Page 59 of Captain's Claim

She just giggles, delighted with herself.

And because I’m not an idiot, or a man willing to take advantage of a girl who’s currently balancing on the fine line between tipsy and fully gone, I grab her hand instead.

“Come on, Dracula. Let’s get you home before you regret this conversation forever.”

She stumbles again as I tug her forward, and this time, when she latches onto my arm, I don’t even bother shaking her off.

Sophia’s weight shifts against my side, her grip on my sleeve tightening as we turn onto her street.

The world around us is still and quiet now, the party at Ridgeview Tavern nothing more than a distant hum. Snow fallsin soft flurries, dusting the cobblestone sidewalks and the old wooden porches lining the street.

For the first time all night, she’s not laughing.

She sighs, her breath puffing white in the cold air. “You ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s neverenough?”

The question throws me.

I glance down, but she’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed ahead, distant, her lashes heavy with something that isn’t just alcohol.

“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “I know that feeling.”

She hums. “My mom was a sports agent. One of the first female agents to break into the big leagues.” Her fingers absently twist the fabric of my sleeve, and I wonder if she even realizes she’s doing it. “She fought her way into a world that didn’t want her there. Didn’t respect her. But she didn’t care. Shemadethem respect her.”

I stay quiet, letting her talk.

She exhales another soft, foggy breath. “She used to say, ‘Soph, if you want something, don’t just sit around waiting for someone to give it to you.Take it.’” She swallows. “I spent my whole life watching her fight for a seat at the table, thinking that if I worked hard enough, if Iprovedmyself, I’d get one too.”

Something tightens in my chest. The memory of that first marketing meeting hits me like a cheap shot to the gut.

I'd blown it off without a second thought. I didn't need another corporate suit trying to tell us how to "engage with fans" or whatever buzzword was trending that week.

While I was skating lazy circles on pristine ice, she'd been fighting for that seat at the table - the same seat I'd carelessly tossed aside because I could.

And worst of all, I know that exact feeling.

That pressure to be more, to prove something - not just to yourself, but to everyone else.

Her jaw clenches. “But instead, the board treats me like some kind of PR puppet. A distraction.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Like that video they had us do together. Like I’m just…filling spaceuntil someone more qualified - someonemale- comes along.”

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until she does too.

She drops onto the front steps instead, patting the space beside her like an invitation.

Against my better judgment, I sit.

"And you know what's worse? I'm good at my job. Really good. But sometimes I wonder if any of that matters when all they see is—"

"A threat."

She turns to me, surprise clear on her face.

"That's what they see," I tell her, looking her dead in the eye. "You've been busting my balls since you got here."

She looks up, eyes glossy, cheeks pink from the cold, andfuck, she’s beautiful. She blinks, lips parting slightly, like maybe she wasn’t expecting that from me.

For a second, she just stares at me.

Then, a slow smile spreads across her face, wobbly but real. "Blake Maddox, are you actually being nice to me?"

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