My brows furrow, eyes narrowing. “Over my fucking dead body.”
“That can be arranged. I’m sure Patrick Callahan wouldn’t want to look like a callous asshole to the public.”
Did my father just . . . I shove my hands into my pockets and whistle. “Wow. Threatening filicide now? That'll play great inThe New York Times. Oh, and I'm not your merger clause, so find another fucking way.”
“You'll do as you're told.”
The finality in his voice, the complete absence of any consideration for what I might want, hammers the final nail into the coffin of any autonomy I foolishly thought I had. Twenty-two years of grooming, shaping me into the perfect heir, was all building toward this.
Notmysuccess, notmyhappiness—buthisempire.
But I’m not going down easily.
There has to be a way to beat him. I just need time to figure it out. So, for now, I’ll play his game.
I stare right at him, a smile creeping across my face. “Fine. I'll marry her.”
His eyebrows raise, the first sign of surprise I've seen from him in years. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” I pause, letting him think he's won. “Now, can I have my passport?”
“The answer is still no. You’re needed here.” He waves me off, then returns to his documents.
I leave without a word, the door clicking shut behind me. No slamming it, no dramatic exit. Just that old, familiar ache in my chest. The one that reminds me I’m nothing more than a pawn waiting to be moved.
Except I refuse to promise my life to someone I didn't choose. So, it’s time to flip the entire fucking board and become a player instead of a piece.
Chapter 2
Ryan
Joan Jett's voice pounds through my earbuds as I turn the corner toward Coach Harper’s apartment. I completed seven miles this morning instead of five. Sweat's cooling on my skin, my legs burn with that good ache, while “I Love Rock 'N Roll” drowns out everything else.
Mom used to blast this while driving to games. Windows down, both of us yelling the words. Now it's just me and the pavement.
My chest tightens, different than before, though. It’s not the can't-breathe kind.
I should be in Erie right now helping Larry fix the fence that's been falling apart since spring. But Coach Nieminen wanted me to be in Rosewood Bay early for extra training. Can't say no to that, not when half the team thinks I don't belong, including Zach Knight.
This year's gotta be better.
I pull out my earbuds at the entrance of the three-story building. The quiet hits hard, and my shoulders tense up.
Every sound is too loud, too close. Cars. Footsteps. My own breathing.
My hands shake as I dig for the key in my pocket.Get it together. I push through the heavy glass door, then take the stairs two at a time because the elevator's a box with no exits.
I'm kinda glad Coach Harper asked me to watch his cat while he and Novotny are in Austria. Never been anywhere like that. Never been anywhere, really.
Just Erie and New York.
Unlocking the apartment door, I step inside, then lock it behind me. Always lock it. I check the corners and rooms to make sure no one else is here. Been here a week and I still do it every time.
Safe. You're safe.
Mouse is sprawled on the couch, her mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—stare at me like I failed some test. She digs her claws into my old teddy bear, the one Mom won at the county fair when I was seven.
My body goes rigid, a giant lump forming in my throat. Mouse must've dragged it out of my hockey bag again.
