Frank Miller’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold. Not yelling—that would be unprofessional, undignified. Instead, it's low and tight with a fury that's infinitely more terrifying than screaming would be. One word, deliveredwith the absolute authority of a man who holds careers in his hands and isn't afraid to crush them.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, moving toward my hiding spot. I hold my breath, pressing deeper into the shadows, praying they'll walk past without noticing me.
They stop.
"Let me be crystal clear.” Frank is right outside the alcove now. “Your little performance just jeopardized a nine-figure partnership. You’ve made this organization a joke.”
Nine-figure partnership.Jeopardized.
This isn’t about us anymore. It’s about millions of dollars. Reputations. Power.
“Pursuant to Section 8 of the Standard Player Contract and the CBA,” Frank says, slipping into legal execution mode, “you are being fined the maximum allowable amount for conduct detrimental to the team. That’s fifty thousand dollars.”
The number lodges sharp and ugly in my brain. Fifty grand. Gone. For one reckless act of love.
“Furthermore,” he continues, voice now cold and mechanical, “you are suspended. Indefinitely. You will not attend practice. You will not enter the facility. You will not speak to media. Understood?”
Indefinitely. During playoff season. My breath catches.
Garrett says nothing. For a moment, I wonder if he’s still breathing.
Then, “Understood.”
His voice is level. Steady.Toosteady. And that breaks me more than anything.
Fight it,I want to scream.Say it was worth it. Say I was worth it.
But he doesn’t. He just accepts the sentence. Shoulders the blame. Like he always does.
Then he speaks again, and it cuts through every remaining defense I have.
“Which way did she go? Was she okay?”
Not “Is she suspended?” Not “Will she be investigated?” Just me.Was I okay.
Even in the wreckage—he’s looking for me.
Frank doesn’t flinch. “Worry about yourself, Sullivan. You’ve got bigger problems than her hurt feelings.”
Footsteps retreat. Silence follows.
And I realize—this wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a slaughter.
And I was the reason.
The numbness is gone. In its place: guilt so heavy I can barely breathe.
Easton was right. Vivian was right. My mother was right.
I thought I could be the exception. I thought I was smart enough to navigate both worlds.
But I’m not. I’m just the cliché they warned me about. The woman who ruins everything.
I press the elevator button. It glows blue beneath my finger. The reflection in the polished metal stares back at me—pale, hollow-eyed. Not a hero. Not a victim.
Just the villain.
As the doors open, one truth follows me in, heavy and inescapable:
