Page 12 of Price of Victory
“Anything interesting?”
I wanted to tell him about the takeover, about watching my father’s hair go gray from stress, about my mother’s tears. Iwanted to make him understand what his family had done to mine, what he represented just by existing.
But instead, I just shrugged and turned back to my locker, because what was the point? Aiden Whitmore had never cared about anyone but himself, and he wasn’t going to start now.
“You know,” he said, and there was something different in his voice now, something softer and more uncertain than his usual cocky confidence. “If you ever want to talk about those old times, I’m around.”
I looked at him then, and for just a moment, I saw something that might have been vulnerability flickering in his green eyes. But before I could decide if it was real or just another manipulation, it was gone, replaced by his usual mask of amused detachment.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, even though we both knew I wouldn’t.
He nodded and slung his bag over his shoulder, heading for the door. But he paused at the threshold and looked back at me, and there was something in his expression that I couldn’t quite read.
“For what it’s worth, Morrison,” he said quietly, “I never wanted any of this to be complicated.”
And then he was gone, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my hands shaking and the terrible, treacherous thought that maybe there was more to Aiden Whitmore than the privileged asshole I’d spent nine years learning to hate.
But that was a dangerous thought, and I pushed it away as I finished getting dressed. Because no matter what I might have seen in his eyes, no matter how my body reacted to being near him, the facts remained the same.
Aiden Whitmore was my enemy. He always had been, and he always would be.
Even if sometimes, in moments like this, I forgot why that had to be true.
SIX
AIDEN
Professor Williams was droningon about stakeholder responsibility and corporate governance, but I might as well have been listening to white noise. The words washed over me without sticking, just background static to the much louder conversation happening in my head, the one where my mother’s voice kept insisting that hockey was “a nice hobby,” but I needed to start thinking about “real responsibilities.”
I shifted in my seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make my shoulders ache from yesterday’s practice. The lecture hall was one of those old-fashioned tiered affairs with uncomfortable wooden seats that forced you to pay attention through sheer discomfort. Usually I’d be taking notes, or at least pretending to, but today, my notebook remained closed while I stared at the back of Rhett Morrison’s head three rows down.
He was actually taking notes. Of course he was. Perfect student, perfect son, perfect hockey player with perfect parents who supported his perfect dreams. I watched his hand move across the page, steady and focused, like everything else about him.
The envy hit me like a punch to my chest.
My phone buzzed against my thigh, and I pulled it out to find another text from my mother:Dad’s asking about you. When can you come by for dinner? We need to discuss your schedule for next semester.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Next semester. Like she already knew I’d be cutting my course load to make room for company responsibilities. Like my hockey schedule was just an inconvenience to be managed around more important things.
I hadn’t called my father yet. Every day, I told myself I would, and every day, I found reasons to put it off. What was I supposed to say? That I’d moved back to Chicago to be closer to him, but I was too much of a coward to actually face him? That I’d been having nightmares about that phone call from the hospital, about losing him before I could prove that hockey wasn’t just some childish rebellion?
“Mr. Whitmore.”
I looked up to find Professor Williams staring at me with the exact expression that meant I’d been caught not paying attention. The entire class had turned to look at me, including Rhett, who was twisted around in his seat with barely concealed amusement on his face.
“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” I asked, slipping my phone back into my pocket and trying to look like I’d been deep in thought about corporate ethics instead of spiraling about my family drama.
“I asked for your thoughts on the responsibility of family-owned businesses to maintain ethical standards when personal relationships might conflict with business decisions.”
Oh, that was rich. Of course he’d ask me about family businesses and ethical conflicts. I could feel Rhett’s eyes on me, waiting to see how I’d handle this.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that family businesses face unique challenges when it comes to separating personal and professional obligations. Sometimes what’s best for the family isn’t what’s best for the business, and vice versa.”
“Interesting. And how do you think those conflicts should be resolved?”
I glanced at Rhett, who was still watching me with that intense focus that made my skin feel too tight. “I think you have to decide what your priorities are. Are you running a business or managing family relationships? Because trying to do both perfectly usually means you fail at both.”
Professor Williams nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a very pragmatic view. Some would argue that family businesses have additional ethical obligations precisely because of those personal connections.”
