I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. “What’s that?”
“Why don’t you open and find out?” Charles’s fingers crack like he wants to use them.
I opened the file to see dozens of pictures of Magnus and me: security footage from my condo showing him pressing me against my car, a blurry photo of us holding hands at the fair, and one of me rushing inside his apartment building.
“What is this?”
My father’s brow lifts. “You and Magnus Flint.”
My stomach drops. “Dad?—”
He cuts me off, voice calm but lethal. “Do you have any idea how this looks? My son—prince of the Titans—sneaking around with a player from a rival team? A player with a disciplinary record? Not only that it makes you look like a fucking cheater.”
“He’s not?—”
“He’s a liability,” my father says flatly. “A distraction. And he will drag you down with him if you’re not careful.”
I push my plate away. “He’s not what the tabloids say he is.”
“Then perhaps you should’ve chosen someone less… combustible.” He folds his hands. “This isn’t about affection, Alaric. This is about optics. About legacy. You understand that word, don’t you?”
I grit my teeth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m practical.” He leans forward slightly. “You think you can have this both ways? You can’t. Not in this league. Not under my name.”
“What do you want me to do?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “End it.”
“No!”
He lets the silence stretch until it hurts. “Then allow me to make this clear.” He picks up his fork, spears a piece of salmon, then sets it down untouched. “If you don’t end whatever this… affair is, I will. You will no longer receive financial support from the Hale trust. Your condo, your sponsorship deals—gone. And as for Flint…” He pauses, eyes glinting. “I’ll make sure his contract with the Wolves is reconsidered next season. Because who wants a raging alcoholic losing matches?”
Who told him that?
Dad smiles. “My reach, Alaric, doesn’t end with the Titans.”
Cold floods my chest. “You’d ruin someone’s career—his career—because of me?”
“I’d protect my family’s reputation,” he corrects smoothly. “You should be thanking me.”
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, voice rising for the first time. “You’ve coasted on privilege your entire life. People already think I bought your place on that team. You think sleeping with a rival player helps your credibility?”
“I earned my spot.”
“Convince the media of that,” he snaps. “Convince your fans.”
I stand, the chair scraping against the floor. “You can’t control everything I do.”
He looks almost amused. “Can’t I? Tell me, Alaric—how long do you think you’ll last when your endorsements pull out? When your teammates start wondering if you’re more focused on your whore than the game?”
“Stop calling him that.”
“Why? Is that not what he is?”
“No. He’s more than that.” I say, low but steady.
