Chapter 11
CHARLOTTE
My throat is burning, holding back the tears, the fear, the hurt that has killed me a little every day. It’s a struggle not to scream like a damn banshee.
The blood trust shattered.
I can’t look at my brother, knowing he agreed to this.
“We had to think of it as a business decision.” It doesn’t matter how gentle the words come out of Franklin’s mouth, every goddamn syllable is an arrow piercing my heart.
“I trusted you to stop it,” I murmur, looking out of the glass to the court below.
Behind me, Franklin pours himself a whiskey, the crystal glass clinking against the decanter.
He doesn’t say a damn thing. My chest is so fucking tight I can barely breathe.
From behind the glass of my office, I look down and watch our players train, laugh, and pat each other’s backs.
They are a unit and support each other, and it has taken years for them to get to this point.
“Do they know?”
“They will tonight.”
“Byron?”
“Yes.”
I spin around. “When?”
“Right before I came to you.”
I turn and rest my forehead on the glass, watching Byron shoot. “Was he okay with it?” I croak because I feel so alone and deserted by my family when they know my feelings about Brandon.
“No. He was fucking livid but understood the decision is best for the team. He said he’ll play alongside him and make the bastard look good, but don’t expect anything from him off the court.”
A small smile tugs at my lips, bittersweet and fleeting.
I don’t need to stand face-to-face with Brandon—but Byron does.
Every single day, he’ll have to look him in the eye, pretending the past never happened.
Pretending the wounds Brandon Johns left behind don’t still ache, the scars invisible but impossible to ignore.
I’ll wear mine like a fucking trophy because I survived, and he won’t get the chance to do it again.
“Is Walter celebrating?”
“Lottie.” He places an arm around my shoulder. “We’ll give him a chance. If he doesn’t perform, then we’ll send the fucker packing.”
“That better be a promise.”