Page 46 of Price of Victory
He set the pastries down on my kitchen counter and started unpacking them with the efficient familiarity of someone who’d done this dozens of times before. Watching him move around my space, so comfortable and natural, usually filled me withcontentment. Today, it just reminded me how much I had to lose.
“Everything okay?” he asked, glancing at me with concern. “You seem tense.”
“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. I’d slept fine until my phone had started buzzing with news of my family’s crisis. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, wasn’t sure how to explain the complicated mess of emotions churning in my chest.
“Bad dreams?”
“Something like that.”
He studied my face for a moment, clearly sensing that something was off but not wanting to push. Instead, he handed me one of the coffees he’d brought and settled onto my couch, patting the cushion beside him in invitation.
“Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really. Tell me about your week instead. How’s that paper coming along?”
“Which paper? I have three due in the next two weeks.” He launched into a description of his contemporary literature assignment, something about magical realism in Latin American fiction, and I tried to focus on his words instead of the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach.
But my mind kept drifting back to the headlines, to the implications of what this scandal might mean for my family’s company. To the stock prices that were probably continuing to plummet while we sat here talking about Gabriel García Márquez. To the reporters who were probably still trying to reach me for comment.
“Aiden,” Rhett said, and I realized I’d been staring out the window instead of listening to him. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem really distracted.”
“I’m fine. Just thinking about some stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
The question was gentle, concerned, exactly the kind of caring inquiry that partners made when they sensed something was wrong. But instead of feeling comforted by his concern, I felt trapped by it. Because how could I explain that my entire world might be falling apart without dragging him into the mess of my family’s business dealings?
“Nothing important,” I lied. “Just family stuff.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I’d intended, and I saw Rhett blink in surprise at my tone. He set down his coffee and turned to face me more fully, his expression shifting from casual concern to something more serious.
“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
But I could see in his eyes that he wanted to know more, that he was hurt by my refusal to open up. And that just made the pressure in my chest build higher, because I didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t about trust or intimacy. This was about protection, about keeping him separate from the toxic mess of corporate politics and media manipulation that had shaped my entire life.
We spent the next hour in strained conversation, both of us trying to pretend that nothing had changed while the tension built between us like a gathering storm. Rhett told me about his classes and going out with his friends. We talked about practice and upcoming games, made all the usual small talk that normally flowed so easily between us.
But I couldn’t focus on any of it. My responses were distracted, perfunctory, and I could see him growing more frustrated with each passing minute.
“Aiden,” he said finally, setting down his empty coffee cup with more force than necessary. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing because you’ve been somewhere else entirely for the past hour.”
“I told you, it’s just stuff. Nothing I want to get into right now.”
“But maybe I could help. Or at least listen. Isn’t that what couples do?”
The word “couples” should have warmed me, should have reminded me of everything good we’d built together over the past weeks. Instead, it just made me feel more cornered, more aware of how much I was risking by letting him get this close to my life.
“Not everything needs to be dissected, Rhett. Sometimes things are just private.”
“Private from me?”
“Private from everyone.”
