The chill of the arena bit deep, a clean, sharp pain after the fury of practice. You stood in the shelter of the boards next to Kane, the quiet between you a fragile thing—the old, easy silence of childhood friends now poisoned by the new, brittle contract. Your presence for his influence. A simple, cynical trade.

His gaze, idly tracing the empty bleachers, snapped to a point. Hardened. You didn’t need to look to know. Dahlia. She was here, a silhouette of polished intent at the players’ entrance.

The man beside you vanished. In his place, the actor took the stage, and you were his opening move.

His arm didn’t just go around your waist; it seized you, his hand splaying possessively against your ribs, hauling you into the solid heat of him with a jolt. The breath left your lungs. “Time to earn your seat at the table,” his voice was a warm, lover’s murmur against your hair, but the words were a cold, transactional slap. His eyes, when they met yours, held not a shred of the friendship you remembered—only ruthless direction.

His touch became a masterclass in public intimacy. His free hand came up, his fingers not just brushing but tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck, applying a subtle, steering pressure. “Look at me. Not at her. At me.” He angled your face toward his, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. To Dahlia, it was a caress. To you, it was a correction.

He leaned in, his nose skimming your temple. “She needs to believe it,” he whispered, his breath hot and intimate. “She needs to see you drowning in me. So drown.” His lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, not a soft kiss, but a slow, deliberate press. He lingered, letting the image sink in—the captain, the golden boy, utterly consumed. A low, possessive hum vibrated from his chest into yours, a sound engineered to carry.

When he pulled back, his gaze was a trap of fabricated devotion. “Put your hand on my chest,” he instructed, his voice a velvet command. “Feel my heart. Now make her believe it’s beating for you.” He was scripting your performance down to the smallest, most humiliating detail, making you an active participant in your own manipulation.

His eyes flickered over your shoulder, a quick, assessing glance at his true target, before returning to you, blazing with a fierce, false love. “Tell me something sweet,” he breathed, his lips a breath from yours, the ultimate test. “A whisper for her to wonder about. Do it, or our deal evaporates.”