The video buffered, then cleared. Two figures tangled on the king-sized bed. Liam's unmistakable laugh echoed through the tiny speaker, followed by Sophia's high-pitched giggle.

I didn’t throw the phone. I didn’t scream.

A sharp, dry laugh escaped my throat.

Ten years of friendship. Three years of building Liam’s career from the ground up. All of it reduced to a pixelated livestream.

I tapped the screen, ending the broadcast. The silence of my bedroom rushed back in.

I scrolled past Liam’s contact, past the emergency PR numbers, and stopped at a name I had blocked two years ago. Adrian Blake. The head of North America’s most ruthless hockey agency. Liam’s biggest rival. The man Liam feared more than a career-ending injury.

I unblocked the number. I pressed dial.

The line rang once. Twice.

"Evelyn Carter," a deep baritone answered. "You finally decided to contact me."

"Fifty million dollars."

A low chuckle vibrated through the receiver. "Straight to the point. Are you asking for a handout, Evelyn? Or are you buying something? Because if it's just money—"

"Of course not."

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled below, a grid of yellow and white lights cutting through the dark. The glass felt ice-cold against my forehead.

"Then what is this?" Adrian asked. His tone shifted, the amusement replaced by a sharp edge.

"A hostile takeover of my own life." I traced a fingertip over the glass. "You probably don't know who my father is."

The line went dead silent.

"Carter Media Group," I continued, keeping my voice entirely flat. "The largest entertainment news conglomerate in the country. Heard of it?"

A sharp exhale came through the speaker. Adrian didn't speak immediately.

"Everyone has heard of Carter Media," Adrian stated. "What does a media empire have to do with a sports agent?"

"I'm the sole heir."

"You're lying." The accusation cracked like a whip. "If you were the heir to Carter Media, you wouldn't be running around fetching water bottles and begging for minor endorsements for a second-rate winger."

"He wasn't second-rate when I finished with him," I snapped, my fingers tightening around the phone. "I made Liam. I took a nobody and shoved him into the spotlight. I fought my father for the right to do it. I walked away from the boardrooms and cut ties with my family to prove I could build a star from scratch."

"And you chose a fragile ego with a good slapshot."

"A mistake I am currently rectifying." I pulled away from the window, pacing the length of the rug. "I refuse to let my father know I left the family for a man, only to end up with a piece of trash."

"So you want to hide the breakup?"

"No." I stopped pacing. "I want to erase him. Help me. Let me destroy him with my own hands."

"Destroying a franchise player takes more than a bad news cycle, Evelyn."

"I know exactly what it takes. I built his foundation. I know where every crack is."

"Give me one good reason why I should trust a woman who spent three years protecting the man she now wants to ruin."

"Because I wrote his playbook."

"That doesn't mean you won't flinch when the blood starts spilling."

"Did I flinch when I offered you fifty million?"

Adrian hummed, a sound of pure calculation. "Money is easy to throw around when you're angry. What happens when he shows up at your door, begging for forgiveness? Playing the victim?"

"I lock the door."

"Not good enough."

"Then I let him in, hand him a microphone, and broadcast his pathetic apologies to the entire league."

Silence stretched between us again. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

"Fifty million buys me a partnership in your agency," I proposed, pushing the advantage. "In exchange, I reopen the door to the Carter family. Every single sports media resource, every prime-time interview slot, every front-page feature we own goes directly to your roster."

"And Liam?"

"Gets nothing. We starve him out. We strip his sponsorships. We turn the press against him until he is unable to buy a ticket to a minor league game."

"You want to burn down the house you built just to trap him inside."

"Are you in or out, Adrian?"

"I offered you a job three years ago," he reminded me. "You told me to go to hell."

"I was young and stupid. Now I'm rich and motivated. Do we have a deal?"

"You realize what happens if you fail? Your father will parade your failure in front of the entire industry. Liam will spin the story to make you look like a bitter, discarded manager. You'll lose the money, the reputation, and the agency."

"I don't fail." I gripped the edge of my nightstand. "I only pivot."

"Fifty million," Adrian repeated, tasting the words. "A partnership stake. Exclusive media rights for my players."

"Yes."

"And Liam's head on a platter."

"Figuratively speaking."

"Do you know what I love the most, Evelyn?"

I waited, letting the tension build. "Tell me."

"Watching the people who hurt me watch themselves lose absolutely everything." His voice dropped an octave, heavy with malice. "Liam cost me a championship ring five years ago. He played dirty, and he got away with it because he had you spinning the press."

"He won't have me anymore."

"Good. Bring the contracts to my office tomorrow at nine. Don't be late."

"I'll be there at eight-thirty."

"Evelyn?"

"What?"

"Dress for war."

The call disconnected.

I lowered the phone. The screen flickered back to my home screen—a picture of Liam and me holding his first MVP trophy. He was smiling at the camera. I was looking at him.

I opened my settings and deleted the photo.

My chest didn't ache. My hands didn't shake. Instead, a strange, electric calm settled over my skin.

I walked over to my closet and pulled open the double doors. Row after row of neutral, unassuming clothes stared back at me. The wardrobe of a manager who never wanted to outshine her client.

I reached past the beige blazers and pulled out a garment bag shoved in the far back corner. I unzipped the plastic.

A crimson silk suit caught the bedroom light. I hadn't worn it since the day I walked out of my father's office.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Sophia.

*Did you like the show, Evie? He never loved you.*

I stared at the text. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

*Keep him warm for me, Sophia. The winter is going to be brutal.*

I hit send, tossed the phone onto the mattress, and grabbed my keys. I had a bank transfer to authorize, and a media empire to reclaim.

My phone buzzed against the marble kitchen counter. Then it rang. Again and again. Fourteen missed calls.

The screen lit up with a rapid-fire string of messages from Liam.

[Where are you?]

[The game is about to start.]

[Stop throwing a tantrum.]

[If you don't show up, I really won't coax you anymore.]

[You know how important today's interview is.]

I stared at the glowing text bubbles. *Coax me.* He actually thought I was pouting over a minor disagreement. Ten years of cleaning up his messes, and he still treated me like an emotional teenager throwing a fit.

I picked up the device and typed a single reply.

[Go to the game first. I have something important. I'll be there after it ends.]

I tossed the phone into my purse. I smoothed a hand down the lapel of my crimson silk suit. Adrian had told me to dress for war. I was ready.

The roar of the crowd vibrated through the concrete walls of the arena. The third period was wrapping up. I bypassed the VIP boxes and headed straight for the private player lounge.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

Sophia stood by the leather sofa. She wore a replica of Liam’s jersey, the fabric pulled tight across her chest.

She crossed her arms. A mocking smirk twisted her painted lips.

"You really are a tail that can't be shaken off," Sophia said.

I closed the door behind me. The lock engaged with a sharp click.

"You saw it yesterday, and you're still willing to appear by his side," she continued, her voice heavy with fake pity. "I almost feel bad for you, Evie. Almost."

I walked toward her, stopping three feet away. "Was our friendship fake too?"

Sophia laughed. The sound bounced off the locker room walls, sharp and grating. "From the very start."

"Ten years," I stated.

"Ten years of easy access," she corrected. "I approached you for Liam. I knew he was going to be something big, but he only trusted you. I just didn't expect you to be so gullible."

I kept my expression entirely blank. "You used me."

"You made it so easy! I asked questions, you gave me answers. I wanted to know his favorite food, his schedule, his insecurities. You handed it all over." Sophia stepped closer, invading my space. "Every contact you made, every sponsorship deal you negotiated—your resources slowly became mine. You did all the heavy lifting, and I reaped the rewards."

"You think stealing a client makes you a success?"

"He isn't just a client." She tapped a manicured finger against Liam’s name on her jersey. "Now Liam is about to become a world-class hockey star. And I will be his wife."

"And what does that make me?" I asked.

"You?" She scoffed, looking me up and down. "You'll just be that failed manager. The stepping stone we left behind. You should just pack up your desk and disappear before it gets embarrassing."

The door flew open, slamming against the wall.

Liam rushed into the room. He still wore his skates and full gear, sweat shining on his forehead. He immediately stepped between me and Sophia, shielding her from me.

"Evelyn, why are you bullying her again?" Liam shouted.

I looked at the man I had spent three years building into a superstar. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted between me and the woman cowering behind his massive frame.

"Bullying her?" I asked.

"I told you to leave her alone," he snapped. "Sophia is sensitive. You always come in here demanding things and stressing everyone out. Today is a massive game for me. Why are you trying to ruin it?"

I didn't argue. I didn't raise my voice.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. I opened the saved screen recording from last night and hit play.

Moans and giggles filled the quiet lounge. The video showed them tangled on the hotel bed. Liam's distinct voice echoed from the tiny speaker, praising Sophia in ways he had never spoken to me.

I held the screen up to his face. "Explain."

Liam's face drained of color. He stared at the moving image, his Adam's apple bobbing. He reached out to snatch the phone, but I pulled it out of his reach.

"This..." He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with panic. "This is just a misunderstanding."

I tilted my head. "A misunderstanding?"

"Yes!" Liam stood taller, puffing out his chest under the shoulder pads. "We're just creating hype for the fans. You know how the PR game works, Evie."

"Hype," I repeated.

"Exactly. More exposure means more money." He stepped forward, trying to sound convincing. "A scandal boosts my search rankings. The paparazzi love a love triangle. Isn't that what you want? You always tell me to maximize my market value."

"You slept with my best friend to maximize your market value."

"It's just business," he insisted. "You're overreacting. You always take things too personally. We are a team, Evie. This helps the team."

A laugh bubbled up in my throat. It started small, then grew louder. I couldn't stop it. The sheer audacity of his lie was almost impressive.

"You think this is funny?" Liam snapped.

"I think you are pathetic," I said, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of my eye. "You aren't a mastermind playing the media. You're just a coward who can't keep his pants zipped."

His expression twisted into pure rage. The shame cracked his confident facade.

Liam raised his gloved hand and swung.

The heavy padding struck my cheek. The force snapped my head to the side. A sharp sting radiated across my skin, followed by the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

Sophia gasped.

I stood frozen. I didn't reach for my face. I didn't flinch. I just turned my head back and stared dead into his eyes.

"Enough," Liam snarled, stepping back as if my presence disgusted him. His chest heaved. "Stop acting crazy. Arrange the post-game interview. I expect the press waiting in ten minutes. If you mess this up, I'll fire you."

He grabbed Sophia’s hand. "Let's go."

They walked out, leaving me alone in the silent room.

I raised a hand to my burning cheek. I pressed my fingertips against the rising welt.

My phone buzzed in my palm.

I answered without looking at the screen. "Yes."

"The media has arrived," Adrian said, his deep voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

"All of them?" I asked.

"Every single sports network you requested. They are setting up the cameras right outside his locker room."

I tasted the blood on my bottom lip. "Good."

"Are you ready to burn it down, Evelyn?"

"Strike the match," I told him. "And Adrian?"

"What?"

"Make sure the microphones are turned all the way up. I want the whole world to hear him burn."