"Push the Gatorade press release to midnight." I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder, adjusting a silver fork on the dining table.

"Are you insane, Elowen?" Julian’s voice crackled through the speaker. "You haven't slept since Tuesday."

"Sleep is for the off-season." I shifted a stack of manila folders to make room for the champagne flutes. "Kenton just won the championship. We strike while the iron is hot."

"The crisis management files are updated?"

"Every single one." I tapped the thickest binder on the oak wood. "If he gets a DUI, if he punches a paparazzo, if he insults a referee. Five years I’ve been mapping out his escape routes. Tonight, we just celebrate."

"He owes you his entire career," Julian said.

"He throws the ball. I just make sure the world loves him for it."

"Are you going to tell him about the luxury watch deal tonight?"

"I have the contract right here." I smoothed my hand over the crisp paper. "He signs it, we pop the cork, and for the first time in half a decade, we take a vacation. A real one. No cameras."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Julian muttered. "Turn on channel four. The locker room interviews are starting."

I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The massive flat-screen flared to life.

Confetti rained down on the turf. Kenton stood at the center of the chaos. His jersey was stained with grass and sweat. He hoisted the silver trophy above his head, muscles flexing for the cameras.

My chest tightened. Pride swelled in my ribs.

"He did it," I whispered.

"We did it," Julian corrected. "Listen."

A reporter shoved a microphone into Kenton's face. "Kenton! MVP of the game! How does it feel to bring the trophy home?"

Kenton flashed that million-dollar smile. The exact angle I spent six months training him to perfect.

"We left it all on the field tonight, Greg," Kenton shouted over the roaring crowd. "This city deserves a winner."

"Textbook," I murmured, picking up a ceramic dinner plate. "He actually remembered his media training."

"Don't sound so surprised," Julian laughed. "You drilled it into his skull. You practically puppet-mastered this entire season."

"Fans are going wild online," the reporter continued. "But they all want to know one thing. The most eligible bachelor in the league just secured the ring. Is there a lucky lady waiting at home to celebrate?"

I stopped wiping the rim of the plate.

A soft smile touched my lips. Kenton and I had an agreement. We kept our relationship underground to build his heartthrob image. But he always promised he’d drop a subtle hint when he made it to the top. Just a nod to let me know he saw me.

Kenton chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Man, I wish," Kenton said into the mic.

My smile froze.

"I've been flying solo for years, Greg," Kenton stated, his voice booming through my living room speakers. "Football is my only girlfriend. Has been since college."

The plate in my hands felt suddenly heavy.

"Julian," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "Did you script that?"

"No." The amusement vanished from Julian's tone. "I swear to God, Elowen, I didn't."

"Then why is he saying he's single?"

"Maybe he panicked. It's live TV."

"He doesn't panic on TV. I trained the panic out of him."

"Flying solo?" the reporter pressed, sensing blood in the water. "That's hard to believe. What about those rumors circulating this week? The paparazzi caught you at dinner with Seraphina."

My stomach bottomed out.

Seraphina. The A-list actress. The one Kenton claimed was just a friend of a friend. The one he swore he only met for charity event planning.

Kenton didn't flinch. He didn't issue the standard PR denial I wrote for him.

Instead, he reached out of the camera frame.

A manicured hand grabbed his. Seraphina stepped into the shot, wearing a custom jersey with Kenton's number on the back. It was tied up at her waist, showing off her stomach.

"Well, since you brought her up," Kenton grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Seraphina and I have a huge announcement."

"Kenton, stop talking," I ordered the television screen.

"Elowen, hang up," Julian warned. "Don't watch this."

"Shut up, Julian."

"What announcement?" the reporter asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

"We're partnering up," Kenton announced. "Next week, Seraphina and I are shooting an exclusive couples' campaign for Velvet Noir. Full intimate lingerie spread."

"Just two single people making some art," Seraphina purred, leaning into his chest. "He's all mine for the shoot, boys."

The ceramic plate slipped from my fingers.

It shattered against the hardwood floor. Shards exploded across the room. White fragments scattered over the edges of the luxury watch contract I had spent three months negotiating.

"Elowen?" Julian called out over the speakerphone. "El, talk to me."

I didn't answer. I stared at the screen.

Kenton kissed Seraphina's cheek. The crowd cheered. The camera flashed.

Five years.

Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of drafting apologies for his mistakes. Brewing his coffee at four in the morning. Ironing his suits. Swallowing my own ambitions so he could shine.

I was the architect of his entire life.

And he just bulldozed the building with me inside it.

A strange sound bubbled up in my throat.

Not a sob. Not a gasp.

A laugh.

I threw my head back and laughed. The sound bounced off the vaulted ceilings of the empty penthouse, harsh and scraping.

"Elowen, you're scaring me," Julian said. "I'm driving over."

"Don't bother." I cut off the laugh. My jaw snapped shut. "I won't be here."

"What are you doing?"

"My job."

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

My eyes swept over the dining table. The candles were lit. The steak was resting under a silver cover. The champagne was chilling in a bucket.

Beside it sat the binders. The endorsement deals. The crisis plans. The entire blueprint of Kenton's flawless public persona.

I walked over to the table. My bare feet crunched over the broken porcelain. A sharp sting pierced my heel, but I ignored it.

I picked up the thickest binder. The one containing every single dirty secret Kenton ever trusted me to bury. The club altercations. The gambling debts I paid off. The NDAs I forced girls to sign.

"You want to be single, Kenton?" I whispered to the empty room.

I grabbed the champagne bucket. I yanked the expensive bottle out and dropped it onto the floor. It rolled away, thudding against the baseboards.

I lifted the bucket and dumped the ice water directly over his five-million-dollar watch contract.

The ink immediately bled into a dark, unrecognizable smudge.

I didn't stop there. I grabbed the crisis management binder and shoved it into the fireplace.

I grabbed a box of matches from the mantle.

"Let's see how you play without your playbook," I said.

I struck the match. The flame flared to life, casting dancing shadows against the walls. I tossed it onto the paper. The edges curled and blackened, smoke rising toward the chimney.

My phone vibrated on the cushions.

The screen lit up with a text message.

*Kenton: Hey babe. Leaving the stadium now. Did you see the interview? I had to improvise, but the PR is going to be insane. See you in twenty.*

I stared at the glowing words.

Improvise.

He thought this was a game. He thought I would just fix it, like I always did.

I picked up my keys from the console table. I didn't grab a coat. I didn't pack a bag.

I walked toward the front door and pulled it open.

The lock clicked shut behind me.

I stood in the hallway, hand hovering over the doorknob. The brass felt freezing against my palm.

Before I could turn it, the private elevator chimed.

Heavy footsteps muffled against the hallway runner.

I stepped backward, leaving the door cracked open.

Kenton pushed through, a massive grin splitting his face. He wore his championship hat backward, a smudge of eye black still smeared across his left cheekbone.

"El! Did you see the madness?" He dropped his leather duffel onto the floor. "The whole city is tearing itself apart for me."

I didn't run to him. I didn't take his jacket.

I picked up my iPad from the console table and shoved it into his chest.

"Explain the Velvet Noir campaign."

He caught the tablet, glancing at the paused frame of him and Seraphina.

"I texted you about this." He tossed the iPad onto a nearby armchair. "It was a split-second call. The reporter ambushed me."

"You don't get ambushed." I crossed my arms. "I prep you for every question. I wrote you three different deflections for the romance rumors."

"Deflections don't sell jerseys, Elowen."

"Since when do you care about lingerie spreads?"

He stepped closer, reaching for my waist. I shifted my weight, forcing his hands to drop.

"Seraphina’s team approached mine yesterday," Kenton argued, his tone hardening. "They offered a joint PR stunt. It doubles my media value overnight."

"You agreed to a contract without your manager?"

"I agreed to a photo shoot." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Come on, don't be like this tonight. I just won the MVP."

I pulled a folded stack of papers from my back pocket. The Velvet Noir pitch deck. Julian had emailed it to me five minutes ago.

I slammed the papers against his chest.

"A six-month exclusive campaign. Joint appearances. Red carpets." I kept my voice flat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a screaming match. "You call that improvising?"

Kenton looked at the papers, then back at me. His jaw tightened.

"It’s just business."

"You humiliated me on national television."

"No one knows about us!" he shot back. "How can you be humiliated if nobody knows you're mine?"

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

He sighed, the frustration melting into a practiced look of guilt.

"Look at me, El."

I kept my eyes on the floorboards.

He hooked a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. "Seraphina is a billboard. Nothing more. Her followers will buy my merch, and my fans will watch her movies. That's it."

"You held her waist. You called yourself single."

"Because that's what the script demanded." Kenton reached into his jacket pocket. "I don't care about her. I care about this."

He pulled out a slim, black velvet box.

He snapped it open. A diamond tennis necklace caught the dim hallway light.

"I bought this on the way to the stadium," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth register he used for cameras. "For you. Because you're the real reason I got that trophy."

I stared at the sparkling stones.

Five years ago, a gift like this would have made me cry. Now, it just looked like a bribe.

I forced the corners of my mouth upward.

"It's beautiful," I lied.

"Turn around."

I presented my back to him. The cold metal settled against my collarbone. The clasp clicked shut, sealing the deal.

"See?" Kenton kissed the side of my neck. "You're the only one I come home to. Seraphina means absolutely nothing to me."

I turned around and gave him the exact smile I taught him to use on sponsors.

"I believe you."

Relief washed over his features. He cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back.

"Thank God. I'm exhausted." He grabbed his duffel. "I'm hitting the shower. Order us some food?"

"Sure."

I watched him walk down the hall. The bathroom door shut. The shower turned on.

My smile vanished.

I walked over to the armchair and picked up his leather bag.

He never packed his own gear. I always did it. I knew exactly which pocket held his tape, which held his cleats, and which held his wallet.

I unzipped the main compartment.

The scent of turf grass and sweat hit my nose. I dug past his dirty jersey and towel.

My fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and metallic.

I pulled it out.

A gold tube. Heavy. Expensive.

I twisted the cap off.

Crimson red.

The exact shade Seraphina wore on the jumbotron tonight.

I rolled the bottom of the tube. The lipstick was worn down to a sharp angle. It had been used heavily.

I stared at the red wax. My chest didn't hurt. My heart didn't race. Instead, a chilling calm settled over my skin.

The water shut off down the hall.

Footsteps approached. Kenton strolled into the living room, a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another.

"Did you get the pizza?" he asked.

I held up the gold tube.

He stopped walking. The towel paused on his head.

"What is this, Kenton?"

He blinked, his eyes darting from the lipstick to my face.

"Makeup," he said slowly.

"I know what it is. I want to know why it's buried under your cleats."

"I don't know." He tossed the small towel onto the sofa. "Must have fallen in there."

"Fallen in?"

"Yeah." He walked toward the kitchen, avoiding my gaze. "Seraphina was in the locker room after the game. She probably dropped it, and it rolled into my bag. Total coincidence."

"She dropped a hundred-dollar lipstick, and it perfectly zipped itself into your side pocket?"

Kenton grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He twisted the cap off with entirely too much force.

"I'm not doing this again, Elowen."

"Doing what?"

"The paranoid girlfriend routine!" He slammed the plastic bottle onto the granite counter. Water sloshed over the edge. "I just won the biggest game of my life. I gave you diamonds. I told you I love you. Why are you trying to ruin my night?"

I walked over to the kitchen island. I placed the red lipstick right next to his spilled water.

"I'm not ruining anything."

"Good." He took a long drink, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Because I'm tired of defending myself over nothing."

"You're right," I said softly. "It must be a coincidence."

He stopped drinking. Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

"You believe me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I tilted my head. "You said she's just a billboard. A billboard wouldn't leave her personal items in your duffel bag on purpose, right?"

"Exactly." He relaxed a fraction, leaning against the counter. "She's messy. Her whole team is a disaster. They leave crap everywhere."

"Did she leave anything else?" I asked.

"What?"

"In the locker room. Did she leave anything else for you to carry?"

"No." Kenton scowled. "Why are you interrogating me?"

"I'm just trying to understand the timeline." I traced the edge of the gold tube with my fingernail. "The game ended at ten. The interview was at ten-thirty. When did she have time to open your bag?"

"I don't track her every move, El."

"But you track yours." I picked up the lipstick again. "Your bag was locked in your private stall. Only you have the code."

Kenton's face flushed. The red crept up his neck.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"I'm asking a question about a code."

"I left it open!" He threw his hands up. "I was celebrating. People were spraying champagne. The locker was open. Anyone could have thrown it in there."

"Anyone."

"Yes."

"So Seraphina just happened to wander over to your specific stall, drop her signature shade of lipstick, and leave without you noticing."

"Yes!" he shouted. "Christ, Elowen. You are suffocating me."

I didn't flinch at his volume. I just stared at him.

"Suffocating you," I repeated.

"Yeah." He dragged a hand down his face. "I work my ass off for us. I build this empire for us. And the second I get a little spotlight, you try to drag me down."

"I built the empire, Kenton."

"I throw the passes!"

"And I make sure no one finds out about the DUIs, the gambling, and the girls."

His jaw dropped. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us.

"Watch your mouth," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

I didn't back away. I looked up into the eyes of the man I had protected for five years.

"Or what?" I asked. "You'll fire me? You'll break up with me?"

He glared at me, his chest heaving.

"You need me," he sneered. "Without my career, you're just another glorified assistant."

The words hung in the air, sharp and poisonous.

I smiled. A real, genuine smile.

"Okay," I said.

Kenton frowned. The sudden shift in my demeanor threw him off balance.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, I believe it's a coincidence." I set the lipstick back down on the counter. "I believe you."

He stared at me, searching my face for sarcasm. He found none.

"Good," he muttered, though he still looked uneasy. "I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

"In a minute. I need to clean up the living room."

"Don't stay up too late." He turned and walked down the hallway.

His bedroom door clicked shut.

I stood alone in the kitchen. The silence rushed back in, heavy and absolute.

I looked down at the gold tube of lipstick.

I reached up and unclasped the diamond necklace.

It pooled into my palm like liquid ice.

I dropped the jewelry onto the counter. It clinked against the granite, resting right beside the crimson lipstick.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

I opened a new text message to Julian.

*Cancel the luxury watch deal.*

Three dots appeared immediately. Julian was still awake.

*Julian: Done. What's next?*

I glanced down the dark hallway toward Kenton's bedroom.

*Elowen: We leak the Seraphina photos ourselves. But we change the narrative.*

"You left the custom spikes on the kitchen island," I said into my phone, pacing the pavement outside the VIP entrance.

"I need them for the afternoon drills," Kenton’s voice buzzed through the receiver. "Just drop them off. I’ll leave my private locker room unlocked."

"I have a meeting with the PR board in an hour."

"Elowen, please. I can't break in the new turf without them."

I ended the call.

The stadium corridors smelled of bleach and old sweat. I carried the black mesh bag down the hall. No security stopped me. They all knew my face. I was the shadow that fixed everything.

I reached the heavy oak door of his private suite. It sat cracked open an inch.

A wet, slapping sound echoed from the gap.

I stopped. My fingers tightened on the mesh bag.

"Fuck, Seraphina," Kenton grunted.

I pushed the door open another inch.

Seraphina was bent over the leather massage table. Her custom jersey was shoved up to her armpits. Kenton stood behind her, his practice pants pushed down to his knees. He gripped her hips, driving his cock deep into her pussy.

"Shove it in harder, Kenton," Seraphina moaned, her fingers gripping the edge of the padded table. "Fuck my pussy."

"Spread your legs wider," he ordered. He pulled her hips back against his groin, burying himself completely. "I'm going to wreck your fucking cunt."

"Do it. Fuck me until I scream."

He slapped her bare ass cheek. The loud smack bounced off the metal lockers. "You like taking my cock before practice?"

"I want your cock all day," she gasped, throwing her head back. "Ruin me."

Kenton thrust faster, his skin slick with sweat. He pounded into her, raw and violent. "I'm going to fill your fucking pussy right now."

"Fill me, Kenton. Fuck."

He let out a harsh groan, driving his hips forward one last time and holding himself deep inside her.

I didn't gasp. I didn't drop the bag.

I just watched his face. The same face that told me last night she was nothing but a billboard. The same man who locked a diamond necklace around my throat.

A cold, heavy stone settled at the bottom of my stomach.

I stepped back into the hallway. I let the heavy oak door drift shut, leaving a tiny sliver of space.

I leaned my spine against the concrete wall.

I checked my watch. Eleven-forty. My PR meeting was at twelve-thirty.

Inside, zippers rasped. Fabric rustled.

"You're amazing," Kenton murmured through the crack.

"Hurry up," Seraphina replied. "The paparazzi are waiting by the south gate."

The door swung wide open.

Kenton stepped out first. He froze.

His eyes darted from my face to the mesh bag in my hand. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving his skin a sickly pale gray.

Seraphina stepped out behind him, adjusting the hem of her jersey. She paused, her gaze sweeping over me.

"You forgot your cleats," I said. My voice held zero inflection.

I held the bag out.

Kenton stared at my hand. He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He reached out and snatched the mesh strings, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Who is this?" Seraphina asked.

She crossed her arms, leaning her weight onto one hip. Her eyes dragged over my oversized gray sweater, my faded jeans, my flat sneakers.

Kenton opened his mouth. No sound came out.

"Kenton?" Seraphina pressed. "Did a fan wander into the VIP wing?"

He blinked, panic flashing in his pupils. He looked at me, silently begging me to play along. To fix it. Like I always did.

"She's just my nanny," Kenton blurted out.

The word hit the concrete floor like a lead weight.

"Your nanny?" Seraphina raised an eyebrow.

"House manager," Kenton corrected quickly, his voice cracking. "She handles my groceries. My laundry. That kind of stuff."

A vicious smirk curled Seraphina's lips.

"A babysitter." She scoffed, stepping closer to inspect me. "Honey, you dress like a high school math teacher. Did you buy that sweater at a thrift store?"

I kept my eyes locked on Kenton.

"Nannies shouldn't be wandering the VIP locker rooms," Seraphina continued, waving a manicured hand in my direction. "Tell your agency to teach you some boundaries. You can't just stalk your boss at work."

"Is that all, Kenton?" I asked.

He flinched at the sound of his name.

"Yeah," he muttered, staring at the floor tiles. "Go home. I'll handle my own schedule today."

"Don't forget to wash his practice gear," Seraphina sneered.

Kenton wrapped a thick arm around her waist. He pulled her against his side, practically dragging her down the hallway toward the exit.

"Let's go, Sera," he urged. "We have cameras waiting."

"Bye, babysitter," she called over her shoulder.

I didn't reply.

I stood in the fluorescent light, watching his broad shoulders disappear around the corner.

Five years.

I gave him my twenties. I gave him my absolute loyalty. And he reduced me to a punchline in front of the woman he just fucked on a massage table.

The cold stone in my stomach cracked open. Something entirely different spilled out.

It wasn't sadness. It wasn't grief.

It was absolute, freezing clarity.

I pulled my phone from my back pocket. I opened my messages.

Julian’s name sat at the top of the screen.

*Elowen: The Velvet Noir photos. Leak them right now.*

*Julian: I thought we were changing the narrative?*

*Elowen: We are.*

I typed out the next line, my thumbs striking the glass screen with pinpoint precision.

*Elowen: Leak the photos of him and Seraphina. But attach the medical records I kept from his Miami trip last season. Let the world know the MVP has a highly contagious strain of herpes.*

I hit send.

The screen flashed green.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and walked toward the exit. The game was finally over. Now, we were playing by my rules.