Jaxon,

Per our discussion, the amendment is finalized. Five-million-dollar bonus will be paid upon resolution of the female player situation within twelve months of signing. Current status: four months remaining.

Resolution

defined as: voluntary resignation, trade acceptance, or contract termination.

Your cooperation in facilitating said resolution is appreciated.

Performance metrics attached.

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, because apparently my brain had decided there must be another meaning hidden somewhere between the words. Maybe “female player situation” meant something else. Maybe “resolution” was not me being erased from the Titans roster like a scheduling mistake. Maybe “your cooperation” did not mean Jaxon Kane had been paid to help push me out of the only thing I had ever fought to keep.

But the words did not change. Not in the slightest.

My name was not written in the email but it was everywhere.

Female player situation.

Resolution.

Voluntary resignation.

Trade acceptance.

Contract termination.

I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

When it was over, I stayed on the cold tile floor, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, my throat burning and my eyes wet for reasons that had nothing to do with nausea.

The apartment was silent. Too silent. Jaxon’s laptop still glowed in the living room, waiting like a loaded weapon.

I should have closed it. I should have walked away. I should have told myself that reading more would only hurt worse.

Instead, I went back.

Because apparently I was the kind of woman who needed to watch the knife enter before she believed she was bleeding.

My fingers shook as I opened the attachment.

Performance Metrics: Rory Callahan.

It was a neat file with clean fonts and professional formatting. There were charts for everything. My penalty minutes. My injuries. My media appearances. My “incidents.”

Every headline I had tried not to read was listed there like evidence in a trial. Every time I spoke up in an interview. Every time I reacted to a bad call. Every time I pushed back when reporters asked whether I was physically strong enough to survive in the league.

There were notes beside the entries:

Subject demonstrates heightened emotional response to public criticism.

Subject displays increased aggression following perceived exclusion by teammates.

Subject remains socially isolated within team structure.

My stomach rolled again but this time nothing came up.

Subject. Not Rory. Not Callahan.

Subject.

I scrolled lower, my breathing turning shallow. Then I found the recommendation.

Subject responds poorly to public criticism but shows vulnerability to perceived personal connection. Suggest continued proximity strategy.

I stopped moving as the entire apartment narrowed to those words.

Vulnerability to perceived personal connection.

I saw Jaxon’s hand covering mine at dinner.

Perceived.

I heard his voice saying, I really, really do not.

Personal connection.

I felt his mouth on mine outside the restaurant, his hand in my hair, his body close enough to make me forget who he was.

Strategy.

A laugh broke out of me and it sounded wrong. Sharp. Small. Almost broken.

So that was what I had been. Not a teammate. Not a challenge. Not a woman he hated and maybe wanted and definitely did not understand.

A problem. A situation. A subject with weaknesses.

The brutal checks during practice were not just Jaxon being Jaxon. They were pressure. Wear her down. Make her hurt. Make the ice feel unsafe enough that leaving would look like her choice.

The stance corrections were not lessons. They were humiliation. Hands on my hips, breath at my neck, the entire team watching while he turned my body into another place where he could prove his control.

The fake relationship was not inconvenient. It was useful. A way to get close. A way to study me. A way to find out exactly where to press until something cracked.

And the kiss—

I closed my eyes.

No.

I would not think about the kiss.

Too late.

I thought about it.

I thought about the way he had asked, May I? Like he was giving me power. Like I had a choice. Like my yes meant something more than permission to play the next scene.

My chest hurt so I pressed a fist against it and hated myself for that too.

There were women who cried beautifully. Quiet tears. Shaking shoulders. Soft tragedy.

I was not one of them.

I cried like I was angry about it.

The tears came hot and fast and I wiped at them like they had personally offended me. Then the crying stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving something colder behind.

Fine, I thought angrily. He wanted to play. I could play.

I would play.

***

By the time Jaxon returned the next morning, I had slept for forty minutes, showered twice, deleted nothing from his laptop and learned how to put my face back together.

He came in carrying breakfast. Of course he did. Because the devil apparently remembered oat milk and bought croissants.

I was sitting at the kitchen table in leggings and a sweatshirt, hair damp from the shower, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee I had not tasted.

He paused when he saw me. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

His eyes moved over my face. “You look tired.”

“Did not sleep much.”

He set the bag on the counter. “About last night—”

“It is fine.”

His brows drew together.

I smiled.

“You were right,” I continued. “We were getting too comfortable. This is business.”

Something shifted in his face. Relief came first. Then something else.

Disappointment?

I didn't want to know or care.

“Right,” he said slowly. “Business.”

“We should practice couple stuff,” I added, standing.

His eyes narrowed. “Couple stuff?”

“For photos. Interviews. Whatever performance Lena wants from us next.”

I walked toward him before my courage could fail. Jaxon did not move. That was his mistake. I placed my palm against his chest and his body went still beneath my hand.

Hard muscle. Steady heartbeat. Warmth I had no business noticing.

His pupils widened slightly. I filed that away.

“So,” I said lightly, tilting my head up, “if I touch you like this, you do not look like someone being forced to tolerate me.”

His voice dropped. “Rory.”

“What?” I drew closer, my voice turning husky. “Too much?”

His hand twitched at his side and I smiled sweeter.

“See?” I said. “Just acting.”

Then I pulled away.

I did not look back quickly enough to see his fists clench but I heard his breath change.

Good, I thought with a smug smile.

***

At practice, I played like my body had been built from broken glass and revenge.

Every pass was sharp. Every turn was fast. Every hit was clean.

Mostly.

Jaxon knew what I was doing within the first five minutes.

He knew because he always knew.

I clipped his shoulder during a drill and stole the puck before he could reset. He came after me on the next rotation and boxed me in along the boards with enough force to rattle my teeth but not enough to draw a whistle.

“Problem, Callahan?” he asked.

I smiled behind my mouthguard. “Not anymore.”

His eyes flashed.

We did not practice after that.

We fought.

We fought not with fists. Not with words, at least not at first. Rather, we fought with speed and steel and sharp turns. We fought with shoulders and checks and stolen pucks. We fought like the ice was the only place our bodies were allowed to tell the truth.

He hit harder. I moved faster. He blocked. I cut around him. He anticipated. I adapted.

By the time Coach blew the whistle, half the team had stopped pretending they were not watching.

“I do not know what foreplay looks like for you two,” Coach barked, “but save it for home!”

The team burst into laughter.

I ripped off my helmet and glared at Jaxon.

He glared back.

For one second, the rink disappeared again. There was only him and me and the ugly, burning thing between us that did not care whether it was hate or want, because either way, it demanded to be fed.

Marcus caught up to me near the bench.

“What is going on?” he asked.

“Practice.”

“That was not practice.”

I took a long drink of water. “Then what was it?”

Marcus looked toward Jaxon, then back at me. “War.”

My mouth curved in response. “Maybe it always was.”

His expression changed. “Rory?”

I walked away before he could ask the question I was not ready to answer.

By late afternoon, the team had decided my punishment for surviving practice was a couple’s photoshoot.

Lena called it “controlled intimacy.”

I called it “evidence for my future insanity hearing.”

The studio was bright, expensive, and full of people who kept telling me to relax while asking me to lean into the man who had a financial incentive to destroy me.

Jaxon arrived in a black sweater and dark jeans, looking unfairly calm.

I wanted to throw something at him.

Instead, I let the stylist fix my hair and tried not to think about the email still sitting like poison under my skin.

“Closer,” the photographer called. “Jaxon, hands on her waist. Rory, soften your shoulders.”

Jaxon’s hands settled on my waist and my body remembered him before my mind could stop it.

Traitor. My body was a fucking traitor.

“Perfect,” the photographer said. “Now, Rory, lean back into him.”

I did. His chest brushed my back and my throat tightened.

“Beautiful. More heat. You are in love, remember?”

I almost laughed in response. In love? How ridiculous?!

Jaxon’s mouth lowered near my ear. “What is wrong?”

I kept smiling for the camera. “Nothing.”

“You have been different since yesterday.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

The photographer circled us. “Great tension. Hold that.”

Jaxon’s fingers tightened slightly against my waist. “Talk to me.”

That almost did it. Not the order. Not the closeness. The fact that he sounded like he meant it. It almost did it.

I turned my face slightly, just enough that my cheek nearly brushed his.

“Just wondering how far you will take this,” I whispered.

He went still.

“The fake relationship,” I continued. “How committed are you, Captain?”

His voice was low. “What does that mean?”

I smiled for the camera. “How badly do you want me gone?”

His hands tightened and his jaw clenched so hard I saw the muscle jump.

“You have no idea what I want,” he said with gritted teeth.

The photographer shouted, “Perfect! That is the shot!”

Of course it was.

It was the perfect shot of a woman pretending not to break and the man being paid to hold the pieces.

***

That night, I pretended to fall asleep on the couch.

It was not hard. I was exhausted enough to collapse but my mind refused to shut down. The apartment was dark except for the thin light above the stove. Rain tapped lightly against the windows.

Jaxon came home late.

I kept my breathing even as I listened to him. He moved quietly but I knew the sound of him now. The soft scrape of his shoes. The pause near the doorway. The way he stood still before entering a room, as if deciding which version of himself to bring in.

His phone rang before he reached the bedroom. He answered in the kitchen. “No.”

A pause.

“I do not care about the money anymore.”

My eyes stayed closed but my heart did not.

“I know what I signed,” he said, voice rough. “I know.”

Another pause.

Then with a softer tone, he said, “She is not the problem. I am.”

The apartment seemed to hold its breath with me as I listened.

“No, I am not backing out,” he continued, “I just need more time. This is more complicated than—”

He stopped.

For one terrifying second, I thought he knew I was awake. His footsteps moved toward me. I stayed still. The couch dipped slightly as he stood beside it. I felt him there before he touched me. The warmth of his body. The hesitation.

Then a blanket settled over me in a careful, gentle manner. And his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

I almost flinched. Almost. But I didn't.

He stayed there for a moment and I knew without opening my eyes that he was watching me intensely. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than air.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “For all of it. You will never know, but I am.”

My chest cracked just enough to let pain in where anger had been doing such a good job keeping everything else out.

Jaxon walked away.

I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even, and felt something break open inside me.

The man who was paid to destroy me had just tucked me in.

And I had no idea what was real anymore.

The news alert came while I was brushing my teeth.

TITANS CAPTAIN JAXON KANE AND FEMALE PLAYER RORY CALLAHAN: LOVE MATCH OR PR STUNT? INSIDE SOURCES SUGGEST RELATIONSHIP MAY BE FABRICATED.

I stared at the screen so long toothpaste slid down my chin.

For one strange second, I did not move. I just stood there in my bathroom, barefoot, hair a mess, one hand gripping my toothbrush while the headline carved itself into my brain.

Inside sources.

Of course.

There was always a source. Always someone smiling in the locker room, clapping you on the shoulder, pretending not to carry a knife. Someone had leaked the fake relationship. Someone had spoken to the press. Someone wanted this lie to collapse before it had finished serving its purpose.

The only question was who.

And because my life had recently become a punishment written by a committee of men in expensive suits, my first thought was not even panic.

It was exhaustion...

I rinsed my mouth, wiped my chin, and walked into the living room.

Jaxon was already there, staring at his own phone.

He looked up. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “We have a problem.”

I laughed humorlessly. “Just one?”

***

Two hours later, we were in the conference room at Titans headquarters with Coach Harris, Lena Brooks, Victor Shaw, and three other people from management who all looked like they had been created in a laboratory for crisis control.

A large screen showed the article.

The photo for the article was from the restaurant kiss. My fingers were clenched in his jacket. His hand was in my hair. We looked like a couple who had forgotten cameras existed.

Lena stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand, her expression tight. “The story is spreading fast. If the relationship is exposed as fabricated, the endorsement deals collapse. Sponsors will say the team misled the public.”

“Because the team did mislead the public,” I said.

Coach shot me a look.

I folded my arms. “Sorry. Did we stop pretending honesty exists?”

Victor Shaw relaxed back in his chair, his silver watch catching the light. “This is bigger than your attitude, Callahan.”

“My attitude seems to get blamed for everything. Might as well give it a chair at the table.”

Jaxon’s mouth twitched in response but said nothing.

Lena ignored both of us. “There is also the league issue. If this becomes a formal investigation, you may both face suspension for conduct detrimental to the league.”

My stomach tightened. Suspension. What the hell!

Jaxon went very still beside me. “You said you had it contained.”

“We did,” Lena said. “Until someone leaked.”

“Find them,” he said.

Victor’s eyes cooled. “That is being handled.”

I did not trust the way he said that.

Lena tapped her screen. “In the meantime, we go bigger. You need to be more convincing. Publicly. Immediately.”

I stared at her. “What does that mean?”

“You already live together, correct?”

I hated that she knew that. I hated more that it was true.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then we escalate. Social media posts. More visible affection. A romantic trip this weekend. Somewhere photogenic, intimate and private enough to look accidental when the media discovers you there.”

“Accidental,” I repeated.

Lena did not blink at all. “Strategic.”

Coach folded his arms. “Non-negotiable.”

My laugh was soft this time. “I am starting to hate that word.”

Jaxon turned his head toward me.

I expected irritation. Coldness. Maybe the blank, controlled look he wore when he wanted the world to know nothing could touch him.

Instead, I saw regret. It was there for one second. Then gone. And I hated him for making me notice.

***

The cabin was not a cabin.

It was a rich person’s idea of a cabin, which meant glass walls, polished wood, a fireplace big enough to burn evidence in and a bedroom with a bed so large it looked like it had its own weather system.

Bedroom.

Singular. Great. Really great.

I dropped my bag just inside the door. “Absolutely not.”

Jaxon walked in behind me, carrying his duffel. “I will take the couch.”

“You said that last time. Then somehow your emotional damage spread across my whole apartment.”

“My emotional damage is neatly packed.”

“It has designer luggage.”

He shook his head at me and looked around the room, jaw tight. “This was Lena’s doing.”

“Convenient,” I said very sarcastically.

Noting my tone, his eyes came to mine. “I did not choose this.”

I looked at him. I wanted to ask if he chose any of it.

The contract. The strategy. The proximity. Me.

I did not. Instead, I turned away.

***

Outside, snow dusted the trees in soft white layers. The cabin sat far enough from the city to feel like another world, which was probably the point. We were supposed to look hidden. Private. In love.

By dinner, I had decided to survive the weekend the same way I survived everything else.

By acting better than everyone expected.

Jaxon cooked again because apparently the universe was committed to making him confusing. I chopped vegetables with too much force. He opened a bottle of wine and poured me half a glass.

“You trust me with a knife?” I asked.

“No.”

“Smart.”

“But I trust your aim.”

“Also smart.”

For a while, we moved around each other almost easily. He reached for the salt before I asked. I handed him a towel before he realized he needed one. Our shoulders brushed once at the counter and neither of us moved away quickly enough.

I noted how domesticity was dangerous. How it made lies feel warm.

We ate near the fireplace because the dining table looked too formal and the couch looked too intimate. There was no safe furniture in that place.

The wine loosened something in the room or maybe it only loosened me.

Jaxon watched the fire for a long moment before speaking.

“Can I ask you something real?”

I looked at him over my glass. “Depends.”

“Do you ever wish you had chosen an easier path?”

My fingers stilled.

He glanced at me. “Not hockey exactly. Just… something where you did not have to fight every day.”

The question should have annoyed me. It did not. Maybe because he did not ask it like a reporter waiting to use my answer against me. Maybe because for once, his voice had no edge.

I looked into the fire.

“Every single day,” I said.

His gaze settled on me.

“There are mornings I wake up and wonder what my life would look like if I had chosen something softer. Something people did not argue about. Something that did not require me to prove my existence before breakfast.” I swallowed. “But then I think if I had chosen that, I would not be me.”

The silence that followed felt full.

Jaxon’s voice was low when he answered.

“I would not change that.”

I looked at him.

He held my gaze.

“You being you,” he said.

My chest tightened so suddenly I had to look away.

There it was again. That cruel little possibility that some part of this was real. That somewhere beneath the contract and the lies and the coldness, there was a man who saw me.

Not the situation. Not the subject. Me.

I stood up too fast. “I am going to bed.”

Jaxon did not stop me.

***

I did not sleep.

The bedroom was too quiet, the bed too big, the cabin too full of Jaxon. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the email. Every time I opened them, I remembered his hand brushing my hair from my face, his voice whispering an apology he thought I would never hear.

Around two in the morning, I gave up.

I wrapped myself in a sweater and padded into the kitchen.

To my surprise, Jaxon was already there, shirtless. He stood near the counter, one hand around a glass of whiskey, the firelight catching the hard lines of his shoulders and the scar near his ribs I had never noticed before. He looked tired. Not in the polished way celebrities looked tired in interviews. Actually tired. Like something inside him had been running for years and could not stop.

He turned when he heard me. “Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

His eyes moved over my face, then away. “I can leave.”

“Stay.” The word came out before pride could strangle it.

He stayed.

For a while, the only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator and the wind pressing against the windows.

Then I asked the question that had been rotting inside me for two years. “Why do you hate me, Jaxon?”

His hand tightened around the glass.

“The real reason,” I said tightly.

He did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was rough. “I do not hate you.”

I almost laughed. “That is a lie.”

“No.”

“Then what is this?” My voice rose and I hated that it shook. “What are we doing?”

He set the glass down. Slowly. Then he walked toward me.

Every step made the room smaller. I should have backed away. I did not.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the storm in his eyes.

“I am trying really hard not to ruin you,” he said.

My breath caught.

“By what?” I asked. “Caring about me?”

His face changed and something broke through. Something honest and awful and impossible to ignore.

“By loving you.”

The words landed between us like a match in gasoline.

For one second, I could not breathe.

Then his hands came up, careful and shaking slightly as they cupped my face.

“Rory,” he said like my name hurt him.

I knew I should stop it.

I knew the contract was still there. The money. The plan. The phone calls. The warnings. The fact that every tender thing he did could be another strategy dressed as regret.

But then he kissed me. Not for cameras. Not for a headline. Not with the careful performance of a man playing a role. He kissed me like the lie had finally become too small to hold what was happening between us.

And it felt like everything.

I kissed him back. Because I was furious. Because I was lonely. Because I wanted to punish him and forgive him and destroy him and keep him, all at once.

Because for one night, I was so tired of being strong that I let myself be held.

So we crossed a line we could never uncross.

The rest of the night became warmth, whispered names and the terrifying silence of two people pretending morning would not come.

But morning always came.

I woke up alone.

For a moment, I stayed still, staring at the empty space beside me. Then I heard Jaxon’s voice outside. It sounded low and urgent.

I got out of bed quietly, wrapping the sheet around myself before pulling on the nearest sweater. His sweater. I hated that I noticed.

The glass door to the balcony was cracked open. Jaxon’s voice slipped through.

“…I told you, I am handling it.”

Pause.

“The timeline does not work anymore.”

My chest went cold just then.

“I do not give a damn about the bonus.”

Another pause.

Then—

“Yes, I slept with her. No, that was not the plan.”

The room tilted just then in front of me.

“Nothing about this is the plan anymore.”

I stepped back. Quietly. Carefully.

Something inside me had gone silent. Not broken this time. Silent.

I dressed without making a sound. My hands were steady, which scared me more than shaking would have. I booked a car service. Packed my bag. Found a pen on the counter.

For a moment, I stared at the blank notepad.

Then I wrote the only thing I could: This was a mistake. All of it. I am done.

Then I left before he came back inside.

***

The ride back to the city felt unreal.

Snow blurred past the windows. My phone buzzed three times. I did not check it. I could still feel his mouth on mine. Still hear his voice.

That was not the plan.

It was crystal clear that I had been stupid enough to become something inconvenient.

When I reached the apartment, I paid the driver, walked upstairs and unlocked the door with fingers that finally started to tremble.

I needed to pack.

I needed to leave.

I needed to find somewhere Jaxon Kane and his contracts and his almost-truths could not reach me.

My cousin lived two states away, close enough to run to and far enough to pretend I had not run at all. I told the team I needed time. A month. A clean break. A holiday, Lena called it, like heartbreak was something you could schedule between press appearances.

But I still played.

Every morning, I trained. Every evening, I skated until my legs burned and my chest went numb. I played sharper now. Colder. No smiles. No explanations. No second chances.

The press called it focus.

Coach called it discipline.

I called it survival.

Then one morning, three weeks in, I stood in my cousin’s bathroom staring down at two pink lines.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

No.

No, no, no.

My hand went to my stomach before I could stop it.

Jaxon Kane had followed me after all.

Not through calls. Not through contracts. Not through apologies I refused to read.

Through this.

I sank onto the edge of the bathtub, the test shaking in my hand.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant.

With his baby.

The man who had almost destroyed my career had left me with something I could not skate away from.

And in that moment, cold, clear and terrifying, I understood one thing:

I was completely screwed.

CHAPTER 6

Rory’s POV

Pregnancy tests should have come with instructions for what to do after your entire life is split in half.

The box only told me how long to wait.

Three minutes. Only three minutes.

It did not say what to do when the three minutes ended and two pink lines appeared like a verdict from a universe with a very cruel sense of humor. It did not say whether to scream, cry, laugh, throw the test across the bathroom or sit very still until your body remembered how lungs worked.

It did not at all. It just gave me three minutes. Three fucking minutes.

So I sat.

I sat on the edge of my cousin’s bathtub in a borrowed T-shirt, with bare feet pressed against cold tiles and my hand clamped over my mouth as if sound itself might make the truth more permanent.

Pregnant.

The word was too large for the bathroom. It pressed against the mirror, the sink, the shower curtain with tiny blue flowers, the ridiculous little seashell soap dish my cousin had bought during her Florida phase.

Pregnant.

With Jaxon Kane’s baby. I was pregnant with his baby.

Oh God.

My other hand moved over my stomach again.

It was not dramatic. Not yet. There was no swelling. No undeniable proof beneath my palm. Just skin, muscle, panic and the terrible knowledge that a single night in a snow-covered cabin had followed me two states away and taken root inside me.

Oh God, I thought again with harrowing despair.

I stared down at the test until my vision blurred.

“No,” I whispered to no one in particular.

The test, being plastic and evil, did not respond.

I stood too fast. The bathroom tilted sharply and I grabbed the sink, breathing hard through my nose until the room settled. Then I did the only reasonable thing a woman could do when faced with life-altering information.

I took another test.

Then another.

By the time my cousin knocked on the bathroom door twenty minutes later, three positive tests were lined up on the edge of the sink like witnesses prepared to testify against me.

“Rory?” she called. “You okay in there?”

I looked at myself in the mirror.

My hair was tangled from sleep. My face was pale. My sharp grey eyes looked too wide, too young, too unprepared for whatever came next.

I did not look like the first woman to survive two seasons with the Titans.

I looked like a girl who had just realized the ice beneath her had cracked and there was no referee coming with a whistle to stop the fall.

“I’m fine,” I said. My voice sounded steady as I spoke. Somehow, that scared me more than if it had broken.

“You’ve been in there forever.”

“Stomach bug.”

There was a pause.

“You sure?”

No.

No, I was not sure about anything. I was not sure about my body. I was not sure about my career. I was not sure whether I wanted to call Jaxon and scream at him, call him and cry, or change my name and join a monastery that accepted emotionally damaged hockey players.

“I’m sure,” I lied.

“Okay. There’s toast if you want.”

Toast.

The world was ending and there was toast. What a fucked up day!

“Thanks,” I said hoarsely and listened as her footsteps moved away a few moments later.

I turned back to the sink. The three tests remained there. Silent. Accusing. Unimpressed by denial.

I picked up the first one again as if the result might have changed out of pity.

It had not.

My phone buzzed on top of the toilet tank.

I flinched so hard the test nearly slipped from my hand.

For one terrible second, I thought it was him.

It was not.

It was Lena:

CALL ME. VICTOR WANTS YOU BACK IN NEW YORK BY MONDAY. WE NEED TO DISCUSS YOUR ABSENCE AND THE MEDIA GAP.

I laughed once and it was a dry, ugly sound to my ears.

Media gap.

That was what they called disappearing when your life collapsed. A media gap. Like I was a billboard with poor visibility. Like I had not left because the man they had forced into my apartment, into my life, into my mouth, had been financially rewarded for helping to destroy me.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, my chest locked and did not move an inch.

Jaxon.

I did not open the message.

I had not opened any of them.

There were twenty-seven texts. Six missed calls. Three voicemails.

The first few had come the morning I left the cabin.

Rory, where are you?

Then—

Call me.

Then—

Please.

That one had made me turn off my phone for twelve hours.

The next messages had become longer. Rougher. Desperate in a way I refused to let touch me.

I saw enough of the preview to know he was trying to explain. I did not want explanations. Explanations were how men turned knives into accidents. Explanations were how organizations called discrimination performance strategy. How managers called surveillance protection. How teammates called betrayal concern.

How Jaxon Kane could say, I do not give a damn about the bonus, and expect those words to erase the fact that the bonus had existed at all.

My phone buzzed again.

Jaxon Kane: I know what you heard. It was not what you think.

I stared at the words until they became meaningless.

Then I deleted the notification without opening it.

Not what you think.

That was the favorite sentence of guilty people.

***

The clinic was small, white, quiet and aggressively cheerful.

There were pastel posters about prenatal vitamins on the walls and a woman at reception who smiled at me like I had walked into a place where happy things happened. I wanted to tell her she had made a mistake. That I was not there for a happy thing. That I was there because my body had betrayed me with a man I did not trust.

Instead, I gave my name, filled out the form and sat in a waiting room beside a woman knitting a yellow blanket.

A baby blanket. Of course.

The universe was no longer subtle. It had picked up a hockey stick and was swinging directly at my head.