Page 88 of The Players We Hate
“How’s your mom?”
The tension in his jaw shifted, his arms lowering just slightly. “She’s okay,” he said, quieter now. “We got her in to see a doctor today. They’re making adjustments to her medication, like you suggested.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
My stomach twisted. I tightened my grip on the folder I’d pulled from my coat. Inside were the printed screenshots I’d hidden, the ones I hadn’t dared leave in the open.
“I traced one of Gavin’s payouts,” I said, my voice low. “And what I found ties everything together.”
His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.
I stepped closer, offering the stack. “Start here.”
He didn’t take it right away. His eyes stayed on me, weighing whether he even wanted to see what I had for him. Eventually, he slowly reached out. His fingers brushed mine longer than they needed to, and my breath hitched.
His gaze dropped to the papers. The crease between his brows deepened as he scanned the pages, the silence sharpening with every line he read.
“These sponsor names…” His voice was quiet, almost to himself. “None of them are real?”
“Not with anything solid behind them. They’re all shell companies—no websites, no socials.”
“And this enrichment fund?”
“It’s tied to a nonprofit—Brighter Futures. Looks clean on paper, but if you follow the money…” My chest tightened. “It goes back to my father.”
His head snapped up, eyes hard.
“I cross-checked the donations,” I pressed, my voice thin. “The amounts line up with Gavin’s account. And then I found this.” I tapped the page with the approval document, W.P. signed at the bottom.
Talon stared at the initials like he could burn them off the page by will alone.
“Right after that,” I whispered, “my access was revoked. Locked out in seconds. Someone had to know, because I was using a ghost account.”
He set the papers on his nightstand carefully, like they might combust, then straightened. One step. Then another. Until the air between us was tight and charged.
“You’re really doing this,” he said finally, voice low. “You’re going against your own family.”
My stomach twisted, but I held his gaze. “If that’s what it takes, yes. I am.”
The pause that followed was heavy, like something inside him was fracturing.
“I wanted you to be guilty,” he admitted, his voice rough, almost ashamed. “I needed you to be. It would’ve made walking away easier.”
The words cut sharply through me.
“But you’re not, are you?” His eyes burned into mine, his voice dropping lower. “You’ve been carrying this on your own.”
“I didn’t think I had a choice.”
His jaw worked like he was biting back everything at once. Then his voice came, steady but breaking at the edges. “You do now.”
Before I could answer, his hand closed over mine, and when I didn’t pull away, he pulled me into his chest. My breath caught, the warmth of him cutting through my coat as his arms held on tight, as if he wasn’t ready to let go.
His voice rumbled low against my hair, rough with regret. “I was wrong about you. About all of it. The things I said, the way I looked at you, the shit I accused you of… I hate myself for it. I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve seen you for who you are instead of who I wanted you to be to make things easier on me.”
The words hit deeper than I expected, leaving an ache in my chest.
“I made you the villain,” he whispered, his grip tightening, “because it was easier than admitting I was scared of what I felt. And I can’t take that back, but I’m sorry. God, Wren, I’m so damn sorry.”
The apology barely had time to register before his mouth was on mine. The kiss wasn’t soft—it was desperate, every press of his lips forcing the truth out. I grabbed his shirt, kissing him back just as hard, letting the weight of everything break open between us.
