Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Alycia
The hallway outside Cooper’s office feels too long.
Every step echoes in my chest as my feeble attempt at a resignation letter crinkles in my hand, because my fingers won’t stop shaking.
I’ve rewritten it three times since the press conference ended.
Each version is shorter than the last. It’s just three simple sentences.
It’s easier to quit than to watch them decide for me.
I take a breath that does nothing to steady me and knock once before pushing the door open.
They’re all there. Cooper is behind the desk, posture stiff and controlled.
Beau stands by the wall, quiet and unreadable.
Cole is lounging in a chair, his patented smirk already in place.
And then there’s Kyle—sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes finding me the second I walk in, like he’s been waiting for me.
He looks wrecked in a way I’ve never seen him—haunted around the eyes, tense around the mouth, like he’s holding himself together with the last thread he’s got.
And for a single, reckless heartbeat, I wish this wasn’t happening in a room full of people.
I wish it were just us. But that’s not our reality. Maybe it never was.
“Coach,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “You wanted to see me?”
Cooper gestures to the chair in front of him but sitting feels impossible. If I sit, I'll break. So, I stay standing. My body knows something my mind refuses to admit: This is the moment everything changes.
I’ve spent the past hour pretending I could hold it together, but I feel hollow.
Shaken loose from my skin like I’m still standing in front of those cameras, smiling while the world decides what kind of woman I am.
My hands shake, not enough for them to see, but I can feel it deep, like a tremor beneath the surface.
I press my nails deep into my palm just to feel something solid.
It hurts, but at least it’s real. I focus on breathing.
In and out. Control what I can. That’s what I’ve always done.
It’s what they have been paying me to do.
Control the story. Control the reaction.
Don’t let anyone see the cracks. I can almost feel the tears threatening behind my eyes, but they don’t get to win. Not here. Not in front of them.
I can still feel the echo of Kyle’s voice from earlier when he told off that reporter.
The sound of it has burrowed under my skin and hasn’t left.
It wraps around me, and I hate that a part of me felt safe even as everything fell apart.
I thought writing my resignation letter would help me feel in control again, but all it did was remind me how powerless I am.
I want to scream and tell them all I can fix this, that I don’t need saving.
But the truth is, I’m terrified. Not of losing my job or of the headlines, but of losing him before I’ve ever really had him.
And that might be the most unprofessional thing about me.
Cooper studies me for a long moment before he finally speaks. “We’ve got a situation.”
He doesn’t elaborate right away, just looks at me, and that’s somehow worse. The silence stretches until it feels like it’s pressing against my skin.
“I understand.”
“Clips of today’s press conference are everywhere by now.”
“I’ll issue a statement and take full responsibility.” I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.
“That won’t be enough.”
The words tilt the floor beneath me. I swallow hard, forcing my shoulders straight. “I can handle this, Coach. I’ve already drafted—”
“Alycia.” My name in that tone freezes me. Not unkind, but final. “We’re past damage control.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. For a second, everything goes quiet, the weight of those words pressing against my ribs. I know what comes next. I’ve rehearsed it a hundred times in my head since the press conference: You’re being let go. We can’t risk the optics. It’s nothing personal.
I open my mouth to tell him I’ll make it easy. That my resignation letter is ready, but then Cole leans forward, and every muscle in my back goes tight. That grin of his means nothing good. “We’re going to fix this, sweetheart.”
I hate how that nickname makes my skin crawl—not because it’s cruel, but because Kyle’s the only one I want to hear it from. I glance toward Kyle, looking for some kind of explanation. His jaw is clenched so hard I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. His eyes track every breath I take.
“Excuse me?”
Cole continues, unfazed. “We make you two official. A quiet relationship that started before he signed here. No scandal or rule breaking. Just two people who found their way to each other.”
“You can’t be serious.” My voice cracks on the single syllable.
Cole shrugs like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “Fake dating. It’s the easiest fix. PR gold.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I can’t tell if I want to laugh or cry. I blink, staring at him, waiting for the punchline. But no one’s laughing. Even Cooper looks like he’s considering it.
“I already have a statement prepared,” I manage, holding up the paper in my hand like a shield. “I’ll take responsibility for the—”
Kyle stands so fast his chair scrapes the floor. “You’re not taking the fall for this.”
The sound of his voice wrecks me, cutting through the noise like earlier when he told off that reporter. I should tell him to sit down. To stop making this harder. But all I can think about is how much I want to believe he means it.
“This isn’t your fault,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“Yes, it is,” I whisper.
“No, it’s mine.”
“Both of you, stop.” Cooper’s tone snaps like a whip. “This isn’t about guilt. It’s about control. We can’t have another incident like today.”
“You two will play a happy couple, smile for the cameras, and by the time anyone realizes it’s PR, no one cares.” Cole’s tone softens, almost persuasive. “The narrative flips overnight. You become the girl who grounded the youngest Hendrix. He becomes the rookie with a heart of gold. It’s tidy.”
“That’s not a narrative,” I manage. “That’s a lie.”
“Welcome to PR, sweetheart.” Cole shrugs.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek and focus on the smallest details—the grain of the wood on Cooper’s desk, the faint hum of the HVAC, the burn in my throat where the words keep catching. If I focus on those things, I won’t start shaking.
“You’ll manage the rollout through PR. Draft the statement, coordinate the social media angles. The story becomes love, not scandal,” Cooper responds, watching me closely.
If I say no, I’m done. No recommendation. No career. All the hours, the late nights, the sacrifices disappear because I let myself fall for someone I was never supposed to want.
I don’t need to turn to know Kyle is watching me. I can feel it like heat on the back of my neck. I can feel his desperation, his anger, his guilt. This isn’t his fault, but it’s not mine alone either.
Cooper leans forward. “Alycia, this only works if you’re on board.”
“You want me to sell it?”
“You’re the best PR mind in this organization,” he says simply. “You know how to tell a story people believe.”
“Yeah. I do.” A hollow laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Cole’s voice softens just enough to sting. “You’re going to need to rewrite that statement, sweetheart. Make it sound romantic. Whatever sells. You’ll be the hero who brought our Hendrix boy home.”
Something inside me breaks quietly because I know I can do it. I can make the story believable. I can make people root for us, but every word I write will feel like a betrayal of the one real thing that’s ever happened to me.
I glance at Kyle, and he looks gutted. His face displays the same helpless, angry ache that I’ve been carrying since last night.
It’s the look of someone who wants to fight but doesn’t know what to hit.
I take a breath that tastes like defeat and fold the resignation letter in half, tucking it back into my folder.
“If this is what it takes to keep my job, I’ll do it.”
Kyle’s head jerks toward me, disbelief etched in every line of his face. “Alycia, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.”
He opens his mouth, but Cooper’s look silences him.
I can feel all of them watching me, but it’s his eyes that burn the most. The one person I want to see me can't save me from this.
I stand there, spine straight and heart breaking, and one thought curls through me like smoke.
If this is what survival costs, I hope no one ever calls me lucky again.
I can feel the unbearable weight of his eyes on me, but I keep mine fixed on my hands because if I look up, the fragile composure I’ve pieced together will shatter completely. Every inhale feels like swallowing glass.
I started working for the organization about eighteen months ago, longer than most people remain interns.
Anyone else would’ve been offered a full-time position by now, but not me.
Not with the past I walked in with. I got the extended probation, the extra oversight, the whispered let’s see how she handles this before anyone trusted me with anything that mattered.
And I’ve handled everything until I was finally given the opportunity to plan the annual charity gala for a chance to make my position here permanent.
And now, in less than twenty-four hours, it feels like all of it is slipping straight through my fingers.
I tuck the resignation letter deeper into my folder, as if hiding it can erase the fact that I almost handed over everything I’ve worked for. “I’ll get started on the draft,” I manage, voice steady enough to sound like it belongs to someone else.
No one stops me as I turn and walk out. The hallway is silent as the door clicks shut behind me. I make it ten steps before my breath breaks. It comes out in a ragged exhale I can’t pull back.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.