He reaches into his pocket, fishes something out, and offers it to me. “I found your flash drive.”
I stare at it, unfurled in the center of his palm. I should be relieved. I should be wrapping my arms around him, screaming with joy. Instead, I just feel empty and cold.
The emails. The deal terms.
The sale.
My name, attached to the memorandum.
He knows. I’m fucked.
I drag my eyes to his, finding a resigned expression on his face.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he says.
My jaw clenches. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Anger flashes across his pale irises, hot lightning on a cold night. “Apparently you’re set to profit quite well from selling the Monarchs. Or have I misunderstood?”
It’s like he’s thrown me into the sea and is content to watch me drown. I knew it would be like this, if any of them ever found out. I want to beghim, plead with him, tell him he doesn’t know—that I’m not going to take the money. That I don’t want this any more than he does, he just needs to wait and see, but I know it’s too little too late.
Until very recently, I had every intention of taking it. Of destroying the team. Of fucking him over, personally, and crushing every one of his dreams. I can’t tell him no, because that would be a lie—and I’m done lying.
“Is it real?” he presses.
I force myself to swallow my pride, my ego, every last scrap and shred of dignity I have, and nod. “It’s real.”
I thought I’d seen him angry, but I realize that until now, I hadn’t. There’s no other way to describe the look on his face except for true fury. He’s white as a sheet, a muscle flexing in his jaw, and I can see his breath trembling. He shoves the flash drive at me when I don’t take it, like he can’t stand to touch it another second. I quickly pocket it out of sight.
“How long have you known?” he says slowly, like every word is a struggle.
The shame is so heavy, it drags my gaze down to my feet. “Since before I started working on the documentary.”
He sucks in a breath, then lets out a string of curses in Swedish that I don’t understand, raking both of his hands over his scalp. He shoots to his feet, like he can no longer tolerate being near me. I feel my own anger rise.
He scoffs, incredulous. “I can’t believe I let you get this far. What else are you lying about? Should I be concerned about my injury getting out, too?”
His words are a douse of cold water.
I get to my feet, too. “What the fuck, Mattias. I would never. You know I would—”
“I don’t know anything. I don’t know you,” he says. “I can’t believe I was so careless.”
It’s as if he’s slapped me.
“You weren’t careless,” is all my dumbstruck, shell-shocked brain can think to say.
He looks at me doubtfully.
“Please believe me when I tell you I was going to resign this week. I want nothing to do with selling the team. You know how I feel about my father,” I plead.
“Do I?” He gives me a cold look. “It appears as though you two are business partners.”
That cuts deep. He knows I’m not like my father. Doesn’t he?
“I’m not going to take the money, Mattias. I’m quitting. Please believe me,” I whisper. I sound so desperate, even to my ears. “What was I supposed to do, go to the news? That would have ruined the rest of the season.”
He closes the distance between us, so we’re just a breadth apart. His eyes are blocks of ice.
