Chapter 6
MADDISON
Ihaven't moved from my desk in two hours. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, but I can't look away. Can't process what I'm seeing.
"Holy shit," I whisper, hitting pause on the third video.
The skinny boy on screen looks nothing like my husband. Nothing. This kid is all awkward angles and too-long limbs, hunched shoulders, eyes cast down. He might be fourteen, but looks twelve at most. The timestamp confirms it's from fifteen years ago.
My phone chimes for the twentieth time in as many minutes. Anya.
"Maddie, are you seeing this?"
"I ... yeah. All of it." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears.
"Seven videos so far. More coming in. Apparently Sebastian's middle school classmates had quite the collection."
"Why now?"
"Conscience, maybe? Or they saw Kyle's bullshit video and couldn't stay silent. Either way, this changes everything."
I hit play again. The skinny boy—Sebastian—is trying to open his locker when Kyle appears, flanked by two other boys. Even then, Kyle had that same smirk, that same sneering voice, that same punchable face.
"Hey, Clayboy. Still can't read the combination? Maybe if your dad was just a little bit present, you'd have more brain cells."
Young Sebastian says nothing, just keeps trying the lock.
Kyle slams his hand against the locker. "I'm talking to you, dipshit."
Sebastian flinches but stays silent. The video goes on for three more excruciating minutes—Kyle knocking Sebastian's books to the floor, shoving him against the lockers, making crude comments about Sebastian's mother.
Not once does Sebastian fight back.
"There's more," Anya says. "Much worse ones. The library. The cafeteria. Behind the gym."
I close my eyes, but the image of that vulnerable boy burns behind my eyelids.
"Sebastian never told me Kyle was his bully," I say.
"Did he know it was the same Kyle?"
"He must have. Kyle recognized him immediately that night."
My inbox pings with another video link. I hesitate before clicking. This one's from the school gymnasium. Sebastian, still painfully small, sits alone on the bleachers. Kyle approaches with a cup of something. Pretends to trip. Dumps the entire contents over Sebastian's head.
Chocolate milk. It drips down his face, soaks his clean shirt. The camera shakes with the videographer's laughter.
"Sebastian just ... takes it," I whisper.
"Different person back then," Anya says. "Before hockey. Before he grew to his full height and gained eighty pounds of muscle."
"Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"Ask him yourself. I've got to coordinate with the team. This is blowing up."
After she hangs up, I stare at my phone. The notifications keep coming—media outlets, social media mentions, journalists seeking comments. Within hours, the narrative has completely flipped.
Sebastian isn't the unprovoked aggressor anymore. He's the bullied kid who grew up, made something of himself, and then protected his future wife from the same tormentor.
It's PR gold. Vindication served on a silver platter.
So why does my chest ache and I just feel like doing nothing but cry?
Public opinion shifts like a flock of starlings—all at once, in perfect synchronization, as if controlled by a single mind. By noon, Kyle's reputation lies in ruins.
Every media outlet runs the story. Childhood bully confronts former victim. Victim defends his woman from verbal assault.
Context really does change everything.
My professional side watches with satisfaction. This is perfect crisis management—organic, authentic, emotionally resonant. Sebastian's endorsement partners are calling to reaffirm their support. The team's social media accounts overflow with messages from fans and anti-bullying advocates.
Kyle's social media has gone dark. Smart move, but too late.
But beneath my professional satisfaction sits something deeper, more personal. Those videos. That boy. The transformation from there to now.
I close my laptop and head upstairs.
Sebastian's in his home gym, punishing the heavy bag. Sweat glistens on his shoulders, across his back, his hair sticking to his forehead and neck. The tattoos ripple with each impact. He's everything that skinny boy wasn't—powerful, confident, imposing.
He sees me in the doorway mirror, stops, and turns. The way he looks at me makes me feel like crying, and I don't cry often. My breath stutters, and I blink back furious tears.
"Hey." He grabs a towel and wipes his face. "You okay, baby?"
"You never told me Kyle was your childhood bully."
He goes still, then nods once. “Mm, how did you find out?"
"Seven videos flooding the internet so far. Your former classmates have been busy, posting.”
Sebastian strips off his gloves and tosses them aside. "I wondered if anyone kept those. I always assumed they took and kept the videos so they could have something to laugh at after class."
"Why didn't you tell me? When all this started, when he was taunting you that night … why not just say it?"
His Adam's apple bobs as he takes a long pull of cold water. "Sit with me?"
We settle on the bench against the wall. His body radiates heat beside me, muscles still twitching from exertion. Sweat still trickling in rivulets down his cheeks and arms. I can't reconcile this powerful man with that fragile boy. But my heart breaks all the same.
"I didn't tell you because it wasn't relevant," he says finally.
"Not relevant? Sebastian, it changes the entire story!"
"Does it?" His blue eyes meet mine. "Would it have changed what we did? Our plan? The marriage?"
The question stops me. "Well, no. But—"
"It would have given Kyle exactly what he wanted—attention.
Significance in my life." Sebastian runs a hand through his damp hair.
"That's what bullies like Kyle crave more than anything.
Recognition. Proof they matter. I mean, he ended up as a paparazzi for a reason.
He likes hounding people to get a reaction, he exploits people and makes money off it. "
I hadn't considered that angle.
"Besides," Sebastian continues, "I didn't want to be the bullied kid in your eyes. I wanted to be the man who chose you."
"Were you embarrassed?"
"Honestly, no. Kyle was nothing to me until he came after you. I wasn't going to elevate him by acknowledging our history. He could have called me names and whatever, and he wouldn't have gotten a rise out of me."
I study his face—the sharp angles so different from that boy's soft features. And here I thought he was always popular. "You knew he'd eventually reveal it himself, didn't you? That's why you were so chill."
A small smile touches his lips. "People like Kyle can't help themselves. They always overplay their hand. I've met so many like him, and you don't really need to do much. Just sit back and enjoy the show."
Understanding blooms, and with it, my chest expands. Sebastian didn't hide his history out of shame. He did it because he knew exactly how this would play out—Kyle exposing himself, destroying his own credibility in the process.
"You out-strategized him," I say, impressed despite my lingering concern.
"I learned to think three steps ahead in hockey." He takes my hand.
Later, I sit cross-legged on our bed, laptop balanced on my knees.
Two more videos appeared this afternoon.
In one, the worst yet, Kyle and his friends steal Sebastian's clothes during gym class, forcing him to wear just a tiny pair of shorts from the lost-and-found.
Painfully tight and restrictive for his already thin frame.
The other shows Sebastian sitting alone in the cafeteria, day after day. Same spot. Same isolation. The video spans months, based on the changing seasons visible through the windows.
"Why watch those?" Sebastian appears in the doorway, hair damp from his shower.
"I need to understand."
"What's to understand? I was skinny, poor, and dyslexic. Perfect target." He sits beside me and closes the laptop gently. "That's not me anymore."
"But it shaped you."
He nods. "Into someone who protects people who can't protect themselves. This is why I hate bullies with a passion."
The pieces click together. His immediate reaction to Kyle's verbal attack on me.
His reputation for fighting anyone who targets his teammates on the ice.
His protective streak. Kyle could insult him all he wants, and Sebastian would shrug it off, but say one nasty word about me, and it's game over for him.
"You became everything that boy needed," I say softly.
"I became what I needed to be." He hooks a finger under my chin and lifts my face for a kiss. "And found exactly who I needed to find."
"I still wish you'd told me."
"Would you have seen me differently?"
"Maybe. At first."
"That's why." He strokes my cheek. "I wanted you to know me as I am now, not as I was then."
My phone chimes with another notification. I check it automatically.
"Three more hockey equipment companies want to re-up your endorsements. With significant increases."
He doesn't even glance at the phone. "Good."
"Don't you want to know the details?"
"Later." He takes the phone and sets it aside. "Right now, I'd rather focus on you."
"Kyle's career is over … if he had one to begin with," I say. "Every outlet that ran his story is publishing retractions. Your reputation is completely restored."
"I don't care about my reputation. I told you that already." He slides me closer to him. "I care about this. Us."
"The PR crisis is officially over. We could..." I hesitate. "We could start discussing what happens next. The original agreement."
"The divorce?" He shakes his head. "Not happening."
"I'm just saying, contractually—"
"Fuck the contract." His voice drops, sending shivers across my skin. "You're my wife. For real. If you want, we can get married again. No pretensions, no contracts, no PR stunts this time."
The conviction in his voice erases any lingering doubts. This isn't the marriage we planned—the strategic alliance, the temporary solution. This is something neither of us expected but both of us want.
"I love you, Sebastian."
"I know." He smiles, that rare genuine smile that transforms his face. "But I've loved you longer."
"This is not a competition."
"I'm sorry. Did you forget who you married? I'm competitive by nature."
"You know what, I take that back."
"Nope."
The word is barely out of his mouth before he captures mine with a kiss that makes my toes curl. Just like that, everything fades into the background, and all I see, hear, and feel is him. My husband.
The love of my life.