And that says something.
The lift doors slide open, an assistant is standing there with bright eyes and breezy energy. Blouse with cherries on it, navy skirt. Bit retro. Way too perky.
‘Hello, Mr MacRae. I’m Theo. Welcome to Elite Edge.’ Her voice is all sunshine as she extends a hand like we’re about to be best pals.
I don’t take it. ‘Walk.’
She’s exactly the kind of woman who’d roll her eyes at a lad like me. Glass-walled offices fade by, people glancing up, pretending not to watch. They know who I am. They remember the headlines.
MACRAE’S GAMBLING PROBLEM: IS SCOTTISH RUGBY’S BAD BOY BETTING ON MATCHES?
KNIGHTS DISTANCE THEMSELVES FROM TROUBLED FLY-HALF.
CALLUM FRASER: ‘I’M DISAPPOINTED IN MY FORMER TEAMMATE.’
That last one still makes my vision go red. Sanctimonious prick. Played poker like he had money to burn and somehow came out squeaky clean. Let me take the fall when his own debts piled up, acting like he hadn’t spent years trying to undermine me. Like his PR fiancée hadn’t whispered those gambling rumours into the right ears to keep his image spotless.
Seven months since the scandal broke mid-season, and it still burns like a fresh wound.
Theo stops at a door and knocks. ‘Mr MacRae is here.’
A woman’s controlled voice. ‘Send him in.’
I frown. My agent had been some faceless middleman, a name on a contract and in my e-mails. But that voice? That voice isn’t some suit behind the scenes. It sounds husky and faintly familiar. I step inside, already gearing up to lay into whatever smug piece of work has the misfortune of repping me now—
And my stomach drops through the fucking floor.
Charlotte Harrington.
She sits behind the desk like she owns the place. Which, considering who her daddy is, she probably does. International sports agent George Harrington’s posh princess.
The sight of her hits like a blindside tackle. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I just stare at her, pulse hammering, brain scrambling to make sense of what the fuck I’m looking at.
I’ve only met her a bunch of times, after a few games and at events, dangling on Callum’s arm. But I’d recognise her anywhere.
The woman who ruined my life. Or stood by while Callum did. Doesn’t matter. She had a hand in my destruction. She was his mouthpiece. Of course, she knew. Of course, she helped him bury me.
The woman who is Callum Fraser’s publicist. His fiancée.
The woman who is now, by the looks of it, my fucking agent.
How?
‘You have got to be joking.’ My voice is a snarl, my entire body braced for impact.
She tilts her head, slowly, like she’s savouring the moment. Her full lips pull. First a smirk, then a proper smile that says,I win, MacRae.
‘Theo, please close the door. Thanks.’
The click behind me sounds like a trap snapping shut.
She looks different from when I last saw her at the Knights’ Christmas party. Sleeker. Angrier. Like she’s carved the last scrap of softness out of herself. Her caramel hair used to be wavy. Now it’s straightened and glossy. The charcoal suit clings to her like it was made for her alone. But that silk blouse? The middle buttons pull apart by a fraction to make it obvious – her tits are half a size too big. Not much. Just enough that some poor sod at reception probably walked into a glass wall with a semi.
Her eyes are the same, though. Hazel-gold, sharp as a scalpel. And right now, they’re locked on me. Calculating.
I used to think she was too striking for that troll Callum. Not because of her looks. More like she had a self-possession he never had, no matter how many magazine covers he grinned his way onto. I thought she was better than him. More…principled.
Turns out, she’s just as ruthless as he is. Maybe more.
