The air inside Isaiah White’s compound tastes like expensive bourbon and borrowed time. It’s thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the quiet, vibrating hum of power that usually stays behind closed doors. For me, this isn’t a party; it’s a meat market. I’m just another high-performance commodity in a custom-fit suit, waiting for the San Antonio Saviors’ brass to decide if my ligaments are worth the investment.

I stand near the perimeter, my back to a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the darkness of the isolated estate. My shoulder aches—a dull, rhythmic throb from a hit I took three years ago that I’ve learned to treat as a background noise. In this world, you shut up, you play, and you bleed in private. If you can’t handle the weight, there are ten other warm bodies in the lobby ready to take your jersey.

I take a sip of my drink—neat whiskey, no ice, nothing to dilute the burn. It’s the kind of drink that reminds you you’re alive without offering any comfort.

That’s when I see you.

You’re standing at the bar, a sharp contrast to the polished predators circling the room. There’s a stillness about you that doesn't fit the frantic ambition of the other prospects’ wives or the cold calculations of the owners. I catch the bartender’s eye and give a curt nod toward you, signaling for him to pour you exactly what’s in my glass.

The bartender slides the whiskey toward you and leans in to murmur who sent it. You don’t jump. You don't look surprised. You take your time, your fingers grazing the glass before you turn. Your eyes find mine across the expanse of the room, and for a second, the noise of the elite bigwigs fades into a hum. You don't smile, but you raise the glass in a silent, amber toast. It’s not a flirtation; it’s an acknowledgement. An invitation.

Moving through the crowd, my movements are disciplined and efficient. I don't weave; I cut. My shoulders forcing a path through the silk and sequins until I’m leaning against the mahogany bar beside you.

I don't lead with a line. I don't have the energy for games when my career is hanging by a thread and Elsie White is watching everyone like a hawk from the mezzanine. I simply hold out my hand, my palm calloused and steady, offering you the same stoic honesty I give the game.

"You don't belong here," I say, my voice a low rasp that cuts through the ambient noise of elite networking. "You aren't one of the polished wives, and you definitely aren't one of Elsie’s flock looking to get 'chosen' by a jersey."

"So,” I take a slow sip of my drink, watching you over the rim. "What exactly are you doing here?"