Not out of respect. Out of survival.
“There are photos, Cohen.”
“I know.”
“And do you know who took them?”
I shake my head.
“No one should even have a phone in there,” I say quietly.
I know Dominic had one. Apparently, he can do anything in there. For what fucking reason? I have no idea.
“Yet someone did. But the point is, if you stay in your lane, no one cares to photograph you.”
I refuse to name him. I trust him and know he wasn’t the one who betrayed me.
Silence.
Only the sound of my breathing, too heavy.
I don’t look at the screen when Nate sets it on the table, but I see it anyway.
Her from the chin down, white wings, my hand on her skin.
You can’t see anything, but you understand everything.
Or at least… I see myself perfectly. I was right, I looked ridiculous with those black wings.
My stomach burns.
I'm tired.
Calls, articles, gossip, memes.
PR telling me what to say, executives pretending to care while calculating the worth of my ruined image.
And the worst part?
I can't stop thinking about her.
The way she looked at me before kissing me.
As if she knew exactly what was about to happen.
As if she planned it.
Her voice, low and velvety, echoes in my mind:Bang.
And my heart makes that sharp noise in my chest again.
“Cohen.”
I look up. Nate watches me, serious. “The press wants a comment. Official. Written. By tonight. And there’s a conference Friday.”
“What do I have to say?”
“That you’re sorry. That you take responsibility. That you respect the club and its values.”
