Page 180 of The Wrong Play

Me: Yeah.

Jagger: He’s done.

Me: Make sure of it.

A few minutes later, another text popped up.

Jagger: Sent it to a reporter at The Tennessean. He’s running it by his editor now. If they hesitate, I’ll nudge it to someone who won’t.

Me: Good. Keep me posted.

I set my phone down on the nightstand, the screen still glowing with Jagger’s last text. The wheels were in motion now. Callum’s career, his reputation—everything he’d built—was already starting to crumble. And by the time Riley woke up, it would be in free fall.

I let out a slow breath, dragging my gaze to her.

She was curled up in the middle of the bed, completely wrapped in the blankets like some kind of sleep-drunk burrito, one arm stretched over my pillow. Her hair was a mess against the sheets, her lips slightly parted, breath soft and steady. Peaceful.

She actually looked like she felt safe, and I couldn’t wait for that to be her reality.

I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling before I climbed into bed beside her. The second my weight dipped the mattress, she stirred, her body instinctively gravitating toward mine like she knew I was supposed to be there.

My chest clenched.

“Everything okay?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she pressed closer, her fingers grazing my stomach.

I wrapped an arm around her, tugging her against me, my chin resting at the top of her head. “Everything’s great,” I murmured, kissing her hair, my lips brushing against the soft strands.

I couldn’t wait for her to find out justhowgreat.

I stood outside the admin building, hands in my pockets, watching as the doors swung open. The late afternoon sun hit just right, casting long shadows across the steps as two uniformed officers flanked Professor Callum Westwood, gripping his arms as they led him out in handcuffs.

Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful.

Callum’s face was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, his carefully curated, upstanding-professor mask cracking under the weight of reality. His suit was rumpled, his usually slicked-back hair a little out of place, and there was something wildin his eyes—the look of a man who’d finally realized he wasn’t untouchable.

And then those eyes found me.

I smirked, tilting my head slightly as I slipped one hand from my pocket and lifted it in a lazy, two-fingered salute.

His jaw clenched, his whole body going rigid.

Fuck, this was satisfying.

I cocked a brow, letting the moment stretch between us, letting him sit with the fact that he wasn’t the one in control anymore. That he never had been. That his whole world was crumbling while I stood here, solid, smug, and victorious.

The officers muttered something to him, nudging him forward, but he didn’t move for a second—just stared, a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm brewing in his glare.

Poor guy. He really should’ve known better. I took out my phone and took a picture of him, for Jagger…and posterity’s sake.

His face only got angrier.

Finally, he was yanked forward, forced to stumble down the steps, the sound of his dress shoes scuffing against the pavement so much louder now that he was no longer the one calling the shots. His fury radiated off him in waves, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

I smiled wider, watching as they loaded him into the car.

Then I turned, slipping my hands back into my pockets, my work here done.

And Riley’s nightmare? Officiallyover.

---