16. Chapter 16
Darius
I'm at the AFC media summit evening reception watching Claire work the room with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and I know — down to my bones — that something happened during that coffee break she hasn't told me.
Normally, somewhere between conversations and introductions, our eyes find each other. It's never anything dramatic — just a quick glance across a crowded room, a silent check-in that tells me she's okay and that everything is under control. Tonight, that connection is missing.
She moves from one conversation to the next without looking my way, and the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore the feeling that she's carrying something she doesn't want me to see.
I want to pull her aside right now. But we're in the middle of a room full of people who are watching us, and the worst thing I can do is make a scene.
So I shake the hands I'm supposed to shake and smile when the conversation calls for it. Around me, the reception hums with polite laughter and carefully rehearsed networking, the kind of event I've learned to survive without really paying attention.
Jaylen takes most of the football questions off my plate without being asked, stepping in with an easy grin whenever someone wants to rehash old headlines or speculate about next season. Three years ago, I would've seen it as someone trying to steal the spotlight. Now I'm grateful.
I should be paying attention to the executives circling the room with foundation opportunities, franchise pitches, and compliments about my "remarkable season."
Instead, my eyes keep finding Claire.
I catch myself looking for her so often that I almost miss Jaylen's smirk.
"What?" I mutter.
His gaze follows mine across the room before settling back on me.
"Damn, bro," he says, shaking his head.
"What?"
"She's got you whipped!"
I scoff, but there's a half smile behind it that I can't quite kill.
Jaylen laughs. "You haven't heard a single thing that guy's been saying for the last five minutes."
He's not wrong.
Because Claire has just stopped beside a sponsor near the ballroom entrance, and even from across the room I can see something isn't right.
The smile she's wearing doesn't belong to her.
"Does she seem off to you?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Jaylen's expression shifts, the teasing fading as he glances across the room again.
"I don't know," he says slowly. "But I did see her outside earlier."
Every muscle in my body goes still.
"Outside?"
"Yeah." He shrugs. "She was talking to Camille."
A slow burn starts in my chest.
Camille didn't belong at this event.
She definitely didn't belong alone with Claire.
I think back to the moment she showed up earlier, all polished smiles and practiced charm. Most people saw a beautiful woman supporting a charitable cause. I saw an ex who'd never liked sharing attention and hated losing anything she thought belonged to her.
I roll my neck and tug at my collar.
"What'd they talk about?" I ask, keeping my voice deliberately neutral.
Jaylen shrugs. "No clue. I was headed back inside when I saw them."
I barely hear the rest.
The pieces are already clicking together in my head.
Claire comes back from a conversation with Camille looking like someone punched a hole straight through her confidence, and somehow I'm supposed to believe that's a coincidence?
Not a chance.
What the hell did she say to her?
More importantly, why didn't Claire tell me?
For weeks now, we've handled everything together. Every problem. Every headline. Every unexpected complication. Somewhere along the way, we'd stopped being two people playing a part and started becoming a team.
Or at least I thought we had.
The realization settles heavily in my chest.
Whatever happened out there, she decided to carry it alone.
Across the ballroom, she laughs at something a sponsor says, but the sound doesn't reach her eyes. The sight of it twists something ugly inside me.
The only thing I want is to get her away from the noise and the expectations long enough to find out what happened, because the thought of her standing there hurting while pretending she's fine is becoming impossible to ignore.
But first, I have some unfinished business.
***
It doesn't take long to find her.
Camille is standing near the bar, holding court with a group of league executives looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. The men laugh at something she says, and she rewards them with the kind of smile that has opened doors her entire life.
I wait until the conversation reaches a natural pause before stepping into the circle.
"Darius." Her smile brightens on cue. "I was wondering when we'd finally get a chance to talk."
"I'm sure you were."
Something flickers in her eyes.
The executives glance between us, suddenly aware they're standing in the middle of a conversation they probably shouldn't be hearing.
Camille recovers first.
"How have you been?"
"Cut the bullshit, Camille."
Silence falls over the group. Not loud enough to draw attention. Just enough.
Her smile doesn't disappear, but it definitely tightens.
One of the executives clears his throat and excuses himself. The others quickly follow.
Within seconds, we're alone.
Camille watches them leave before turning back to me.
"Well," she says lightly, "that was dramatic."
"What did you say to Claire?"
The question lands exactly the way I intended it to. Direct. Unavoidable.
For the first time all evening, she looks genuinely surprised.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Her expression softens into something almost innocent.
"Darius, I had a perfectly pleasant conversation with your fiancée."
I don't buy it for a second.
Neither does she.
Camille has always been smart enough to lie without technically lying.
"I saw the way Claire looked afterward."
"Maybe she's stressed."
"Camille."
She sighs. "I'm not sure why you're assuming I had anything to do with her mood."
I don't answer. I just look at her for one long moment. Then I walk away.
***
By the time I push through the ballroom doors, my tie is hanging loose around my neck and the top button of my shirt is undone. I don't remember when I loosened it, and I couldn't tell you a single thing that was said during the last ten minutes of networking if somebody put a gun to my head.
All I know is that Claire is gone.
The door slams shut behind me hard enough to rattle the frame, and I drag a hand across the back of my neck as I head for the stairwell. Heat is crawling beneath my skin, the familiar kind that used to get me into trouble.
A few years ago, I would've walked right back into that ballroom and called Camille every name that came to mind in front of God and everybody.
I would've let my temper off the leash and dared somebody to stop me, convincing myself I was defending my reputation when really I was just handing her exactly what she wanted.
The thought settles something inside me.
Camille doesn't get to decide who I become anymore.
What she said to Claire is another matter entirely.
My pace quickens.
***
I find the stairwell door propped open at the far end of the corridor.
Claire is on the landing below, phone in her hand, not using it. She hears me and turns, and for half a second I see it — she looks like she's been fighting a losing battle for the last hour, but when her eyes find mine there's a flicker in them, small and careful, like maybe the odds just shifted.
She straightens before I reach the bottom step.
"I was just getting some air."
"Claire."
She looks at the phone in her hand. Then she puts it in her purse.
I lean one hand against the wall beside her — not blocking her, just closing off the exit she was already calculating — and keep my voice low.
"What did she say to you?"
"It was a professional conversation," she says, her eyes sliding away from mine.
"What did she say."
Claire lets out a long breath, like she's been holding it in and finally decided to let it go.
"The conversation wasn't what she claimed it would be," Claire says finally, her eyes dropping briefly to the floor. "She wanted me to pass along a proposal."
I lean against the wall and wait.
Claire exhales.
"Her attorneys are preparing a statement about Atlanta.
She wants you to sign one too. Something that says you pursued her, that she wasn't responsible for the relationship, that everything was initiated by you, and that nothing physical ever happened between you two — that you blew the whole thing out of proportion. "
A short, disbelieving laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The kind of laugh that comes out when something is so audacious you don't know what else to do with it.
"And if I don't?"
Claire laughs too, but there's nothing behind it.
"Then apparently she's prepared to make things very difficult for both of us."
"She thinks if enough women come forward with stories, whether they're true or not, it creates a narrative. A pattern. Something sponsors and teams won't want attached to your name."
"And you."
Claire's gaze flickers up.
"And me," she admits.
I nod once.
"Keep going."
Her shoulders stiffen.
"That's most of it."
"No, it isn't."
The words come out quieter than I expect.
Claire looks away.
I wait.
After a moment, she lets out a slow breath.
"She said people would talk if the engagement fell apart."
"People already talk."
"This was different."
The knot in my chest tightens.
"How?"
Claire presses her lips together. For a second I think she's going to brush it off again.
Then she says, "Darius." Her voice drops.
"You don't get it. Camille doesn't just know people — she runs people.
Every charity board, every league wives event, every invitation-only dinner that actually matters.
I've spent my whole career on the outside of those rooms. This job was supposed to change that.
And she just told me she can make sure it never does. "
"Come on, Claire. You've never needed anyone to open a door for you. What else?"