He Humiliated Me, I Crushed His Career

"Push the Gatorade press release to midnight." I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder, adjusting a silver fork on the dining table.

"Are you insane, Elowen?" Julian’s voice crackled through the speaker. "You haven't slept since Tuesday."

"Sleep is for the off-season." I shifted a stack of manila folders to make room for the champagne flutes. "Kenton just won the championship. We strike while the iron is hot."

"The crisis management files are updated?"

"Every single one." I tapped the thickest binder on the oak wood. "If he gets a DUI, if he punches a paparazzo, if he insults a referee. Five years I’ve been mapping out his escape routes. Tonight, we just celebrate."

"He owes you his entire career," Julian said.

"He throws the ball. I just make sure the world loves him for it."

"Are you going to tell him about the luxury watch deal tonight?"

"I have the contract right here." I smoothed my hand over the crisp paper. "He signs it, we pop the cork, and for the first time in half a decade, we take a vacation. A real one. No cameras."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Julian muttered. "Turn on channel four. The locker room interviews are starting."

I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The massive flat-screen flared to life.

Confetti rained down on the turf. Kenton stood at the center of the chaos. His jersey was stained with grass and sweat. He hoisted the silver trophy above his head, muscles flexing for the cameras.

My chest tightened. Pride swelled in my ribs.

"He did it," I whispered.

"We did it," Julian corrected. "Listen."

A reporter shoved a microphone into Kenton's face. "Kenton! MVP of the game! How does it feel to bring the trophy home?"

Kenton flashed that million-dollar smile. The exact angle I spent six months training him to perfect.

"We left it all on the field tonight, Greg," Kenton shouted over the roaring crowd. "This city deserves a winner."

"Textbook," I murmured, picking up a ceramic dinner plate. "He actually remembered his media training."

"Don't sound so surprised," Julian laughed. "You drilled it into his skull. You practically puppet-mastered this entire season."

"Fans are going wild online," the reporter continued. "But they all want to know one thing. The most eligible bachelor in the league just secured the ring. Is there a lucky lady waiting at home to celebrate?"

I stopped wiping the rim of the plate.

A soft smile touched my lips. Kenton and I had an agreement. We kept our relationship underground to build his heartthrob image. But he always promised he’d drop a subtle hint when he made it to the top. Just a nod to let me know he saw me.

Kenton chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Man, I wish," Kenton said into the mic.

My smile froze.

"I've been flying solo for years, Greg," Kenton stated, his voice booming through my living room speakers. "Football is my only girlfriend. Has been since college."

The plate in my hands felt suddenly heavy.

"Julian," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "Did you script that?"

"No." The amusement vanished from Julian's tone. "I swear to God, Elowen, I didn't."

"Then why is he saying he's single?"

"Maybe he panicked. It's live TV."

"He doesn't panic on TV. I trained the panic out of him."

"Flying solo?" the reporter pressed, sensing blood in the water. "That's hard to believe. What about those rumors circulating this week? The paparazzi caught you at dinner with Seraphina."

My stomach bottomed out.

Seraphina. The A-list actress. The one Kenton claimed was just a friend of a friend. The one he swore he only met for charity event planning.

Kenton didn't flinch. He didn't issue the standard PR denial I wrote for him.

Instead, he reached out of the camera frame.

A manicured hand grabbed his. Seraphina stepped into the shot, wearing a custom jersey with Kenton's number on the back. It was tied up at her waist, showing off her stomach.

"Well, since you brought her up," Kenton grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Seraphina and I have a huge announcement."

"Kenton, stop talking," I ordered the television screen.

"Elowen, hang up," Julian warned. "Don't watch this."

"Shut up, Julian."

"What announcement?" the reporter asked, practically vibrating with excitement.

"We're partnering up," Kenton announced. "Next week, Seraphina and I are shooting an exclusive couples' campaign for Velvet Noir. Full intimate lingerie spread."

"Just two single people making some art," Seraphina purred, leaning into his chest. "He's all mine for the shoot, boys."

The ceramic plate slipped from my fingers.

It shattered against the hardwood floor. Shards exploded across the room. White fragments scattered over the edges of the luxury watch contract I had spent three months negotiating.

"Elowen?" Julian called out over the speakerphone. "El, talk to me."

I didn't answer. I stared at the screen.

Kenton kissed Seraphina's cheek. The crowd cheered. The camera flashed.

Five years.

Five years of hiding in the shadows. Five years of drafting apologies for his mistakes. Brewing his coffee at four in the morning. Ironing his suits. Swallowing my own ambitions so he could shine.

I was the architect of his entire life.

And he just bulldozed the building with me inside it.

A strange sound bubbled up in my throat.

Not a sob. Not a gasp.

A laugh.

I threw my head back and laughed. The sound bounced off the vaulted ceilings of the empty penthouse, harsh and scraping.

"Elowen, you're scaring me," Julian said. "I'm driving over."

"Don't bother." I cut off the laugh. My jaw snapped shut. "I won't be here."

"What are you doing?"

"My job."

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

My eyes swept over the dining table. The candles were lit. The steak was resting under a silver cover. The champagne was chilling in a bucket.

Beside it sat the binders. The endorsement deals. The crisis plans. The entire blueprint of Kenton's flawless public persona.

I walked over to the table. My bare feet crunched over the broken porcelain. A sharp sting pierced my heel, but I ignored it.

I picked up the thickest binder. The one containing every single dirty secret Kenton ever trusted me to bury. The club altercations. The gambling debts I paid off. The NDAs I forced girls to sign.

"You want to be single, Kenton?" I whispered to the empty room.

I grabbed the champagne bucket. I yanked the expensive bottle out and dropped it onto the floor. It rolled away, thudding against the baseboards.

I lifted the bucket and dumped the ice water directly over his five-million-dollar watch contract.

The ink immediately bled into a dark, unrecognizable smudge.

I didn't stop there. I grabbed the crisis management binder and shoved it into the fireplace.

I grabbed a box of matches from the mantle.

"Let's see how you play without your playbook," I said.

I struck the match. The flame flared to life, casting dancing shadows against the walls. I tossed it onto the paper. The edges curled and blackened, smoke rising toward the chimney.

My phone vibrated on the cushions.

The screen lit up with a text message.

*Kenton: Hey babe. Leaving the stadium now. Did you see the interview? I had to improvise, but the PR is going to be insane. See you in twenty.*

I stared at the glowing words.

Improvise.

He thought this was a game. He thought I would just fix it, like I always did.

I picked up my keys from the console table. I didn't grab a coat. I didn't pack a bag.

I walked toward the front door and pulled it open.

The lock clicked shut behind me.