28. Wyatt
Wyatt
We lost.
Bad.
I could still hear the buzzer in my head—that final, damning sound that marked the end of a game we should have won. Three to one. Sloppy plays. Missed opportunities. My fault on the second goal when I'd been too slow rotating back.
The hotel room felt like a cage.
I paced from the window to the bathroom and back again, tie loosened around my neck, shirt half unbuttoned because I couldn't stand anything tight against my skin right now.
The game still pounded through my veins—adrenaline with nowhere to go, rage at the loss mixing with something darker I didn't want to name.
The team bus ride back had been silent. Nobody spoke after a loss like that. Just twenty-two guys sitting in the dark, replaying every mistake, every missed shot, every second we'd let slip through our fingers.
Now it was past midnight.
And I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.
Chastity in the stands at the last home game, cheering when I'd scored, smiling like I'd hung the moon.
Chastity with her hair spread across my pillow this morning, soft and warm and mine.
Her voice whispering my name like a prayer.
Her fingers tracing the scars on my chest like they were something beautiful instead of broken.
I checked my phone again.
No messages.
The screen glowed in the dark hotel room, empty of notifications, and something in my chest constricted.
I wondered how the merger party had gone. If she'd worn the dress she'd mentioned. If investors had circled her like sharks the way they always did with Harrington's daughter. If her father had used her again—positioned her like a chess piece in his endless game of appearances and power plays.
I wondered if she'd missed me the way I missed her.
The thought hit harder than any check I'd taken tonight.
I ran a hand through my hair and swore under my breath, the words harsh in the quiet room.
This was supposed to be revenge. Use the daughter to destroy the father. Make Harrington watch as his perfect image crumbled. Force him to live with the same kind of public humiliation he'd inflicted on me when he'd crawled into my bed and touched my wife.
Not this.
Not her.
Not whatever had happened between us that had nothing to do with cameras or performance or the carefully constructed lie we were supposed to be living.
Not the way my hands had trembled this morning when I'd traced her spine. Not the way her laugh made something in my chest crack open. Not the protective rage that had surged through me when Barbara had threatened her.
Not love.
I couldn't love her.
Loving her would ruin everything.
A sharp knock hit the door.
I froze, phone still in my hand, every muscle going taut.
It was almost one in the morning.
Another knock. Harder this time.
I crossed the room in three strides and pulled the door open—
And stopped cold.
Chastity stood there.
Hair messy, like she'd been running her hands through it for hours. Makeup smudged beneath her eyes. The dress she'd mentioned wearing to the party was wrinkled, fabric creased like she'd been sitting in a car too long.
And her eyes—
Something in her eyes made my chest lock.
"Chastity?"
She stepped inside before I could ask anything, brushing past me into the hotel room. The scent of her perfume mixed with night air and something sharper—panic, maybe. Fear.
I shut the door and turned.
She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, breathing too fast.
"What happened?" My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "Did someone hurt you?"
She shook her head, but the movement was jerky. Unconvincing.
"Talk to me."
She looked at me then, and the expression on her face gutted me.
Not anger. Not tears.
Something worse.
Confusion. Betrayal. Like the ground had opened beneath her and she was still falling.
"I heard them," she whispered.
I stepped closer. "Heard who?"
"My parents." Her voice cracked. "They were fighting at the party. I wasn't supposed to—I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but—"
She pressed her palms to her face.
When she looked up again, her eyes were glassy.
"My mother said something about Barbara." She swallowed hard. "About my father sleeping with her. For two years."
Every nerve in my body lit.
"She called Barbara his mistress, Wyatt."
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Because this was it. The moment the lie started unraveling. The moment she started putting the pieces together. And I had no idea what the hell to say.
"Did my father have an affair with Barbara?"
The question hung in the air between us, and I felt every muscle in my body lock down. Her voice trembled, but underneath the fear was something harder. Determination. She'd driven God knew how far in the middle of the night to ask me this. She deserved the truth.
I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Yes."
The word felt like pulling a trigger.
Her breath caught—sharp and pained—but she didn't look away. Didn't flinch.
She nodded once, like she'd been hoping I'd deny it but had known I wouldn't.
Then she told me everything. The merger party.
The fake smiles and champagne and investors circling like vultures.
Her father introducing her to her ex—her goddamn ex—like it was nothing.
Like she was a prop in his performance. The way the bastard had cornered her near the balcony.
How she'd slapped him when he'd grabbed her wrist.
Pride flared hot in my chest at that detail, but I kept my face neutral.
Then the hallway. Looking for her father. Hearing voices raised behind a closed door.
Her mother's voice breaking through years of polished silence.
The words: your mistress.
Barbara's name.
Two years.
Her father's low, dangerous denial that only confirmed the truth.
I listened without interrupting, hands curled into fists at my sides, because I knew exactly where this was going. Every word she spoke was another brick pulled from the foundation I'd built this whole plan on.
When she finished, she wrapped her arms tighter around herself and whispered, "That's why you wanted revenge."
Not a question.
A realization.
I nodded. "That was the plan."
The truth landed between us like a bomb, and I watched her absorb the impact. Watched her piece together every moment from the masquerade garden to this hotel room. The zipper. The photos. The fake relationship that had stopped being fake somewhere along the way.
Me using her to hurt her father.
Her face went pale.
"Chastity—"
"Was I ever real to you?" she asked, voice cracking. "Or was I just... leverage?"
The question gutted me.
Because the answer should have been simple.
But it wasn't.
Not anymore.
She looked at me. Eyes searching. "And now?"
I laughed quietly. But there was no humor in it. "You ruined it."
She blinked. "What?"
I ran a hand over my face, the exhaustion and rage and something sharper all colliding in my chest. "I was supposed to use you.
" I forced myself to meet her eyes. Had to.
She deserved that much. "Embarrass your father.
Destroy the merger. Burn his reputation down.
" A long pause stretched between us, heavy with everything I couldn't take back.
"But then you moved into my house." I took another step closer, drawn by something I didn't want to name.
"Then you started smiling at me." My voice softened despite myself. "And you ruined everything."
Her breath caught, and I watched her throat work as she tried to process what I was telling her. The plan. The revenge. The way she'd dismantled it all without even trying.
"How can you even stand to look at me?" Her voice broke on the words.
The question hit me harder than anything tonight. Harder than the loss. Harder than Barbara's threats. Harder than the weight of my own goddamn guilt.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us until I could see the tears she was fighting to keep from falling. "Because you're not your father."
The words came out rougher than I meant them to, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.
She swallowed hard, still shaking.
"You're angry."
I studied her face—the way her jaw was set, the fire still burning in her eyes despite everything I'd just told her. The stubborn tilt of her chin that said she wasn't backing down even though I'd just admitted I'd been using her.
She was angry.
And somehow—despite the shattered plan, despite the guilt eating at my chest, despite knowing I didn't deserve her—
She was still adorable.
Still mine.
"Yeah," I admitted. "I'm angry." I reached up and cupped her face, thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "I'm angry that your father destroyed my life and walked away clean. I'm angry that I let revenge turn into this. I'm angry that I didn't tell you the truth sooner."
Her eyes widened, searching mine.
"But mostly?" My voice dropped lower, rougher. "I'm angry that I fell for you anyway."
She inhaled sharply. "Wyatt—"
"I didn't want to," I continued, the confession spilling out before I could stop it.
"I didn't plan for this. For you. For any of it.
" I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in.
"But you walked into my life and you didn't run when you should have.
You defended me to Barbara. You took care of me when I was bleeding.
You slept in my bed and you trusted me even when I didn't deserve it.
" My hands slid into her hair, cradling her face like she was something precious instead of leverage.
"So yeah, sweetheart. You ruined everything. "
Her hands came up to grip my wrists, holding on like she was afraid I'd pull away.
"I love you." The truth slipped out before I could stop it.
She froze. "What?"
I laughed softly at myself. Because apparently tonight I was just saying everything. All the words I'd kept locked down for weeks now spilling out in this hotel room like I'd lost all control.
Maybe I had.
I stepped closer and cupped her face, forcing her to look at me. To see that I meant it. "I love you, sweetheart."