I caught sight of my reflection in a glass panel as they walked me out: shirt rumpled, lip bleeding, hair a mess. The same hands that blocked a hundred shots now locked behind my back.
“Call Cam,” I barked again. “Tell him?—”
The door slammed. The cruiser pulled away.
And for the first time since I’d put on a Storm jersey, I had no idea how I was going to get out of this one.
Chapter 27
Daphne
I was halfway through my morning coffee when the world tilted.
It started as a notification—one of those red numbers I’d been trying to ignore all week. Then another. Then ten.
I finally caved and opened Twitter.
And there it was.
A shaky video, filmed from someone’s phone inside the MLS Network studio. Blurry, grainy, chaotic—but unmistakable. Kieren.
Fists flying.
Reporters shouting.
Cameras rolling.
For a heartbeat, my brain refused to process it. My thumb hovered over the screen, waiting for context, for someone to say it wasn’t real. But the caption was already viral: “Kieren Walker attacks Ryder Blake on-air.”
My name was in the comments before I even scrolled.
“He lost it over that reporter chick.”
“Guess the romance wasn’t so fake after all.”
“She ruins everything she touches.”
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might actually be sick.
I turned the volume on. The sound was awful—background screaming, producers shouting—but I caught one phrase clear as day. Ryder laughing. Then Kieren’s snarl, low and furious. Then chaos.
I set my phone down, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
He’d done it. He’d actually done it.
I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead and whispered, “Oh my gosh, Kieren…”
Every journalist instinct in me knew what would happen next—the headlines, the think pieces, the pundits tearing him apart. The network would spin it, the team would scramble, and PR would light itself on fire trying to salvage what was left.
I was going to burn by proximity. Again.
My name was trending by the time I refreshed the feed. Hashtags everywhere: #StormScandal, #DaphneSommers, #WalkerMeltdown.
Someone had pulled an old photo of us together—him smiling down at me like I was the only person in the room. It was captioned: “Worth fighting for?”
I wanted to throw my phone across the room.
I didn’t ask him to do this. I didn’t want this.
