My Stepbrother Sent the Quarterback to Break Me

My stepbrother swore he'd make me pay for ruining his love life.

I heard him say it myself.

I'd just gotten back to the Ashcroft estate. My backpack was still on my shoulder.

His bedroom door was cracked open. Camden Ashcroft never shut a door all the way. He liked people to hear him. But this time, he just forgot that the conversation should have been private.

"No, I'm serious." His voice was lazy and cruel. "I want her ruined."

I stopped on the second-floor landing.

I couldn't hear whoever was on the other end. Only silence, then Camden's laugh.

"She's a fake. Both of them are. You should've seen them the first week they moved in. Big eyes. Soft little voices. 'Thank you, Graham.' 'You're too generous, Graham.'" He made his voice high and sweet. "It's an act, man. They're here for the money. That's it."

My fingers tightened around my shoes.

"Laurel plays the grateful widow. Calla plays the good girl. And my dad eats it up." A pause. "Yeah. Exactly."

"You know what she did to me with Dahlia."

There it was.

My stomach dropped and then settled, cold and heavy. Last month. Of course.

Camden had been dating Dahlia for almost a year. She was nice to me. She was the only one in his circle who ever said hello to me. Then I saw Camden in the parking lot behind the country club with his hand up some other girl's skirt.

So I told Dahlia.

She dumped him that same night, in front of half their friends.

"It's none of her business," Camden said into the phone. "But she walked up and showed Dahlia the picture. Like it was." His voice went low. "So now I'm making her my business. Do whatever to ruin her."

I backed away from the door before he could hear the floor creak.

---

It wasn't our first fight.

The first one happened at dinner, two weeks after we moved in. Graham was on a call in his study. The staff was clearing plates.

Camden leaned back in his chair and smiled at my mom.

"So how long did it take you to find a billionaire, Laurel? Did you have a list?"

My mom's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Camden," she said quietly. "I don't think—"

"It's fine. Everybody knows." He waved a hand at the maid behind him. "Right, Rosa? You know what a parasite looks like."

Rosa stared at the floor.

I picked up my wine glass. Graham let me have half a glass at dinner. It was supposed to make me feel like family.

I threw all of it in Camden's face.

The red ran down his chin and into his white collar. For a second, nobody moved. Then he shoved his chair back and grabbed for my wrist.

"You little—"

I twisted out of his grip, hooked my foot behind his ankle, and pushed.

He hit the marble hard.

My dad taught me that before he died. *If someone bigger grabs you, Cal, don't pull. Drop them.*

Camden lay on the floor, gasping, wine in his hair. And I laughed. I couldn't help it. It came out of me like a hiccup.

That was a mistake.

---

An hour later, Camden stood in Graham's study holding an ice pack to his elbow.

"She attacked me," he said. "Out of nowhere. Ask anyone."

Graham rubbed his forehead. He looked at me like I was a bill he hadn't planned to pay.

"Calla? Is that true?"

"He called my mom a parasite."

"I was joking." Camden shrugged. "She's sensitive."

My mom touched my arm. Her hand was shaking.

"Sweetheart," she whispered. "Please. Just apologize."

I turned to her. "Mom."

"Please." Her eyes were wet. "For me. I don't want trouble. Not here."

So I did it. I lowered my head and said, "I'm sorry, Camden."

He stepped closer, like he was going to accept it like a gentleman. Then he bent down so only I could hear.

"You'll never belong here," he breathed against my ear. "Neither of you."

I kept my head down until he left the room. My nails left four little half-moons in my palm.

---

"He said *what*?"

Greer nearly dropped her iced coffee. We were sitting in her car just off campus the next morning. Greer Calloway had been my best friend since we were ten, back when my house had one bathroom and no staff.

"'Do whatever you want with her,'" I repeated. "That's what he said."

"Okay." She set the coffee in the cup holder. "Okay. But what does that even mean? Like, he wants this guy to spread rumors about you?"

"Or hire somebody to beat me up." I picked at the strap of my bag. "Or worse."

"Worse like—" She stopped. Her face changed. "Cal. No. You think he'd get someone to…"

"Rape me?" The word sat between us. "Yeah. I think he'd let it happen."

Greer shook her head fast. "That's insane. He's an asshole, but he's a rich-boy asshole. He'd mess with your car. Key it. Post something gross online."

"You don't know him."

"I know he's a spoiled brat who cries when his latte is cold."

"He smiled at my mom while he called her a gold digger, Greer." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "And then he lied to his dad's face. He's not loud. He's patient. That's what scares me."

She was quiet for a long time.

Then she picked her coffee back up and took a long, angry sip.

"Fine," she said. "Then I'm your bodyguard."

"You weigh a hundred and ten pounds."

"I weigh a hundred and ten pounds of *fury*. I'm picking you up every morning. I'm driving you home every day. No arguments."

For the next few days, she did exactly that. Every morning her car was at the gate. Every afternoon she was waiting at the curb with music too loud and snacks on the passenger seat.

Nothing happened.

---

On Thursday, Greer had her organic chemistry midterm.

"It's two hours," she said, gripping my shoulders outside the science wing. "Stay in the library. Do not leave. Do not talk to strangers. Do not accept candy."

"I'm nineteen."

"Nineteen-year-olds love candy. Library. Go."

So I went.

The library was nearly empty. A few freshmen were asleep on their textbooks. I took the table by the back window and opened my history notes.

I read the same paragraph four times.

Every time the door swung open, my eyes jumped to it. A librarian. A kid with a cart. A girl looking for the bathroom.

*Relax*, I told myself. *He's not going to do anything in a library.*

I'd almost believed it when a shadow fell across my page.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice was low and easy. Close.

My pen stopped moving.

There were empty tables in this room, but he wanted the chair next to mine.

I slowly lifted my head.

He was tall. Dark hair pushed back like he'd run his hand through it. A gray Ravens hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms. He was smiling at me like we already knew each other.

And I knew him.

Everyone on campus knew him.

His face was forty feet tall outside the gym, printed on the giant banner that hung over the doors. Number seven. Arms crossed. That same smile.

*Weston.*

He pulled out the chair without waiting for my answer.