Chapter Conspiracy Theories and My （Probable） Funeral
Conspiracy Theories and My (Probable) Funeral.
Sloane
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the last disaster I personally detonated—aka having sex with Cohen-I-Want-to-Forget-Him Becker under a steaming shower—and in my na?veté, I truly thought I’d hit rock bottom.
Sure, a rock bottom that was… extremely exciting and rewarded me with the best orgasm of my entire existence, but still. Rock bottom.
I thought, Hey, Sloane, nothing can be worse than walking downstairs in his sweats and stilettos in front of his manager and Dominic Voss.
Spoiler: oh, it can.
Rock bottom has a trapdoor.
And under that trapdoor?
My office.
Because right now, at this exact moment, I am barricaded within these stylishly painted walls with Cohen while both of us endure the biggest, most catastrophic scolding of our lives—delivered by none other than Julian Heart himself.
Yes. My father.
He’s been roaring for a solid forty minutes, his baritone vibrating the glass top of my desk. Forty minutes of pacing across the parquet, brandishing the “evidence” of our crime.
Forty minutes—the longest amount of uninterrupted time I’ve spent with him since… tea together.
A lifetime ago.
Irony. My constant companion.
Dad slams yet another copy of the paper onto my desk, as if physically assaulting it might kill the scandal at its root.
“WILL ONE OF YOU EXPLAIN WHAT THE HELL YOU WERE DOING TOGETHER LAST NIGHT?!”
I want to disappear.
Vanish.
Evaporate.
Fall through a crack in the floorboards.
I’d happily choose being run over by a hay tractor.
But above all… I am going to murder Francis the next time he crosses my path. Slowly. Painfully. With creativity.
Dad keeps waving around that cursed newspaper.
FRONT PAGE —
THE ELM HOLLOW GAZETTE
“A Shocking Twist Under the Stars: Cupid’s Agency matchmaker Sloane Heart spotted late at night in a parking lot with Lakewood’s star striker, Cohen Becker. A new flame in town?”
— Francis Grande, reporter, pie judge, and honorary president of the Chit-Chat he stares at a random spot on the floor.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Jaw clenched so tight I see the muscle twitch.
He looks tired.
He looks… guilty.
And for the first time since I’ve known him, he doesn’t have a comeback.
Dad barrels on:
“You two have LOST YOUR MINDS! The coach’s daughter and the league’s most problematic player! And now the papers think you’ll be on the reality show together! Do you understand what happens when we announce Becker has a different partner?”
“Coach Heart, I assure you—” Nate cuts in, valiantly trying to save us though he looks close to fainting.
Dad whips around and points at him.
“Nathaniel, do NOT cover for Becker. I’ve known him since he was a teenager. He’s a liability even when he’s brEATHING.”
I flinch.
Not because it’s untrue—Cohen is a walking catastrophe—but because Cohen finally comes back into my peripheral vision.
And he isn’t pretending the barb didn’t land.
I see it hit.
A shadow crosses his face.
An old wound.
A familiarity with that kind of pain.
And something I don’t want to examine unfurls inside my chest.
That sentence hangs in the room like a verdict:
A liability even when he breathes.
It’s cruel.
It’s unfair.
But the worst part is the resignation in Dad’s voice—as if he’s already failed, as if he doesn’t expect better.
Cohen’s shoulders subtly cave inward.
He absorbs the blow without flinching, like he believes he deserves it.
His amber eyes—normally sharp enough to burn the world—are dull, glued to his sneakers.
And suddenly, an ache spears through my chest.
My father is not a bad man. Quite the opposite.
Julian Heart is the dad who rode eight hours on a bus after an away game just to make it to my school play—even if he fell asleep in the front row. He calls every Sunday to ask if I’m eating enough vegetables. He loves me.
Loudly. Fiercely. Suffocatingly, sometimes.
But he loves me.
And that’s exactly why I can’t let him be so blind.
Can’t let him throw everything on Cohen because he’s scared his daughter made a mess.
“Stop.”
The word leaves my mouth before my brain approves it.
The scrape of my chair against the floor is a gunshot in the tense room.
Everyone looks at me.
Dad freezes.
The professional-coach rage mask shatters instantly, replaced by raw paternal fear.
“Sloane?” His voice softens, trembles. He steps toward me. “Sweetheart… are you okay? Did he…”
He swallows hard.
“Did he put you in a bad situation? Did he force you to do something you didn’t want?”
There he is.
Papa Bear. Ready to maul anyone who hurt me.
Guilt squeezes my insides, but I can’t let this bloodbath continue.
“He didn’t do anything, Dad. And stop looking at me like I’m made of glass.” My voice wobbles but holds. “You can’t talk to him like that. It’s not fair.”
I feel Cohen’s gaze burn into my side—conflicted, confused—but I don’t look at him or I’ll lose my nerve.
Dad sighs, rubbing his face.
“Sloane, honey, you don’t understand. He’s a hurricane.”
“I can take care of myself,” I insist, stepping closer. “What happened last night… if there’s someone to blame, it’s me. I was the one who—”
Jumped him?
Got drunk and did everything possible to derail him?
Begged him to stay?
Entered his shower?
“He was helping me. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was… being kind.”
Dad almost laughs at the word kind paired with Cohen.
“It’s not true.”
Cohen’s voice cuts the air—deep, rough.
He stands abruptly and does something that steals my breath:
He moves between me and my father.
Not aggressively—protectively.
As if shielding me from my own confession.
He doesn’t look at me.
He looks straight into Julian Heart’s eyes.
“Don’t listen to her, sir,” Cohen says, and for the first time I hear desperate respect in his tone.
“I’m the one who screwed up. This is all on me. Suspend me, punish me, whatever you want—but leave her out of this.”
Silence slams down.
Electric. Heavy.
I try to take the blame to save him.
He tries to take the blame to save me.
Dad stares at us—eyes bouncing between us, anger melting into… calculation.
“Um… sorry to interrupt this touching moment…” Nate’s shaky voice cuts in.
We turn.
He’s wiping sweat from his forehead, eyes gleaming with the particular frenzy of someone who just had a brilliant or insane idea.
“Maybe… maybe no one needs to be punished. Maybe we don’t deny anything.”
Dad folds his massive arms.
“What the hell are you talking about, Nathaniel?”
“Coach, hear me out. The damage is done. But look at these two.”
He gestures between me and Cohen.
“There’s a narrative.”
He stands, emboldened.
“Public opinion is obsessed. ‘Coach’s Daughter and the Bad Boy.’ It’s a cliché, sure, but one people LOVE. If we deny it, it looks like we’re hiding something. But if we lean into it?”
Dad glares.
Nate presses on.
“They join the reality show. Together. As a couple.”
“Absolutely not,” Dad thunders. He steps in front of me like a human shield. “I’m not feeding my daughter to the media wolves to save one of my players’ asses. Never.”
This is my moment.
My heart slams against my ribs—not from fear but from the adrenaline of the lie I’m about to tailor.
Well… the half-truth.
Because Dad doesn’t know—and absolutely cannot know—that Cohen and I already made a deal.
My stomach tightens at the memory of Mayor Nino barging into my office, his politician smile, his suffocating pressure:
“Sloane, you’re the Cupid of this town. If you don’t participate, who will believe in the show? You must win. For Elm Hollow.”
I was desperate.
Terrified of finding a partner last minute.
Terrified of ruining my hard-earned reputation.
And Cohen… saved me.
Yes, he eavesdropped. Yes, he seized the opportunity. Yes, he has some mysterious aversion to finding a long-term partner.
But when he offered to join me, I could breathe again.
He is my emergency parachute.
A painfully attractive, infuriating parachute—but still.
“Actually, Dad…” I begin softly, praying my voice doesn’t betray me. “It’s not something we can dismiss so easily.”
He turns, frowning.
“What do you mean? No one can force you, Sloane. I won’t allow anyone to—”
“Mayor Nino,” I interrupt.
Dad groans just at the name.
“He came to the agency,” I continue, folding my arms. “He didn’t ask, Dad. He told me. Said it was essential. That the Cupid of Elm Hollow must compete in the first season of a town-wide matchmaking show. That if I don’t participate—and win—the agency loses credibility. He cornered me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cohen’s gaze flick toward me.
He doesn’t move, but something shifts in his expression.
Recognition. Understanding.
He knows I’m telling the truth.
He knows the panic he saw in my eyes that day was real.
“So,” I sigh, meeting Dad’s eyes, “I’m going to have to participate anyway. I don’t have a choice.”
I step closer.
“And honestly, Dad? If I have to walk into that lion’s den… I’d rather do it with Cohen.”
Dad’s jaw drops.
“With HIM? After all this? Why would you want him?”
“Because it’s the only way both you and I win,” I admit—another half-truth slipping out easily. “You don’t want him joining the show alone. To get the sponsorship, you need to win. And I need to win, too.”
I turn toward Cohen.
He meets my gaze—steady, solid.
Dad watches us.
Sees something he can’t quite decipher.
And he’s torn between the instinct to protect me and the brutal realities of politics and his club.
He knows how much my agency means to me.
He knows Nino doesn’t take no for an answer.
He knows the club needs this sponsorship.
Finally, his shoulders drop.
He exhales—long, deep, defeated.
“You’re as stubborn as your mother,” he mutters, shaking his head with affection and exasperation. “And Nino is a manipulative old snake I’m going to strangle someday.”
Then he turns to Cohen.
And the temperature in the room plummets.
Dad steps close—too close. No coach now.
Only father.
“Fine,” he says, voice low, vibrating with threat. “Do it. Go on the damn show.”
Nate makes a strangled noise that sounds like thank God, but no one acknowledges him.
“But listen carefully, Becker.”
Dad presses a thick finger into Cohen’s chest.
“This isn’t a game. She is not a PR strategy. She is my daughter. My family. She is the most precious thing I have.”
His eyes glisten—just for a heartbeat—before hardening into steel again.
“If you pull one more stunt…
If you make ONE more mistake…
I will make your life such a living hell you’ll regret being born.
Am I understood?”
Cohen doesn’t flinch.
He straightens.
And for once, he looks… solemn.
Respectful.
Determined.
“Crystal clear, Coach,” he replies, steady as a vow.
He glances at me—just for a second—and his hazel eyes are darker, unreadable.
“She’ll be safe. I give you my word.”
Dad nods once.
He grabs his jacket, slides it over his shoulders, and adds:
“Start practicing how to look in love. Because you can’t afford to look like… anything else.”
He leaves, slamming the door.
The vibration rattles the walls and drops straight into my stomach.
We stand there.
Me. Cohen. Nate.
Silence.
Then Nate releases a groan straight from his soul.
“Well, you two have the physical part down already. If you can switch that into ‘look at me with heart eyes,’ maybe we won’t all end up unemployed.”