Page 7 of The Wrong Play

I had let this happen.

A wave of self-loathing slammed into me, suffocating, crushing.

What had I done?

I could still hear him—his voice in my ear, his lips at my throat, the quiet certainty in the way he had touched me, like he had always known this was inevitable.

Like I had always been his to take.

And I had let him.

Ihad gone upstairs with him.Ihad let him undress me.Ihad kissed him back. A man old enough to be my father.

The weight in my chest only got heavier as I forced myself to move. I threw on clothes, making sure not to look in the mirror before I scrambled back to the bed.

The sheets—stained, wrinkled, evidence—mocked me as I frantically ripped them off, balling them up in my arms.

The smell of him was still on them. Still in the air. Still in my hair.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath hitching, my stomach twisting.

Had I wanted this?

Shame curled around my ribs, digging its claws in deep…making it hard to breathe.

I had wanted to feel something other than loneliness…then rejection.

And now?

Now, I feltruined.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and moved.

Down the hall, my steps were uneven, my legs weak, still trembling with the aftermath. I knew the housekeepers would take care of it, they wouldn’t even tell my parents what they had seen, but I couldn’t let them. I needed to scrub it away myself, to erase the proof…to pretend it had never happened.

I shoved the sheets into the washer, fumbling to pour in bleach with shaky hands before slamming the door shut and pressing start. The hum of the machine filled the empty laundry room, drowning out the thoughts screaming inside my head.

I turned to leave, only to freeze.

Voices.

Low, steady, familiar.

I swallowed hard, pulse pounding as I stepped out of the laundry room and followed the sound, my bare feet silent against the hardwood.

The moment I reached the kitchen doorway, my stomach dropped.

There he was.

Sitting at the breakfast table with my parents, sipping coffee, like nothing had happened.

He laughed at something my father said, casual and at ease, his posture relaxed as if he hadn’t takeneverythingfrom me just hours before.

And my parents—they were completely clueless.

Neither of them even looked up when I walked in.

It was at least a few minutes of hovering before my mother finally glanced away from Callum and noticed I was standing in the doorway. Her lips pressed together like she’d just caught sight of something distasteful. “Riley, for fuck’s sake, fix yourself before coming to breakfast. We have company.”

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