Page 145 of The Wrong Play

I knew Callum was ruthless, but this?

This was a new level.

He’d done what he always did—made sure there was no way out. Made sure I had no choice but to sit across from him, week after week, knowing exactly what he was capable of.

My hands curled into fists.

I needed a plan. I needed to figure out a way to get out of this.

But how?

If I refused, my future was on the line.

If I complied, I was handing myself over to him.

I couldn’t win.

The realization crashed over me like a wave of nausea.

I wrapped my arms around myself, hating the way my body still shook.

Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower rang, signaling the start of the next class. Students milled past, laughing, talking, completely oblivious to the war raging inside me.

Callum had me exactly where he wanted me.

And I had no way out.

The door creaked open, and I felt it before I even saw him—the shift in the air, the quiet intensity that followed him like a shadow.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling, my pulse a slow, steady thrum beneath my skin, even as my body hummed with the awareness of him. The weight of his stare pressed against me, heavy and unrelenting.

Then, his voice—low, hushed, threaded with concern.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Jace murmured.

I swallowed, forcing my expression into something neutral before turning my head toward him. He was standing in the doorway, his long hair damp from a post-practice shower, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his Henley. His brown eyes flickered in the dim light of the bedside lamp, scanning me like he could read the wreckage inside me if he looked hard enough.

I should have known he’d notice. Jace wasn’t the kind of man you could hide things from.

I exhaled softly, shifting against the pillow. “I got called into the Academic Affairs office today.”

His brows furrowed, and in one fluid motion, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. “For what?”

I hesitated, a weight pressing against my ribs. “Academic concerns.”

His expression twisted into confusion. “What? But your grades are fine.”

That made me pause.

I lifted a brow. “And how exactly do you know that?”

Something flickered across his face, too fast to catch, too fleeting to decode.

Then he schooled his expression, casual, easy, but there was something off—something tense beneath the surface.

“You’ve mentioned it,” he said after a beat, but his voice had shifted, like he was testing the excuse as he said it.

I didn’t argue. Because, right now, it honestly didn’t matter.

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