"You stole my phones."
"I borrowed them." He straightens his cuffs, looking unconcerned. "You left them in the locker room after the Boston game. I was simply keeping them safe."
"For days."
"I've been busy."
"Busy reading my private messages and leaking photos to destroy Ivy's career?" My voice rises despite my attempts at control.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, eyes gleaming triumphantly.
"You lying..."
"Though I noticed some concerning communications on your device. Multiple messages to Dr. Chandler, both as yourself andas... what was it? King?" He tilts his head. "Clever deception. It's almost admirable but ultimately stupid."
"You had no right!"
"I have every right. Your contract with me includes your communications. Technically, anything on your phones falls under my purview as your representative." He steps closer, voice dropping. "End things with the girl, Declan. Or I'll make sure both your careers are destroyed. I've invested too much in you to let some distraction ruin everything."
"No."
His eyebrows rise. "Excuse me?"
"I said no. I'm not ending things with Ivy, and I'm not renewing our contract." The decision crystallizes as I say it. "When it expires in six months, we're done."
"You can't try that."
"I can and I will." I step into his space now, using my height advantage. "I want a new agent who actually represents my interests instead of controlling every aspect of my life."
"You ungrateful bast..." His composure cracks slightly. "I made you, took you from a grieving nineteen-year-old with potential into a multimillionaire athlete. Everything you have is because of me."
"Everything I have is despite you, and I'm done letting you run my life."
I walk away before he can respond. The morning air is cold against my heated skin, and I force myself to breathe, to think and plan instead of just reacting. Gregory thrives on emotional responses. He's built his career on manipulating people when they're vulnerable.
I won't give him that satisfaction.
Inside, I pull up my contacts and call the first lawyer I can think of. Jake's divorce attorney, who handled his messy separation last year with ruthless efficiency.
"I need help," I say when she answers. "Contract law. Financial forensics. Possibly fraud."
The lawyer's name is Patricia Ammon, and she's terrifying in the best way.
Forty-five, sharp as a blade, with a reputation for destroying people who underestimate her. She meets me at a coffee shop downtown hours later, after she's gathered some evidence. Spreading documents across the table, she gets straight to business.
"Your contract with Gregory Stallworth," she says, tapping a thick folder. "Walk me through how it started."
I explain everything to her, then ask, "Can we break it?"
"We can try. But first, I need you to review these." She pulls out bank statements, highlighting lines in yellow. "These are your earnings versus your reported income. Notice anything?"
I scan the numbers, and my stomach drops.
The discrepancies are enormous. Money that should have come to me but somehow ended up elsewhere. Management fees that don't add up. Investment losses that seem suspiciously convenient.
"How much?" My voice is barely steady.
"Approximately eight million dollars over nine years. Possibly more, depending on what else we find."
