Wells laughed, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Like you handled things at university? With that boy Ashton?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Cole went completely still, his face a mask of carefully controlled rage.
"Don't," he said, the word barely audible. Ashton? Who was Ashton?
"He killed himself, Cole. Because of what you told him, what you showed him." Edward's voice was merciless. "Another moment of weakness, another life destroyed."
"That's not what happened." Cole's voice cracked. "You know that's not what happened."
Killed himself?This was just getting worse.
"It's what everyone believes. It's what the police concluded." Wells straightened his already impeccable tie. "The point is, your control slips, people get hurt. That's why we have our arrangement. That's why I keep you...contained."
I felt sick listening to this. The casual cruelty, the calculated way Wells twisted the knife. No wonder Cole seemed so haunted.
"I haven't broken any rules," Cole said, his voice steadier now. "I'm still playing. Still winning. Still making you money."
"For now. But these...distractions...concern me.”
I froze. Did he mean me?
"I told you."
Wells studied his son for a long moment, his expression calculating. "For your sake, I hope that's true. The last thing you need is another Ashton. Another person who knows what you really are."
I frowned, trying to make sense of the conversation. What did he mean,what Cole really was? None of this made sense. I’d assumed the guy in the limo worked for Cole’s dad, but what if he didn’t? Fucking hell, was there someone else out to get him?
"I've learned my lesson," Cole said, his voice flat. "I won't risk everything we've built."
Wells seemed satisfied with this answer, straightening his suit jacket with a practiced motion. "Good. The next games are too important for distractions. You're capable of making history—the first British player to lead an American team to a championship."
“We have to get into—”
“Exactly,” Wells cut him off.
I held my breath, trying to process what I was hearing. The conversation felt loaded with double meanings, references to events I couldn't fully understand. What "condition" were they talking about? What had actually happened to that boy at Whitmore Academy? And who was Ashton?
"I'm aware of what's at stake," Cole replied, his voice carefully neutral.
Wells checked his watch, probably worth more than most people made in a year. "I have a breakfast meeting with the sponsors. They're very excited about your prospects. I've assured them you'll be at your best for the remainder of the season."
"I will be."
"See that you are." Wells moved toward the door, then paused. "And Cole? Remember what happened the last time you let someone get too close. The binding can only suppress so much. When emotions run high..." He let the sentence hang unfinished, heavy with implication.
Binding?What binding?I pressed closer to the crack, straining to hear.
"I haven't forgotten," Cole said, his voice barely audible.
"Good. Becauseneither have I." Wells's smile was cold. "Neither has the Jenkins boy, though I doubt he remembers much through the pain medication. We were lucky his parents valued their position in society enough to accept our...arrangement."
Cole didn't respond, but I could see the tension radiating through his body, like he was physically stopping himself from lashing out.
"I'll see you at the game tomorrow," Wells said, his hand on the doorknob. "Do try to be extraordinary. It's what's expected."
The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more final than a slam. Cole stood motionless for several long moments, staring at the space his father had occupied. Then, with a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, he slammed his fist into the kitchen counter.
I jumped at the impact, accidentally bumping the door. It creaked, swinging open a few more inches. Cole's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes widening when he saw me standing there.
