He expected me there. At the arena. Wearing his name across my back like a brand.
Sitting in the stands where cameras would find me. Where fans would see. Where his teammates and coaches and the entire city would know exactly what I was.
His.
The nausea came fast and vicious.
I straightened slowly, clutching the book to my chest. No note this morning. No reminder. Because he didn't need to remind me. He knew I'd remember.
My chest tightened. I saw it clearly—walking into that arena wearing his name. His number stretched across my back. Sitting with whoever he'd decided I should sit with. Cameras panning across the crowd, finding me, marking me as his.
One of his conquests.
One of his possessions.
Proof that Gideon Jones took what he wanted and made it perform.
Heat flared behind my ribs.
Not shame this time.
Rage.
"Absolutely not," I whispered.
The words came out sharp. Venomous.
I looked down at the note from before again. At his neat, precise handwriting. At the casual assumption that I would comply.
That I would show up.
That I would wear his colors and play into his dominance like every other woman who'd ever fallen at his feet.
My hands moved before I thought about it.
I tore the note in half.
Then in half again.
And again.
Until it was confetti in my palms—nothing but shredded paper and obliterated commands.
I walked to the trash bin behind the counter.
Opened it.
Let the pieces fall.
They scattered across the garbage like snow. Meaningless. Powerless.
He doesn't own where I go.
He doesn't own what I wear.
The defiance felt like oxygen.
Like the first real breath I'd taken in days.
