Chapter 14 #2
He smiled when he saw me.
"Shelly," he greeted. "Right on time. I admire punctuality."
I slid into the booth opposite him.
"Cut the crap, Carter," I said. "You hacked my account. That's a felony."
"Is it?" He took a sip of his bourbon. "Or did you just have a terrible password? 'Vogue123'? Really?"
"What do you want?" I repeated.
He turned the laptop around.
On the screen was a photo. It was from two weeks ago. Greg and I in the kitchen. He was kissing my neck. I was laughing, head thrown back. His hand was under my shirt.
It was intimate. It was beautiful.
And in the wrong hands, it was a smoking gun.
"You know the rules," Thorne said casually. "NCAA athletes accepting 'gifts' or 'benefits' based on their status. Living in a luxury house funded by a booster? Sleeping with the booster's daughter? It's a grey area, sure. But the investigation alone would suspend him for the playoffs."
"He pays rent," I lied. "We're roommates."
"And this?" He tapped the screen. "Is this roommate behavior?"
"Delete them," I said. "Name your price."
"I don't want money, Michelle. My father has more money than yours."
"Then what?"
He leaned forward. His eyes were cold, calculating.
"I want the championship," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Greg Sterling is the only reason Blackwood is in the finals. He's a machine. If he plays on Friday, we lose. If he doesn't..." Thorne shrugged. "Harvard wins. My dad gets his trophy. I get my draft stock boosted."
"You want me to tell him not to play?" I scoffed. "He'd never do that."
"No," Thorne said. "I want you to make sure he can't play."
"You're insane."
"Here's the deal," Thorne said. "You break up with him.
Tonight. You tell him it was all a game.
You tell him you were bored. You tell him your daddy threatened to cut you off and you chose the money.
You crush him, Michelle. You break his heart so badly that he can't focus. You make the wall crumble."
I felt bile rise in my throat.
"I won't do that," I whispered.
"If you don't," Thorne said, his voice hardening, "I send these photos to Victor Vane tonight. And to the NCAA. Greg gets suspended. He loses his contract. He loses his reputation. And you... well, your dad will probably drag you back to LA in handcuffs."
He sat back.
"So, what's it going to be? You break his heart to save his career? Or you stay with him and watch his career burn?"
I stared at the photo on the screen. Greg looked so happy.
I'll win it for you, he had said.
If Thorne released the photos, Greg lost everything. The investigation would drag on for months. He'd miss the combine. He'd miss the draft. The "morality clause" in his Vane contract would be triggered.
He would be ruined.
And it would be my fault.
"How do I know you'll delete them?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"You don't," Thorne grinned. "But I'm a businessman, Shelly. If he plays bad on Friday, the photos disappear. If he plays good... click send."
I stood up. My legs felt like jelly.
"You're a monster," I said.
"I'm a winner," Thorne corrected. "Go do your job, Vane. Be the distraction everyone says you are."
I walked out of the bar.
I walked to the river. I stood on the bank, watching the dark water churn.
It was snowing again.
I had promised Greg I would be his shield.
And now, to save him, I had to become the sword.
I had to do the one thing I promised I would never do.
I had to leave him.
I drove back to the Ice Box.
It was 9:30 PM.
Greg would be in his room. Reading. Waiting for me.
I walked up the stairs. My feet felt heavy, like I was wearing lead boots.
I stopped at his door.
I put my hand on the knob.
I took a breath. I pulled up the mask. The Brat. The Heiress. The shallow, selfish girl everyone thought I was.
It was the hardest acting performance of my life.
I opened the door.
Greg looked up from his book. He smiled. That open, trusting smile he only gave me.
"Hey," he said. "You're late. I missed you."
I didn't smile back. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms.
"We need to talk," I said.
The smile faded from his face. He sat up slowly. He sensed the shift. The coldness.
"Michelle?" he said. "What's wrong?"
"I'm leaving," I said. "Going back to Italy."
He frowned. "What? You just got back. Why?"
"Because my dad called," I lied. "He offered me a deal. Double the trust fund. The seed money for the label. The villa."
"And?" Greg stood up. "You told him no, right? You chose us."
I laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound.
"Greg," I said, rolling my eyes. "Be realistic. Did you really think I was going to give up millions of dollars for... this?" I gestured to the room. "For a college dorm room and a boyfriend who spends all his time at the gym?"
Greg went still. He looked like I had slapped him.
"You said you loved me," he whispered.
"I was emotional," I said. "I was lonely in Italy. It was a nice fantasy, Greg. But that's all it was. A semester fling. A rebellion against daddy."
I saw the light go out in his eyes. I saw the wall slam down.
"You're lying," he said. He took a step toward me. "Michelle, tell me you're lying."
"I'm not lying," I said, backing away. "I'm waking up. I'm a Vane, Greg. We don't marry hockey players. We own them."
The insult landed. Bullseye.
He stopped. His face turned to stone.
"Get out," he said quietly.
"Greg..."
"Get out!" he roared.
I flinched.
"Fine," I said. "Goodbye, Greg. Good luck with the game."
I turned and walked out.
I closed the door behind me.
I heard something smash against the wall inside. A lamp. Or maybe the wooden box with the confetti.
I walked down the hall to my room.
I packed my bag.
I walked out of the house.
I got into my car.
And only then, when I was miles away, did I pull over and scream until my throat bled.
I had saved him.
And I had killed us.