Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stella
The air feels different out here.
Not cleaner.
Not lighter.
Just… quieter.
North Fair Oaks isn’t polished like campus. It doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. The sidewalks are uneven, the storefronts sun-faded, hand-painted signs taped to windows advertising specials in looping Spanish script.
It smells like grilled meat, fresh tortillas, sugar, and citrus.
A lot like home. Or at least… something close enough to it that my chest loosens a little.
I walk slowly.
There’s no practice. No schedule. No eyes on me.
Just me, a canvas tote over my shoulder, fingers brushing over tables of jewelry, woven bracelets, hand-carved trinkets.
I pick up a pair of earrings.
Bright.
Gold.
A little dramatic.
My mom would love them.
“?Cuánto cuesta?” I ask.
The woman smiles. “Para ti, mija… cinco.”
I laugh softly and hand her the money.
“For my mamá,” I say, switching back to English without thinking.
She nods like she understands anyway.
They always do.
I keep walking.
Coffee in hand.
Cuban.
Strong enough to wake the dead.
The kind that sits heavy in your chest and sharp on your tongue.
I take a sip.
Close my eyes for half a second.
Breathe.
For the first time in weeks—
I don’t feel like I’m running.
And then—
I feel it.
Not a sound.
Not a voice.
A shift.
Like the air just… reorganized itself.
I open my eyes.
And he’s there.
Not close.
Not approaching.
Just—
standing.
Watching.
Everything about him is… still.
Controlled.
Tailored suit, dark, perfect lines. No tie. The top button undone like he doesn’t need to prove anything.
Salt at his temples.
Sharp jaw.
Eyes that lock onto mine like they’ve already decided something.
Two men linger several feet behind him.
Not obvious.
But not subtle either.
My pulse kicks.
Not fear.
Something else.
Recognition.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
We just—look at each other. He looks sharper in person than the business picture of him that I had stared at a thousand times on my phone last night.
And then he says it.
Soft.
Certain.
“Stella.”
My name sounds different in his mouth.
Like it belongs there.
I let out a slow breath.
“Emmanuel.”
Not Dad.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
We don’t rush that.
A flicker passes through his eyes.
Approval.
Respect.
Like I just made the correct move in a game I didn’t know we were playing.
I lift my coffee slightly, half-smirking.
“This has my DNA on it,” I say. “You want it? Save us both the time.”
For a second—he just looks at me. Then—the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a full smile. But something close.
“I don’t need proof,” he says. His gaze sharpens slightly. “I’ve already seen enough.”
That lands.
Deep.
Because I know what he means.
I saw it too.
In the mirror of his face.
He gestures lightly toward the street.
“There’s a car.”
“There always is,” I mutter.
Another almost-smile.
I hesitate. Just for a second. Because I know—if I step toward him—this gets bigger. My life gets bigger.
Complicated.
Heavier.
But I didn’t call him to walk away now.
So I nod once.
“Okay.”
The SUV is exactly what you’d expect.
Black.
Polished.
Quiet inside like it absorbs sound.
I slide in first.
He follows.
The door closes.
And suddenly—
it’s just us.
No awkward silence.
No forced small talk.
Just…
presence.
He studies me openly now.
Not in a creepy way.
Not like a man checking out a woman.
Like a man assessing something important.
Something… his.
“You found me fast,” I say.
“I don’t do anything slowly.”
Yeah.
That tracks.
I take another sip of coffee.
He watches that too.
Like he’s cataloging everything.
“You didn’t answer her,” I say.
Not accusing.
Just… stating.
His jaw tightens.
Slightly.
“I should have.”
That’s it.
No excuses.
No story.
Just truth.
And somehow—
that hits harder.
I nod once.
Respecting it.
He leans back slightly.
Still watching me.
“You built this,” he says. “On your own.”
“Yeah.”
“Stanford.”
“Full ride.”
“Athlete.”
I shrug. “I like to win.”
A flicker of something crosses his face.
Pride.
“You are like me,” he says.
I tilt my head.
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
That feels… right.
I look out the window.
Then back at him.
“My mom worked her ass off,” I say. “Double shifts. Cleaning. Making sure we never felt how tight things really were.”
He listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t redirect. Just… takes it in.
“I didn’t want anyone handing me anything,” I continue. “Not scholarships. Not opportunities. Definitely not—”
I gesture vaguely between us.
“This.”
His gaze sharpens.
“You think I would hand you something you didn’t earn?”
I meet his eyes.
“Wouldn’t you?”
A beat.
Then—
“No.”
Firm.
Certain.
“I would give you access.”
That word lands differently.
Not charity.
Not control.
Access.
“To what?” I ask.
“To everything you’re already capable of becoming.”
Silence settles between us.
Heavy.
Not uncomfortable.
Just…
real.
I look down at my hands.
Then back up.
“My life was… simple,” I say. “Hard. But simple.”
A small exhale.
“Then everything got loud.”
He watches me carefully now.
“Boys?” he asks.
I laugh once.
Dry.
“A little bit of that—but mostly jealousy that I outworked the rich girls whose parents paid the best trainers.”
His expression darkens just a fraction—protectiveness—maybe even a little possessive as his eyes swept over me. Something ancient.
“I was focused,” I say. “School. Volleyball. That was enough.”
“And now?”
I hesitate.
That’s new.
“I don’t know.”
There it is.
The truth I don’t say out loud to anyone.
He studies me for a long moment.
Then says quietly—
“You are not empty.”
I blink.
Because that’s exactly what I’ve been feeling.
“You are…” he pauses, choosing the word, “…unanchored.”
That hits.
Harder than anything else he’s said.
“Drive without direction feels like absence,” he continues. “It is not.”
I swallow.
Because—that makes sense.
He leans forward slightly. “You built yourself without me,” he says. “That makes you dangerous.”
A beat.
“And extraordinary.”
My chest tightens. Not with longing. With something else. Something bigger.
I study him.
And I see it now.
Why my mom fell.
Hard.
Fast.
Completely.
And for the first time—I understand something I didn’t before. This man doesn’t complete me.
He expands me.
And that might be even more dangerous.
Before we can continue our conversation the SUV rolls to a stop.
This hotel is nothing like mine.
Quiet in a way that feels… curated. Like even the silence here has been selected, polished, approved.
His driver opens my door and Emmanuel gestures over to the restaurant patio past the lobby.
We sit across from each other at a small table near the window. The city stretches out below us, but neither of us is looking at it.
We’re looking at each other.
Still adjusting.
Still… measuring.
A bottle of sparkling water sits between us. Neither of us has touched it.
“So,” I say finally, resting my forearms on the table. “Spain.”
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Spain.”
“You build hotels.”
“I build access,” he corrects.
That word again.
Access.
I file it away.
“And you left someone behind,” I say, not sharp, not soft. Just… true.
His jaw tightens.
A flicker. Quick. Controlled.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No explanation.
Just acknowledgment.
That lands harder than anything else could’ve.
We don’t talk about that part again.
Not yet.
Instead—he tells me about where he’s from.
Madrid.
Barcelona.
Long summers on the coast where the air smells like salt and citrus and money.
Family that valued power more than presence.
Legacy more than love.
“I learned early,” he says, fingers steepled lightly, “that if you do not build something of your own, you spend your life inside someone else’s.”
I nod slowly.
“I get that. My mom stayed close to family,” I say. “New England. A lot of them came over during DACA. Everyone kind of… clustered together. Helped each other out.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“You grew up in that environment.”
“Yeah.”
“And still ended up here.”
There’s something in his voice when he says that.
Respect.
Not surprise.
Respect.
“I didn’t want to need anyone,” I admit.
The words slip out easier than I expect.
“I watched my mom work herself into the ground. Cleaning. Saving. Making sure we never felt how tight things really were.”
I glance down at my hands.
“I decided early I wasn’t doing that.”
“And so you didn’t.”
Simple.
Like it was inevitable.
I huff a small laugh. “It wasn’t that clean.”
“It never is.”
I lean back slightly.
“First time I picked up a volleyball was in gym class,” I say. “I just… kept going.”
His eyes don’t leave me.
“You were destined for it.”
I pause.
“What?”
“You recognized what you were capable of.”
That lands.
Deeply.
We sit there a while longer.
Not talking.
Not needing to.
It’s not awkward.
It’s just… full.
By the time we leave the hotel, something has shifted.
Not softened.
Not solved.
But…
aligned.
Campus feels louder when we step back onto it.
Word travels fast.
Faster than I expected.
Heads turn.
Phones lift.
Whispers ripple.
But this time—
it’s not just me they’re looking at.
It’s him.
And I feel it.
The way attention bends toward him.
The way space subtly opens as we walk.
Like people don’t even realize they’re moving out of his way.
And I see him now.
Really see him.
The suit—perfectly cut, dark, expensive in a way that doesn’t beg to be noticed but demands it anyway. It fits his broad shoulders like it was tailored on his body. Clean lines. Sharp edges. Nothing out of place.
He’s tall.
Not just tall—level with the basketball guys.
Eye to eye with men who are used to being the biggest presence in a room.
And somehow—he still feels bigger.
His hair is thick, dark, slightly wavy, brushed back with just enough looseness to make it feel effortless. The gray at his temples doesn’t age him.
It sharpens him.
Authority.
Power.
Old money.
Experience.
That quiet, dangerous kind of masculinity that doesn’t need to prove anything because it already knows.
“This is the main quad,” I say, but my voice comes out steadier now.
Stronger.
I feel it.
The shift in my spine.
The way I stand a little straighter next to him.
Like something in me—clicked into place.
We move through campus.
And people don’t just look.
They watch.
“This is the athletic complex. I spend more time here than in the library.”
Doors open.
The smell hits.
Polished wood. Sweat. effort.
Home.
Coach looks up.
Sees me.
Then sees him.
And pauses.
Really pauses.
Her eyes drag over him once—sharp, assessing—and I see it.
That flicker of recognition.
Not of who he is.
But of what he is.
“Well,” she says dryly, crossing her arms, “only Stella Cortez could disappear for three days and come back with an international business tycoon father.”
A few girls laugh nervously.
Emmauel doesn’t.
She steps forward. Extends her hand.
And for the first time—I see her adjust.
Just slightly.
Respect.
“Welcome to the chaos.”
He takes her hand.
His grip firm.
Controlled.
“Thank you,” he says. “Emmanuel Cortez.”
And his accent—it hits different here.
Rich.
Smooth.
That expensive, unmistakable Spaniard cadence layered over his English.
Each word deliberate.
Each syllable precise.
Like language itself bends to him.
We move through the gym.
The weight room.
The courts.
And everywhere we go—
people notice.
“This is where I train,” I say.
And when I step onto the court—I feel it.
That shift.
He sees it too.
“You change here,” he says quietly.
I glance at him.
“What?”
“You become… sharper.”
I smirk.
“Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”
We head outside toward the stadium bleachers.
I lead him to my spot.
Top row.
I drop my bag.
Sit.
He stands for a second—
then sits next to me.
“I run these,” I say. “When my head’s loud.”
He looks down the rows. Then back at me. “We’ll run them together.”
I laugh softly.
“You?”
A brow lifts.
“I was an athlete before I built empires.”
“Soccer?”
A faint smile.
“It was my sport.”
For a moment—it’s easy.
Then—we move again.
Toward the trainers’ wing and everything tightens.
They’re there.
Tristan.
Kane.
Isa—just behind.
The second they look up—
I feel it.
The shift.
The clash.
I step forward anyway.
Silence looks say more than words.
Then—Tristan steps closer.
His eyes flick over my father once.
Sharp.
Measuring.
And I feel it.
The collision.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
But he already knows.
“I’m her father,” Emmanuel says.
Calm.
Controlled.
And when he speaks—the accent lands heavier now.
More pronounced.
More deliberate.
Not for effect.
For dominance.
Tristan stills.
Just for a second.
Kane shifts slightly.
Taking it in.
Respect there.
Whether he wants it or not.
Isa goes quiet.
Her eyes narrowing slightly.
Because she knows.
What this means.
Tristan’s gaze sharpens.
“Has there been a test?”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“DNA,” Tristan says, not looking at me. “You don’t just—show up.”
Before I can respond—Emmanuel answers.
“I don’t require validation.”
His voice doesn’t rise.
Doesn’t need to.
But the Spanish slips in under the English now.
Subtle.
Natural.
“Lo sé.”
(I know.)
Tristan doesn’t move.
Doesn’t back down.
“She’s been through enough—”
“She is not your concern.”
Clean.
Precise.
Final.
Then—Emmanuel steps just slightly closer.
Not aggressive.
But enough.
“She is mine.”
The words don’t echo.
They don’t need to.
They land.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Tristan’s jaw tightens.
Tics.
Fire flashes in his eyes.
And I feel it.
All of it.
The pull.
The pressure.
The power.
Two men.
Both used to leading.
Both used to claiming space.
And me—standing between them.
My breath catches.
Because this isn’t just attention.
This isn’t just tension.
This is—something bigger.
And for the first time—I don’t feel small inside it.
I feel like I belong there.
Isa’s eyes narrow. She hates me down to the marrow of her bones and all I did was know him first.
“Emmanuel… this is Tristan, Kane and Isabelle. The over protective one was a friend from Royal Oaks. Kane plays basketball and Tristan just transferred to the team. Isa plays soccer.”
She smiles with a pageant grin at my father. Tristan glares at me, mouthing the word, ‘friend?’
Kane saves me—breaks the awkward tension mentioning something abut game film in five.
I feel the heat of Tristan’s stare on my back as Emmanuel and I head to the dorms.
“Friend?” My father asks lightly.
“I put him in the friend zone. Maybe he wanted more. Maybe I did too—but I want a D1 championship ring more than a diamond one right now.”
Emmanuel laughs huskily, “that’s my girl.”
I blush. Having a father feels damn good. Especially one like him.