"Nonsense. The night is young, and I have so much to catch up on." Edward steered Cole toward a group of executives, his grip proprietary and inescapable. I watched them go, noting how Cole's shoulders curved inward as his father launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed performance about bloodlines and athletic excellence. Nursing my whiskey, I observed, wondering why I was obsessing over Cole when this was going to be a simple transaction.
Edward Armstrong-Wells was a master manipulator, wielding praise and criticism like surgical instruments. Each comment was designed to diminish Cole while elevating Edward's own importance. The other executives ate it up, charmed by the aristocratic accent and polished cruelty. Every word he uttered, his carefully crafted image, played exactly into my plan.
Cole endured itwith the stillness of someone accustomed to being displayed like a trophy. But the micro-expressions were there—the tightening around his eyes when Edward mentioned "proper breeding," the slight flinch when his father corrected his posture with a sharp touch.
Twenty minutes later, I slipped away from the crowd while Edward held court with the sponsors, his voice carrying across the ballroom as he regaled them with stories of Cole's "superior breeding." The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor felt endless, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ricky had come through—the key card already worked in the elevator and slid smoothly into the room door lock.
Cole's suite was immaculate, all clean lines and expensive minimalism. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Denver skyline, city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds. I moved quickly into the bedroom, pulling the tiny camera from my jacket pocket and positioning it behind a decorative lamp on the dresser. The red light blinked once before going dark—streaming live to my phone.
My hands shook as I stripped off the borrowed clothes, folding them carefully on the chair. Then—with determined theatrics—I tossed them on the floor in a line to the bed. I figured I could edit that later.
The mirror caught my reflection again—too thin, too desperate, but the dim lighting would be forgiving. I slipped between the cool sheets and waited, rehearsing my lines. Seduction, vulnerability, whatever it took to get the video I needed.
My phone buzzed with a text from Ricky: "Pouring them strong. Kid's gotta be halfway to blackout already. Dad's helping us—keeps ordering rounds."
Perfect. Drunk meant careless, and careless meant easier to manipulate. I arranged myself artfully against the pillows and tried to ignore the gnawing guilt in my stomach. Cole Armstrong was my ticket out—a lonely rich boy with daddy issues and deep pockets. My pockets had holes in them and the only daddy issues I’d had were drunken fists.
Mom was on the couch, eyes glassy, head tipped back like gravity had given up on her. The TV blared something loud and stupid. A laugh track. People pretending things were funny.Her fingers twitched in the air, chasing something that wasn’t there.
“Phoenix,” she murmured, or maybe she didn’t. Maybe I just wanted her to say my name.
I stood barefoot on the carpet, clutching my school bag like a shield. I’d learned early that stillness was safer. Quiet was survival.
The front door slammed.
Dad’s footsteps were heavy—angry before he even spoke. I felt them in my ribs. In my teeth.
He saw her. Saw me.
His face twisted, rage snapping into place like it had been waiting all day for an excuse.
“What did you do?” he demanded, already stepping toward me.
“I didn’t—” My voice cracked. I hadn’t done anything. I never did.
His hand came out of nowhere. A blur. Pain exploded across my cheek, white-hot and ringing. I tasted blood and copper and shame. The room tilted.
“Useless,” he snarled. “Just like her.”
I didn’t cry. I learned not to. Crying made it worse.
A year later she OD'd and when the cops came I got hauled off by CPS. Dad fucked off before he could get blamed. I never missed them.
Just the idea of them.
I blinked hard, dragging myself back to the present, chest tight, breath shallow as my phone vibrated with a text from Ricky: "I don’t know how he’s still standing with all the whiskey he’s downed, but he's on his way."
I yawned and blinked a few times. Sleep was impossible in the shelter, but the shelter was better than 4th and Kalamath. The tent area had been ripped down last month, but it was slowly growing again, and even that was safer than Union Station. If you wanted a corner there you had to pay your dues first. I yawned again, and just as I worried I might fall asleep, I heard the key card fumble against the lock.
I took a slow deep breath and prepared for an Oscar performance.
Show time.
Chapter three
Game Misconduct - A penalty that ejects a player from the game.
Cole
