“Let’s hear it for our competitors!”
The crowd erupts as names are called one after another. Kids wave from the sidelines, parents clap and cameras flash while Parker’s foundation staff hustle around setting up the forty-yard dash lanes.
Then the announcer says, “And give a warm welcome to our adult competitors, Brea James and Nadia Petrov.”
My mind spins and wobbles off its axis.
The name doesn’t just hit me—it detonates somewhere deep in my chest, setting off every fear I’ve spent years trying to outrun.
“No,” I whisper under my breath. “No, no, no.”
My fingers curl into my arm, nails pressing into my skin as if pain might keep me from floating straight out of my body.
Why is she here?
This can’t be random.
Not today.
Not at his foundation event.
Not before I’ve told him the truth myself.
Cold panic spreads through my body so fast it leaves me dizzy.
I scan the line of contestants and find her instantly.
Nadia.
Her blonde hair whips in the wind as she moves toward Parker with calm, deliberate confidence, like she already knows she belongs in his orbit.
My pulse pounds so violently it drowns out the stadium noise. The cheers blur into static.
I can’t breathe.
The younger kids line up and race first, tinysneakers pounding against the turf while the crowd cheers them on. But I don’t see any of it.
I only see her.
Someone steps aside, giving me a clear line of sight just as Nadia closes the distance between them.
Parker smiles automatically at first—that practiced, public version of him he gives reporters, fans and strangers. Warm. Easy. Polite.
Then Nadia touches his arm.
Not casually.
Intentionally.
Her fingers slide across his bicep like she knows exactly where I’m standing. Exactly what she’s doing.
A sharp wave of nausea rolls through me. My fingers dig deeper into my skin as Parker’s expression changes.
It’s so subtle, most people wouldn’t notice it.
But I do.
I know every shift in his posture. Every crack in his composure. Every sign that his thoughts are turning dangerous.
