My stomach drops, a sickening realization settling in.
Not the way I handled things yesterday.
All day, I’ve been telling myself I did the right thing by defending fairness and protecting the integrity of the competition. Making sure production didn’t hurt Taylor. And that’s true.
But it isn’t the whole truth.
It was also instinct, a reflex as natural as breathing.
Power and influence, applied without hesitation. I didn’t stop to consider alternatives, didn’t weigh consequences.
I just reached for the most effective tool I had and used it.
Just likehim.
The realization is a hard pill to swallow.
I don’t regret defending her. I don’t.
But I can’t ignore how easy it was. How quickly I defaulted to a version of myself I’ve spent years trying not to become. I didn’thesitate to throw my weight around, didn’t stop to think—I just acted, because I knew it would work.
Even if the outcome was justified, the method feels… uncomfortably familiar. Uncomfortably close to the man I’ve spent my life trying to differentiate myself from.
“You okay?”
Taylor’s voice pulls me out of it, her fingers brushing up my bicep, over my shoulder in a light, grounding gesture.
“Yeah.” I nod. “It’s just been a long weekend.”
It isn’t a lie. It’s not the whole truth either.
I’m not ready to give her the parts of me she doesn’t already know. Not yet. Because right now, I’m just Alex to her. Not Chet Harrington’s son, heir to Canada’s most influential culinary empire.
She studies me for a beat like she might push—and for one terrifying second, I think she will and I’ll cave because the thought of lying to her makes me sick—but then she smiles instead, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Coffee later before I head out?” she asks.
Something in my chest softens despite everything.
“Deal.”
I watch her walk away, my gaze locked on her as she heads toward interviews. She reaches up, undoing her hairclip. Golden curls spill loose as she disappears through the tent opening.
I drop my head into my hands, the thought comes back louder now. I need to tell her everything, and soon.
Because the longer I wait to tell her the truth, the harder it’s going to be to say.
And harder still for her to hear.
?????????
I wait until the noise dies down to do what I know I need to do. Until interviews pull most people away. Until the tentfeels temporarily hollow, like an empty shelf of a space between performances.
My phone sits heavier in my palm than it ever has before, and I stare at my father’s name in my contact list, dread gathering in my chest.
Chet Harrington.
I exhale, hitting call before I can second-guess it.
