He was my ex-fiance. The one who mocked my career pivot behind my back while smiling to my face. The one who cheated on me during his media tour in Spain—claiming he was “too busy for calls” while hooking up with sideline influencers from three different teams, including Juan Ruiz's situationship. The one who’d vanished from the network after his scandal went public and apparently slithered his way back now.
And now… here?
I couldn’t help but wonder if someone had done this on purpose. A little chaos for the ratings.
“Well, well,” Ryder drawled, his voice just as smooth and punchable as I remembered. “If it isn’t Daphne Sommers. I was told we were interviewing a professional.”
My fingers clenched around the note cards.
He knew exactly what he was doing. The grin he gave me was practiced—press-ready—but his eyes held that flicker of condescension I knew too well. He wanted me flustered. Off my game. On the defensive.
I inhaled once. Steady. Let the mask slide back into place.
Because no matter how many cheap shots Ryder Blake wanted to take, I wasn’t here for him.
I was here for me.
And I was going to burn brighter than he ever could.
I kept my posture poised, shoulders relaxed, chin up—like my media mentor taught me back when I was still doing sideline reports and smiling through condescension. Old habits die hard.
"Places!" a voice called.
We were about to start. I ignored the flutter in my stomach. No matter what, I could do this.
"Welcome back," Ryder said the second he got the green light. "We're here today with Daphne Sommers, former media consultant and girlfriend to Kieren Walker."
I bit my tongue. I could hear the condescending tone. Could anyone else?
“So Daphne,” he began, all smooth charm and smug undertone, “big few weeks for you. Quite the viral moment after the game, huh?”
I smiled politely. “It’s been busy.”
He chuckled, a practiced sound, before turning to the camera. “For those of you who’ve somehow missed it, here’s the kiss everyone’s talking about.”
The footage played on the screen behind us.
Me. Kieren. The slow-motion moment before our mouths met, just off the edge of the pitch. The clip that had gone viral, launched a thousand speculative think pieces, and spawned more fan edits than I cared to count.
When the screen cut back to us, Ryder was grinning.
“So,” he said, cocking his head, “was that spontaneous… or part of the job description?”
I kept my face neutral, even though my blood flared hot beneath my skin.
“I was there doing my job,” I said evenly. “And what happened after the game—wasn’t part of any segment.”
Ryder leaned forward, feigning curiosity. “Is that how you got promoted last time, too?”
I blinked. Just once. But I didn’t flinch.
He smiled like he’d won something.
“You’ve made quite the name for yourself, Daphne. New job, new image, new… attachments.” His tone dripped with implication. “Some would say your reputation’s really taken off.”
There it was. The not-so-subtle jab. The way he wanted to paint me—ambitious, loud, unprofessional. The girl who didn’t stay in her lane.
I sat up straighter. My voice cool but steady. “You know what’s wild, Ryder? I got here because I’m good at what I do.”
