The room exhales all at once—a mix of terror and electric adrenaline. Zoë lets out a low, hysterical laugh she smothers with her fist. Gio drags a hand down his face like he’s bracing for impact.
My heart is pounding, but it’s steady. No scatter. No panic. Just the clean hum of game-day focus.
I stand up. My fingers slip from Talia’s, but not before I let my thumb drag slowly across her palm, a silent promise:I’m not walking away. Not this time.
“I have one more thing to do.”
Talia's eyes meet mine. She nods. Just once. No questions.Go.
I walk into Genny's empty bedroom, closing the door behind me. The muffled click of the latch cuts off the others. The sudden quiet is disorienting, like stepping off the ice into a vacuum.
The silence is a relief. And a weight.
I sit on the edge of the narrow bed. I look down at my hand.
The ink from the pen I destroyed in my father’s office is still there, stained deep into the ridges of my thumb. Next to it, the cut from the metal clip is a jagged red line, tacky with dried blood. A smudge of gold flake glitters in the wound.
It hurts when I flex my hand. Good. It reminds me who I’m fighting.
I pull out my phone. I scroll past my father. I find her.
Beatrice.
I find the text from her. The "personal bomb."
I don't call my father. I call her.
She picks up on the second ring, her voice that same, fake, syrupy-sweet coo she uses at fundraisers. “Declan, darling. You're finally calling me back. Your father is—”
“It's over, Beatrice.”
My voice is flat. A blade. I don’t raise it. I don’t have to. The edge is in the calm.
A beat of silence. I can almost see her blinking. Then a cold, sharp laugh. “Don't be dramatic. It's not over until my father and your father sign the merger. You're just having a tantrum.”
“I'm not talking about the merger,” I say. I open my email with my free hand. “I'm talking about us.”
My thumb moves in automatic, practiced motions—compose, attach. I attach the screenshot of her text.
Beatrice:Alistair, I saw Declan with the coach's daughter at the fundraiser... She is a 'complication' we don't need.
I hit send.
“I just emailed you,” I say. “Check it.”
I wait. I hear the faint rustle of movement on her end. A click. A breath.
Then a sharp, choked intake of air.
“You...” she whispers, fake sweetness gone, stripped away in an instant. “You wouldn't.”
“TheBriarcliff Chroniclejust published an article about my father's 'transactional' donations,” I say, voice as cold as the ice. “I’m wondering how theNew York Timessocial column would react to this screenshot. ‘Prominent Merger Called Off Due to Blackmail Scheme.’ It’s a hell of a headline, Bea. Hard to get invited to the Met Gala with that kind of stink on you.”
I can hear her breathing—ragged, furious. The threat of the NCAA meant nothing to her. But social suicide? That’s a language she speaks fluently.
“You're bluffing,” she hisses.
“Was my father bluffing?” I ask quietly. “When he threatened to fire Coach Addison? When he called Talia a 'distraction'?” I look down at the blood on my hand. “The leash is cut, Beatrice. We're done. You'll call your father, you'll call my father, and you will tell them the engagement is off. That it was your choice. That we’re ‘incompatible.’”
