Page 113 of Never Your Girl

“It’s not what you think,” I say quietly as guilt constricts my chest. “I care about Bridger, and I’d never want to hurt him. That might not have always been true, but it is now.”

“Is that so?” His eyes narrow as he steps closer. “Just so you know, I’m aware of how he forced you into fake dating him in order to keep a closer eye on you. Maybe you’ve managed to snow him, but I’m not so easily fooled.”

“You’re right, he did blackmail me.” The words burst out louder than I intend. I release a deep breath, trying to steady the storm churning inside me. “Look, I get why you’d think that. But things are different now. Bridger matters to me. I promise, I’m not the one trying to hurt him.”

Steele’s gaze narrows as he presses his lips into a tight line. His silence stretches, heavy with unspoken doubt, before he finally speaks. “I don’t know what to believe,” he says, his tone cautious. “But I’ll tell you this—I’m not letting him get burned again.”

“Neither am I.” My voice is steady as I square my shoulders. “And I’m going to deal with it.”

His brow furrows, suspicion flickering across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means there’s something I need to take care of,” I say sharply, cutting off any further questions. Without waiting for Steele to respond, I turn on my heel and walk off, the urgency in my steps leaving no room for argument.

Instead of heading to class as planned, I veer toward the administration building on the other side of campus. My stomach churns with unease, a cocktail of adrenaline and dread swirling inside me. I don’t have a plan or even the perfect words, but that doesn’t matter.

I can’t allow this to continue.

The closer I get, the heavier the air feels, like a weight pressing down on me. By the time I step through the double doors of the administration building, my palms are damp, and my breathing feels uneven. I straighten my spine as I approach the elevator.

The ride to the fifth floor is slow and agonizing. My reflection in the shiny metal doors stares back at me, pale and uncertain.

When the elevator dings, I step into the hall, the squeak of my Chucks echoing in the quiet space. Each step toward his office at the end of the corridor makes my pulse thunder louder in my ears. Just before I reach the door, I pause, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. A small voice in my head whispers to turn back and avoid the confrontation altogether.

But I refuse to do that.

Summoning every ounce of courage I can muster, I push forward. The secretary at the desk looks up from her computer with a polite smile. Her perfectly pressed blazer and impeccable bun only make me feel more out of place.

“Hi,” I say, my voice shakier than I’d like. I clear my throat and try again. “Is Mr. Sanderson available?”

Her smile tightens, and she tilts her head. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s important. I just need a few moments of his time.” The words tumble out too quickly, betraying my nerves.

She studies me for a few seconds before picking up the phone on her desk. “One moment, please.”

As she dials, I clutch the strap of my bag, my fingers digging into the worn leather. The muffled sound of her conversation reaches me, but I’m unable to focus on the words. My thoughts are a jumble of anxiety and resolve.

After a short exchange, she hangs up the phone and gestures toward the door. “You can go in. He has a few minutes.”

My heart lurches as I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

With a deep breath, I step toward the door, my hand hovering over the brass handle. I force myself to turn it and push the door open, ready to face whatever comes next.

Richard Sanderson sits behind a massive, polished desk. His sharp, calculating eyes snap up the moment I enter, narrowing with suspicion as they rake over me.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his tone clipped and unwelcoming.

I square my shoulders, willing the tremor in my hands to disappear. “Mr. Sanderson, my name is Holland Tate. I’m a friend of Bridger’s.”

His gaze hardens, and he leans back in his high-backed leather chair, folding his hands over his stomach. The faintest flicker of disdain plays at the corner of his mouth. “What about him?”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I take a hesitant step forward, gripping the strap of my bag like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground.

My throat feels like sandpaper as I force myself to speak. “I know about Garret.”

The air in the room shifts. His expression freezes for a split second before his eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

I lick my dry lips, summoning every ounce of courage I have left. “I know that Garret Akeman is your son,” I say, the words slicing through the tense silence.

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