Undisputed Player (The Undisputed #2)

Prologue One

Estelle

T he morning always started before the sun rose, before the city's noise filtered through the cracked windows, and before the weight of another day could settle fully on my shoulders.

Some days I wondered if I'd just... stop. If I'd finally give in to the bone-deep exhaustion that’s been my constant companion for the past year and simply refuse to get up.

Just five more minutes, I bargained with myself, the same lie I told every morning. Five more minutes and then I’d figure out how to be human again.

I lay there for another stolen second, listening to the soft rhythm of Leo's breathing from the next room. It was the only sound in this world that didn't make me want to scream.

Sometimes I pretended we were somewhere else, somewhere with walls that didn't have mysterious stains and sheets that didn't feel like sandpaper against my skin.

Somewhere, I could wake up without immediately calculating how many hours until I could collapse again .

But fantasies were for people who had the luxury of hope, and I'd learned long ago that hope was just delayed disappointment dressed up in pretty packaging.

The apartment felt smaller every day, like it was slowly suffocating us both.

Two rooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that could barely contain the secondhand table I'd dragged home from a yard sale—the same table where I cried weekly over legal documents and counted coins until my fingers went numb.

The floor creaked in the same spots every morning, a symphony of structural failure that matched my internal soundtrack. I memorized every weak board, every protest of tired wood, moving through our space like a ghost who learned to haunt quietly.

At least ghosts didn’t have to pay rent. The thought was bitter as I padded toward the kitchen.

I grabbed the kettle just before it whistled, pouring hot water over instant coffee, breathing in the bitter steam that never quite masked the smell of mold creeping through the walls.

My reflection in the window looked back at me: hollow-eyed, sharp-cheeked, brown hair that used to shine now pulled into a ponytail that screamed, "I gave up three existential crises ago."

I'd been tired since Giselle passed. Tired since Leo's small hand found mine at the funeral and held on like I was his anchor in a storm I couldn't calm.

Tired since I realized that love wasn't enough to pay bills, or fight custody battles, or keep the lights on when the world decided you didn't deserve basic human dignity.

God, I was exhausted, watching my reflection flinch at its own honesty.

I sipped the coffee and opened the banking app on my phone. The numbers glared back at me with the same cruel indifference they showed daily.

Seventy-three dollars and sixteen cents. Enough for groceries and the remaining bill if I skipped lunch. Again.

Enough for exactly nothing that resembled financial security .

I'd gotten good at the mathematics of desperation. Cereal for dinner meant Leo could have the leftover soup for lunch. Skipping breakfast meant he could have seconds. Wearing the same three outfits on rotation meant we could keep our water on.

There were times I caught him watching me with those impossibly green eyes, Giselle's eyes, and I knew he saw through every fake smile I plastered on.

Five years old and already learning that adults lied to protect him from truths he was too young to carry.

He'd offer me his last bite of toast or push his cup of juice toward me with tiny, serious hands, and I'd want to cry because children shouldn't have to parent their parents.

He deserved better than this for the thousandth time. He deserved better than me.

And that was exactly why I wouldn't let Damon take him. Leo needed stability, not a life of violence and moral compromise. He needed someone who'd read him bedtime stories, not someone who'd teach him to count drug money.

He needed love, not legacy.

The bastard made his choice when he let Giselle spiral further into addiction. When he'd provided the drugs that killed her and then had the audacity to want custody of the son he'd never bothered to know.

Over my dead body, which, considering my current trajectory, might be sooner than I'd like.

I had to focus, one day at a time. One bill at a time, one legal fee at a time, until this nightmare was over.

The city was starting to wake up by the time Leo shuffled into the kitchen, light brown hair sticking up in six different directions and green eyes still soft with sleep.

He looked like Giselle had at that age, wild hair and adorable, and my heart performed its daily routine of breaking and mending simultaneously.

Giselle was my beautiful sister, only three years older than me. Though she always managed to wind up with the wrong people. Even as the younger one, I was always lecturing her and getting her out of trouble she had a knack for getting into.

But it wasn’t enough this time, I’d failed. She left us three years ago, and now I have her baby in my care.

"Morning, Elle," Leo mumbled, climbing into his chair and hugging his knees to his chest like a tiny, adorable teddy.

He'd never called me "Aunt"—not before we lost Giselle, and certainly not after. It was always just "Elle," like I was his friend, his equal, his person. I thought he understood our situation better than I gave him credit for.

"Morning, little guy,” I greeted, voice rough with sleep and instant coffee. I ruffled his soft hair and pressed a kiss to his cheek, stealing a moment of warmth in our cold, damp world. "Sleep okay?"

He nodded, but I caught the way his eyes darted toward the window, toward the street where strangers might park cars that didn't belong. He'd learned to be watchful, too. Another thing I'd failed to protect him from.

"Breakfast sandwich or oatmeal?" I asked, already knowing the answer but needing the routine, the normalcy of choice in a life where we had so few.

He turned to survey our sparse kitchen counters, the same counters that reminded me daily of everything I couldn't provide, and guilt twisted in my gut.

"Oatmeal with the brown sugar?"

"The special kind," I agreed, because even if we couldn't afford much, I could at least make his oatmeal feel like a luxury. Small victories in a war I was slowly losing.

I measured oats into our dented pot while listening to the soft whisper of his crayons against construction paper. He'd been drawing constantly lately—elaborate castles and fantastical creatures in colors that didn't exist in our gray world.

"It's a castle," Leo announced, holding up his latest creation. Crayon turrets pierced a sky streaked with sunset colors, and a lone yellow stick figure waved from the highest window .

“It’s for you. So you can be the queen and make all the rules."

The wooden spoon clattered against the pot as my hands started shaking.

Don't cry. I couldn’t cry. Do not cry in front of him. But the drawing was so hopeful, so beautifully naive, and he'd colored the stick figure's hair brown just like mine.

“Queens need dragons to guard their treasure," I managed, pouring brown sugar over his oatmeal in a swirl pattern. "What's your rate for fire-breathing services?"

His giggle was the only sound in the world that could untangle the knots in my chest. I could pretend we were okay. That we were more than just two people clinging to each other in a world determined to pull us apart.

But moments like these were dangerous. They made me hope, and hope was a luxury I couldn't afford.

We ate in comfortable silence. Leo, because he was still half-asleep, and I, because I was calculating how many days until our next court date and whether I'd have enough money for both the lawyer and rent.

I packed his backpack with the same meticulous care I'd learned to apply to everything: double-checking his pencil case, making sure his shoes were tied tight enough to last the day, and ensuring there were no holes.

Control what you can control. Everything else was just chaos wearing a schedule.

I'd learned to be hypervigilant since Damon's lawyer had started sniffing around. I often caught glimpses of unfamiliar cars parked too long on our street and his men hanging around.

Pepper spray lived in my jacket pocket, and I'd installed security cameras with money I couldn't spare because paranoia was cheaper than tragedy.

The walk to the bus stop felt longer every day. Leo’s small hand was warm in mine while my eyes scanned every face, every car, every shadow that might hide someone sent to watch us .

After our long commute, Seaside Academy rose ahead of us like a monument to everything we'd never have in its manicured perfection. The pristine lawns alone starkly contrasted our neighborhood's cracked sidewalks and graffiti walls.

Every time I walked through those doors, I felt like an impostor: thrifted jeans and scuffed sneakers among designer handbags and luxury cars.

But I held my head high anyway, because I was here for Leo, and because I'd learned that pride was sometimes the only armor you had left.

Just another day. Just another day of pretending I belong here until it becomes true.

The halls gleamed with the kind of cleanliness that money could buy, and the air carried the faint scent of expensive perfume and privilege.

Leo hugged me and walked toward morning care with the quiet dignity of someone who'd learned too young that goodbyes could be permanent.

His secondhand uniform was neat but noticeably more worn than his classmates’. He turned around with a small smile and a tiny wave. I waved back discreetly, my heart warming at our secret morning ritual.

After he disappeared around the corner, I allowed myself one shaky breath.

My coworkers were kind enough, but I kept my distance.

It was easier to avoid questions about why I never joined them for drinks, why I always declined dinner invitations, and why I looked like I hadn't slept in a year this way.