Page 1 of The Players We Hate
Prologue
Wren ~ Two Years Ago
It was amazing how invisible you could feel under a thousand lights.
The auditorium glowed amber, every seat filled. Applause and murmurs tangled with the staccato snap of shutters, while phones glittered like stars, desperate to capture history.
Just offstage, I stood in the shadows, the hem of my pale lavender dress brushing the edge of the carpet. My shoes pinched, too narrow in the toe, too high in the heel, but that was nothing compared to the pressure building in my chest. My heart thudded against my ribs, as if it was trying to remind me I still existed.
My father’s voice boomed from behind the podium, echoing with practiced ease. “Together, with your support, we’ll build a better tomorrow.”
Polite applause rippled through the room. I already knew what came next.
The spotlight would shift, but it wouldn’t be to me.
I glanced across the stage. My father stood like a man carved from his portraits—silver at his temples, a billboard smile fixed in place, his hand gripping the podium as if he owned it.
Maybe he did. Some might believe he owned the whole room.
Beside him in the front row, my mother sat poised with her pearl-studded heels crossed at the ankle. Her makeup was flawless and frozen.
She knew how to work a crowd without saying a word. She leaned forward enough to be in every shot, always framing herself in the narrative. The media never let us forget how their story began.
My father cheated on his first wife with her. She was pregnant with me when the story broke, and they’d been playing defense ever since. No matter how poised she looked now, I knew how much she’d bled for this.
Wells stood backstage a few feet away, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He had that restless energy built up inside him. The Rixton University pin on his lapel gleamed under the lights. His focus had always been football, but Dad had been quietly grooming him for something more—a future beyond the field, whether Wells wanted it or not.
A moment later, my father called out, “And now, let’s bring out the future.”
Wells stepped into the halo of light as if he belonged there, and maybe he did. The crowd broke into applause again, louder this time, more charged. He raised his hand in a practiced wave, all easy confidence and golden boy charisma. By tomorrow, his face would be on every frontpage under headlines likePoised for GreatnessorThe Future Looks Familiar.
I stood frozen in place, my spine straight and my shoulders set. I knew what I was supposed to do—smile, walk out on the right cue, and be the perfect daughter in a dress handpicked by my mother’s stylist. But something in me resisted tonight, some quiet voice begging me not to perform again.
My father beamed at Wells, resting a hand on his shoulder like he was claiming a prize. “Proud of you, champ,” he said loud enough for the microphones to catch. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice enough that only those of us nearby could hear. “Let’s get the family photo.”
He said “family” with the confidence of a man who’d never had to earn forgiveness inside one.
Wells glanced back at me, and for a split second, our eyes met. I couldn’t read his expression. Was it guilt or discomfort? Before I could confirm, he looked away.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Mother said to me, rising from her seat. Her voice was smooth, sugary, with enough of an edge to let me know it wasn’t a suggestion. “Let’s make this quick.”
I stepped into the spotlight, heels striking the stage, and took my place beside Wells. The lights blinded me for a moment, but I knew how to smile through it. I’d been trained for this since I was old enough to hold still in a Christmas card photo.
Tatum, Wells’s girlfriend, stood offstage, tucked into the shadows where she preferred it. Her outfit was simple yet sharp, featuring tailored slacks and a silky emerald blouse that accentuated her eyes. Her hair fell in soft waves, aquiet rebellion against the sleek updo she was coached to wear.
We hadn’t known each other long, but I liked her. She didn’t pretend, didn’t perform. There was something real about her. In a room full of people playing a part, Tatum didn’t, and it was exactly why I trusted her.
Still, I felt the shift when Wells glanced her way, even as the camera shutters popped in rapid fire. My father noticed too. His expression sharpened with the same calculated approval he gave to donors and delegates.
Even without a spotlight, even without stepping forward, she fit here in a way I never had.
Wells’s arm slid around me with practiced choreography. His other hand settled on my mother’s shoulder, careful and calculated. I stood still, a placeholder in a photo I was never meant to headline.
The photographer lifted his hand. “Just one more. Everyone is a little closer now,” he called. “Great. Now smile.”
I smiled. Or at least, I showed my teeth. It didn’t reach my eyes.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
