Page 29 of Broken Blades

Must be nice being rich AND getting that

Gold digger energy

Daddy's little princess slumming it with the players

My cheeks burned. Hot enough I felt it spread down my neck.

I locked the screen. Set the phone face-down. Counted to ten.

It didn't help.

I picked it up again. Scrolled further. Found worse.

Someone had dug up old interviews. Tabloid articles from two years ago about Wyatt Garrison's divorce. His temper. His "concerning behavior" during games. Headlines that painted him as volatile. Dangerous. A man who couldn't control himself. His scandalous divorce because of cheating and violence.

And now they thought I'd let him touch me in the dark.

I stared at my reflection. At the stranger in professional armor who looked nothing like the girl I'd been yesterday.

My throat tightened. "This isn't fair."

The words came out barely above a whisper. Spoken to no one. To the empty room. To the version of myself trapped behind glass.

My phone buzzed again.

I didn't look.

The car smelled like leather and his cologne. Familiar. Safe. Except nothing felt safe anymore.

My father drove without speaking. Hands positioned exactly at ten and two. Eyes forward. Jaw set in that way that meant his brain was three steps ahead of whatever conversation we weren't having.

I pressed my palms together in my lap. Squeezed until my knuckles went white.

The city passed outside my window. Gray buildings. Gray sky. People walking with coffee cups and phones who had no idea my life was imploding.

We hit a red light.

His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. Stopped. "You will say nothing."

I nodded.

The light changed. He accelerated smoothly. No sudden movements. Everything controlled.

"Let me handle this."

My throat felt too tight to answer. I nodded again.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating. I watched the buildings blur past and tried to breathe around the pressure building in my chest.

"I'm sorry." The words came out barely above a whisper. Small. Broken.

His hands tightened on the wheel. Knuckles going pale against dark leather. "This isn't your fault."

He meant it. I heard it in the way his voice softened just slightly. The way he didn't look at me because if he did, something might crack.

But tension lived underneath. Coiled tight in every syllable.

I turned toward him. Really looked. Saw the line between his brows that hadn't been there at breakfast yesterday. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The way he kept checking mirrors like someone might be following us.