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Bet.
Bet.
Bet.
The word rings on repeat in my head like the sounding of a gong, every echo reverberating through my chest and battering at my heart. It hurts. More than it ought to.
Maybe I should have expected it though. My ridiculous romantic tendencies always seem to blow little things into Hollywood level rom-coms. An accidental brush of hand against hand, turns into a passionate embrace. Natural, everyday eye contact turns into lingering, soulful glances. A fun sex-filled vacation in Cancun turns into an epic beginning to a passionate love story.
Stupid, stupid Kat. You never learn.
I can barely hear past the blood rushing in my ears, only catching snippets as they remain mostly quiet in their arguing. But I can tell they're so caught up in their competitive pursuit, they've forgotten the person at the heart of it all.
"Alright, boys," I say, my voice a low murmur only I can hear. "Time for a reality check."
Without another thought, I reach out and twist the ridiculously opulent handle, swinging the door wide open with a crack like thunder. The arguing cuts off, a sudden silence falling like the calm before a storm–the perfect backdrop for truths that need to be told.
"Seriously?" The word is a bullet. It pierces the tense air, silencing them. They turn, three pairs of eyes wide with surprise—Wilder's stormy blue, Wyatt's sharp steel gray, Emrys' deep nebula green and gold. I don't even pause to take in their hangdog expressions; they're not pets caught chewing shoes, they're men, and they should know better.
"You're all idiots," I say, hands on my hips, French-tip nails glinting like knives ready for a fight. "You think this is some high school bet? Plotting strategies to win me over like I'm the grand prize in some messed-up carnival game? How positively degrading."
Wilder opens his mouth, probably to throw around another reckless excuse, but I cut him off. This isn't a time for his charm or sweet-talk. Not when my heart feels like it’s been trampled by the weight of their egos.
"Shut it, Wilder," I say sharply. His jaw snaps shut, surprise flickering in his eyes before a shadow of shame crosses his face.
Wyatt steps forward, the lawyer in him ready to debate, to negotiate terms. But this isn't a courtroom, and I'm not a case to be won. "Kat-" He starts, but I’m not having any of it.
"Save it, Wyatt. Your silver tongue won't work here.” I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“And you, Emrys." I whip around to face him, his usual cool demeanor faltering under my scrutiny. "Don't think I didn't notice your quiet judgment, thinking you're somehow above all this. I’m sure you’re as equally a part of this bet as the other two." The word bet strikes out like a snake, making all three wince.
They look at each other, then back at me, a silent communication passing between them that's too little, too late.
"Did it ever occur to any of you that what I want might matter? That maybe I'm not interested in being a part of some sick pissing match?" Each word is a hammer, nailing in my point. "I built an empire from nothing, turned passion into purpose. I’m worth far more than being used as a cheap prize!"
"Kat, we-" Emrys tries again, the usually unflappable Brit looking distinctly ruffled now.
"No," I interrupt with a sharp shake of my head. "I don't want apologies. I don't want excuses. I want a partner who respects me. And if that's too much to ask, then maybe none of you are up to the challenge."
My gaze sweeps over them one last time, imprinting this moment, this decision, firmly into my mind. With every ounce of dignity I have left, I straighten my spine, ignoring the ache in my heart.
"Figure it out, guys. Because I'm done being the trophy at the end of your little competition."
With those final words hanging in the air like the echo of a closing gavel, I pivot on my heel, my exit as sharp and deliberate as the words I leave them with. I don't linger for their reactions; I've said my piece. The click of the latch is a punctuation, an end to the chapter that had us entangled more messily than headphone wires in a pocket.
"Kat!" It's Wilder's voice, soaked with the smooth drawl of his Southern roots, calling after me from behind the closed door. I hear the telltale signs of them seemingly wrestling to get out of the door to chase after me, their own infighting stopping them from reaching me even now. His tone tugs at the part of me that craves the reckless abandon he brings out in me–the zip lining through life without looking down.
"Kathryn, please," Wyatt's deeper, more resonant plea joins in, seeping through the wood. The man who has known the bitter burn of loss and still stands tall, asking for another chance, his voice thick with regret.
"Kat," Emrys adds last, his British accent always making my name sound like it should be whispered in intimate moments. He's the calm to my storm, the steady hand when life whips up chaos.
But I don't stop. They need to stew. They need to realize that Kathryn Sharpe isn't a prize to be won; she’s a force to be reckoned with.
I enter the elevator, the cool wall a contrast to my heated skin as I press my back against it. I let out a deep breath and it feels like releasing the safety valve on a pressure cooker that’s been on way too long, leaving behind only the charred remnants of whatever culinary masterpiece it was supposed to be.
Chapter 36
The door slams open with enough force to rattle my teeth. Kat storms in, her eyes are twin storms of betrayal and hurt, though she's biting down on her lip so hard I'm worried she'll draw blood.
