictures of Ethan and Aurora kissing at a diner.

I drop my ass on the floor, rest against the bed, and toss my head back. Sharp pain lances through my stomach, nausea hitting me all over again.

I wanted to talk to Aurora before I crashed. Withdrawals can be brutal, depending on what and how much I ingested. My body is already going through familiar symptoms: fatigue, agitation, cravings.

Then, there’s the mental turmoil, and she doesn’t need that psychotic trainwreck.

At least I can check on her even if she won’t speak to me.

Is Aurora okay?

Ricky

Fuck off. I no longer work for you.

Fucking great. Now I have no access to her. I could argue with him, but what good will that do?

I review my other messages, expecting drunk me to have sent a bunch of shit, but there’s only a string of sappy texts to Aurora. That’s it.

My mind is cloudy, and this headache gets worse by the minute. Exhausted, I close my eyes and let my thoughts wander.

How can I fix this?

My chest tightens, each inhale shallow, and I struggle to pull air into my lungs. My throat constricts, and tears burn my eyes.

I’ve lost not only the love of my life but my very existence. Without her, I’m nothing but regret and loneliness. There’s no fucking point.

This is worse than last time. This time, we shared hope and a future. Why would I risk that?

Why did I risk that? Why did I allow myself to be manipulated by Kyle’s threats?

I’d give anything to turn back time. I can pay TMZ to remove the pictures, but I’ll never erase the images from her memory.

And what happened after those photos? Not even I know.

My mind races, searching for answers, something to prove I didn’t cheat on her. I grab my phone and force myself to scrutinize every damning image.

Thank fuck, there are no pictures of me touching these girls intimately. I can deal with the pics of me doing lines and drinking, but if I’d touched someone else, slept with someone else…I’d find the tallest building in Vegas and end this.

Odd to consider right now, but I’m reasonably certain I’m demisexual or some shit. My dick isn’t attracted to anyone else, especially someone random. I have trust issues.

I’m scrolling through the pictures again when it hits me, the dots connecting in my lagging brain. I’m dumb as fuck. Each image features me alone, photographed from a single perspective, nothing in the background. There are no photos of Kyle or anyone else—only me.

This has never happened before because Kyle carefully covers all his bases. He’s in the public eye, and evidence of his vices would lead to his political downfall, if not an indictment.

How does he assure fidelity besides an ironclad NDA? Blackmail.

One person took and sold last night’s photos. Kyle . I’m fucking sure of it. He has done it to others—senators, cops, celebrities, friends, women…in compromising positions.

But to his own son?

Why am I even questioning it?

He revels in his ability to control me, using my vulnerabilities as a weapon to maintain his twisted hold. My mother, my mental health, Aurora—they’re all pawns in his sick game.

I’ve lost everything, all so he can keep me on a tight leash, support his perverse lifestyle, and prove that without him, I’m fucked.

Desperation turns to fury, and I clench my fists until my nails dig into my palms.

He set me up. He destroyed my relationship—not only with Aurora, but with Ethan too.

And he finally pushed me over the edge.

Before I can think it through, I pick up the phone and call his number.

“Jack—”

“What the fuck do you want? You want my trust fund? You can have it.”

In the background, a crowd of voices babble, and I realize he’s at the game.

“Why aren’t you on the ice?”

“Are you that fucking stupid? You think Ethan would play me after last night?”

A moment of quiet follows, and the noise dissipates before I receive his usual entitled response. “He can’t do that. Without a drug test, he can’t prove anything. I’m calling the GM.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve already left. You’ve outdone yourself this time.

You’ve fucked us both.” This splitting headache is the only reason I’m not laughing at how spectacularly his plan failed.

“Did you think I’d try to save myself and my career?

Did you think I’d come crawling back, begging you to fix my reputation, to fix my inevitable drug test, forgetting all about Aurora? ”

“ Boy ,” he snarls, a warning that, as a child, would accompany his fist.

“You can’t hurt me. The only thing I want is Aurora, and since you obliterated that, I’ll spend all my time in New York groveling. Forget my trust fund. Forget hockey. I quit. Have fun explaining that to your entourage.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Get your ass on the ice.”

“You won’t see me on the ice until I have Aurora. I’ll do everything in my power to get her back, and I’ll make sure it’s as public as possible. I’ll rent billboards in Times Square if I have to. Fuck, I’ll move to New York.”

“Jackson. Don’t you fucking dare! I told you last night, I’ll destroy her!”

His intimidation tactics are meaningless. The damage is done.

“They’ll find you dead before I allow you to take another person from me. You’re fucked. When I’m through, you’ll have the same as me: nothing.”

I don’t bother listening to his sputtering. I end the call and dial my lawyer, then my agent. Then, to drive my point home, I get arena security to have him and his posse removed from my suite.