Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CHLOE
Home is too quiet.
I should like it this way, orderly, controlled, the hum of the fridge the only sound, but it presses in on me like a held breath.
After a whole day at the Raptors’ stadium and training facility, where noise bounces off every surface, where Ollie won’t stop cracking jokes, even when Murphy looks like he’s about to bite someone’s head off, silence feels like standing in an empty theatre after the curtain’s fallen.
I drop my bag by the door and lock it, two turns, checking twice, like I always do. Then I kick off my heels, black, pointed, the kind that blister but make me look like I belong. Barefoot on the polished floor, I head straight for the window and pull the curtains shut.
The flat is pristine with white walls, clean lines, expensive furniture in a style I wouldn’t have chosen but that photographs well in glossy spreads.
A cream sofa with sharp corners. A coffee table that could double as a museum exhibit; glass, steel, not a scratch.
Even the rugs are chosen for their texture, not their comfort.
My father bought the place when I graduated.
“An address befitting someone in media,” he said, which I translated into a stage set you can live in.
The books on the shelves are more decorative than read.
Glossy hardbacks, spines aligned, titles about power, legacy, the biographies of politicians who built empires.
I stacked one of my paperbacks, creased, bent, a crime novel I actually liked, between them once.
He noticed immediately during a visit, plucked it out with two fingers like it offended him, and set it aside. I never did it again.
You see, the problem is there’s only my father and I.
My mother left years ago, she couldn’t bear being second best to my father’s career.
There’s limited contact between my mother and I.
I think she feels guilty for walking out on me but she figured Dad would be able to provide me with a better future.
Financially speaking, she wasn’t wrong. But there’s some things a girl needs her mother for, and I didn’t have that luxury.
Maybe that’s why I spent my adolescence chasing affection from anyone that showed me a scrap of attention.
I toss my blazer over the sofa arm and sink onto the cushions, finally letting my posture crumple.
The laptop waits on the coffee table, open to a half-written draft of my first piece on The Raptors.
The blinking cursor mocks me. I should be writing, the whole point of this “opportunity” is to prove to my father that I can carry the weight of it, that I’m more than the girl who once engineered her own tabloid headline and almost ruined a man’s relationship.
Murphy still looks at me like I did. Like I might do worse.
And he’s not wrong.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don’t type.
The day plays in my head instead, sharper in the quiet.
Murphy’s glare, Dylan’s scowl, Ollie’s grin I pretend doesn’t sting when I remember it.
The way Jacko barely looked at me, protective of his little circle, his new family.
Every one of them a wall I’m supposed to climb, and every wall taller because of who I am. Because of what I did.
And because of who my father is.
My phone vibrates on the table. His name on the screen: Dad.
I let it ring twice before I answer. “Hi.”
“Chloe.” His voice is clipped, efficient. He doesn’t waste syllables the way normal people do. “Report.”
“I just got home.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I press my nails into my palm. “Fine. Productive. I have notes. Character sketches. Locker-room impressions.”
He exhales, long enough that I can picture him sitting behind his desk, polished wood gleaming, a skyline stretching behind him. “Your first official day and all you can give me is ‘fine’? I don’t bankroll fine, Chloe.”
“I’ll get sharper,” I say quickly. “This isn’t fluff for me.”
“It isn’t fluff for me either.” His tone cuts. “The Raptors are a multi-million-pound machine. My money keeps that machine running. You are there because I put you there. Do you understand? Not because of your…talent.”
The word drips contempt.
“I understand,” I whisper.
“Do you?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Good.” He pauses, then drops his voice lower, dangerous. “Because if you can’t produce, if you can’t show me you deserve this, then I’ll cut you off. No freelance contracts quietly greased by my contacts. Do you want to go back to scrambling for puff pieces in the lifestyle section?”
My throat tightens. “No.”
“Then don’t waste my time.”
The line goes dead. I set the phone down like it’s venomous. The silence after his voice is heavier than before, like lead in my chest.
He’s the reason I’m here. The anonymous sponsor, the money behind The Raptors’ new media push, the string-puller who made sure the journalist shadowing the team would be me.
No one knows. Not Murphy, not Dylan, not even Ollie with his too-quick grin and sharper eyes than he lets on.
If they did, if Murphy especially did, I’d be out before I’d unpacked my bag.
I pace the flat, restless. My father’s words rattle in my skull. I don’t bankroll mediocrity. He doesn’t bankroll weakness either. And sometimes, when I catch myself staring at a blank screen too long, I wonder if I’m both.
The apartment feels like a stage I don’t belong on.
My mug sits solitary on a shelf, the only piece of crockery not matching the porcelain set my father’s assistant ordered.
My bed is too big for one person. The wardrobe is filled with clothes bought for image rather than comfort.
Tailored, pressed, elegant. Sometimes I wonder if I exist at all here, or if I’m just another piece of the set design.
I try to shove the thought away and open the fridge. Rows of bottled water, pre-cut fruit, a single bottle of white wine I don’t remember buying. I shut it again. Hunger’s there, but eating feels indulgent when my work isn’t done. Instead, I return to the laptop, and force myself to type.
Day One with The Raptors. First impressions.
I sketch the outlines. Murphy, tense, guards his home like a fortress.
Dylan, dark, always watching. Jacko, solid, grounded, eyes softer than you’d expect for someone his size.
The rookies trying to fit in, and find their place on the team.
And Ollie, golden retriever energy, too bright for his own good, always the one to draw fire so others don’t have to.
My fingers still. I shouldn’t write about Ollie that way. It’s not professional. It’s not safe.
But I can’t stop remembering the way he smiled when he teased me about the pen in my hand, how for a second it felt like a real conversation instead of a chess match. Then Murphy’s glare landed between us like a blade, and Ollie shut down, retreating back into loyalty.
I rub my forehead hard enough to sting. No. Don’t go there. I’m not here for distraction. I’m here to prove myself.
The cursor blinks. I force myself to type again.
Murphy’s hostility isn’t subtle. He still resents me. Probably always will. I can work with that; conflict is copy. The rest of the team watches, waits. I’ll find the cracks. I have to.
I lean back, exhaling through my teeth. The words sit stiff on the screen. They don’t sound like me, not really. They sound like the version of me my father demands.
The version I promised myself I’d be.
And yet, memory ambushes me, sudden and sharp.
The charity gala.
Champagne flutes balanced on silver trays.
The flash of cameras bouncing off crystal chandeliers.
Me in a red dress too bold for the room, laughing too loud at a joke no one else found funny.
I leaned into Murphy for a staged photograph, my lips too close to his cheek.
I’d wanted a headline. I’d gotten it. Star Player Back On The Market?
Samuel Murphy Spotted Getting Cozy With Notorious Reporter splashed across tabloids the next morning.
And the fallout, Sophie cutting off Murphy, Murphy white-hot with anger, my father’s voice cutting through the phone. Control the story or you’ll lose everything.
I still smell the roses from the centrepieces, sickly sweet. Still hear the click of cameras like gunfire.
That night is the reason Murphy hates me. The reason Sophie will never trust me. The reason Ollie glares like he can’t decide whether to joke or shield his friend from me.
And the reason my father decided I needed discipline.
The truth is, I was reckless. Ashamed, even now, of how far I went.
I’d told myself it was journalism, told myself I was only chasing a story.
But really, I was desperate. Desperate to prove I deserved the chance, desperate to be more than “Miller’s daughter” playing at a career I hadn’t earned.
I thought if I landed the headline, the kind of splashy, scandalous piece that couldn’t be ignored, then maybe people would stop seeing me as a name on someone’s payroll and start seeing me as a reporter in my own right.
So, I cut corners. I pushed too hard. I crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed.
Looking back, it wasn’t bold or clever. It was immature. It was me clutching at straws, thinking that blowing up someone else’s life was the only way to prove I had one of my own.
And that’s why the shame clings so tightly, thicker than the perfume, heavier than the roses. Because I can’t pretend I didn’t know better. I just convinced myself there was no other option.
I slam the laptop shut, pulse racing. Enough.
The clock on the wall says just past nine.
Too early for bed, too late to pretend I’ll get any real work done.
I pour a glass of water and carry it to the window, pulling the curtain back just a fraction.
The city sprawls outside, lights, movement, possibility.
Somewhere out there, normal people live their lives without the weight of family expectations pressing into every decision.
Somewhere out there, someone like Ollie laughs with teammates and doesn’t think about how fragile it all is.
I wonder what it would be like. The thought is dangerous, so I bury it. I let the curtain fall shut. I finish the water and set the glass down with deliberate care, lining it perfectly on the counter. Control. Order. That’s how I survive.
Because if anyone finds out the truth, that I’m not just some freelance journalist clawing my way up, that I’m my father’s plant, that The Raptors’ season is tied to his money, I won’t survive at all.
Not with Murphy waiting for me to slip. Not with Ollie torn between protecting me and protecting the team.
Not with my father watching from above, measuring, always measuring.
I close my eyes and breathe. Tomorrow, I’ll be sharper. Tomorrow, I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow, I’ll be the version of Chloe my father believes he bought.
Tonight, though, it’s just me. Alone, in the silence I asked for.
And I can’t tell if it feels like freedom or a cage.