Page 42 of Second Sin

Watching him come apart like that—alone and unravelling on national television—it did something to me. Twisted something sharp in my chest I haven’t figured out how to pull free.

It's supposed to be my job to help him. Fix him. But that kiss. It changed everything. Blurred lines that can't be unblurred.Tilted the ground beneath me just enough to make everything feel unstable.

Dangerous.

I haven’t been back to the arena in days. Couldn’t bring myself to walk those halls. Couldn’t sit across from the players and offer them something I no longer have. Stability. Sanity.Answers. And I definitely couldn’t sit in a room and pretend not to feel the way I feel about him.

Half a bottle of wine sits on the coffee table next to a box I haven’t touched in months. Photos and letters—some creased and faded. I pour another glass of merlot and pull the box toward me.

I sift through the pile and find a photo—Ethan and me on our wedding day. He’s in uniform, laughing as I lean in to fix his crooked boutonnière. My eyes are brighter. Younger. Hopeful.

It should break me.

But it doesn’t.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it just feels like a memory. A soft ache instead of a sharp wound.

I sip my wine and lean back against the cushions.

The truth is—I know kissing Sebastian wasn’t a betrayal. Not to Ethan. Ethan would’ve wanted me to live. To feel.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.

Because Sebastian Wilde is a man wrapped in iron and silence. And I can’t fall for someone like that. I can’t let my want bulldoze every boundary I’ve spent my career upholding.

My phone buzzes on the table with a text from Harper.

I’m downstairs. Buzz me in.

I groan, toss my head back, and take another sip of wine before walking to the buzzer. “Come up,” I say into the intercom, then unlock the door.

Seconds later, Harper strides in like a one-woman hurricane, wearing a leather jacket over a red top, her thick black hair spilling over her shoulders. She holds up a bottle of wine.

“This is only for pre-drinks,” she says, plopping it on the counter. “You’re getting dressed. We’re going out.”

“I really don’t feel like?—”

“Not taking no for an answer.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re already halfway there. Just do something with your face and put on real pants.”

I laugh despite myself. “You’re relentless.”

“Damn right.”

Thirty minutes later, I’ve curled my hair, applied makeup, and pulled on my favorite black jeans and a low-cut sweater.

Harper nods in approval as I grab my coat.“I knew you had something slutty enough for a bar.”

We take an Uber across town. The city’s buzzing with weekend energy—music and headlights and people spilling out of patios with flushed cheeks and open laughter. Everything feels too loud, too alive. Like the world’s daring me to stop pretending I’ve got it all under control.

When we step into Ironclad, it’s packed. Dim lighting, thumping bass, the unmistakable scent of sweat and whiskey and something fried.

Harper doesn’t wait—she weaves into the crowd like she’s done this a hundred times.

I follow. Sort of.

A roar of deep, masculine laughter cuts through the noise, pulling my attention left.

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