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"Says the woman who probably has her entire life scheduled in fifteen-minute increments."

She wasn't wrong. I grabbed the pen back. "One thousand."

Harper stared at the number like I'd personally offended her. I suppose I had. "Are you serious right now?"

"It's for charity. Children's hospitals. Art programs. Very worthy causes."

"It's for your pathological need to win everything."

"I don't need to win everything."

"You're a professional athlete and team captain. Winning is literally your entire identity."

"That's not—" I stopped, and attempted to organize thoughts that were scattering under her scrutiny. "Basketball is my profession. Not my identity."

"Right. That's why you introduced yourself as 'team captain' when we first met. Because it's just a job, not your whole personality."

The observation stung more than it should have. Harper grabbed the pen with more force than necessary, wrote down twelve hundred dollars.

Laine leaned over to Mia, her voice carrying despite the attempt at discretion. "Should we intervene?"

"Absolutely not," Mia replied. "This is the most entertainment I've had all evening."

I took the pen back. The rational part of my brain—the part that handled game strategy and financial planning—knew this was absurd. I didn't particularly like wine. I had no real interest in spending a weekend in Napa Valley. But Harper had that competitive glint in her eyes, and backing down felt impossible.

I wrote down fifteen hundred dollars.

Harper's eyes went wide. "Fifteen hundred dollars? For wine?"

"For charity."

"For your ego."

"You bid twelve hundred. That's also ego."

"That's spite. Completely different motivation."

"What's the difference?"

"Spite is fun. Ego is sad." She crossed her arms, and the movement did interesting work on her neckline that I absolutely should not have noticed. "Enjoy your wine weekend, Captain. Maybe it'll help you develop a personality beyond basketball and brooding."

I was already turning away, scanning the next auction item, some spa package I had zero interest in, my mind half on the bidding war we'd just had, half on how her dress looked in the chandelier light, barely processing her words as I said, "Yeah, well, maybe if you spent less energy making your entire personality about your coming out and trauma, you'd have an actual identity beyond being a professional victim on Instagram."

The words came out flat. Casual. I barely realized I’d said them.

I reached for the next bid sheet, pen still in hand.

The silence registered first. Not the normal lull in conversation, but a complete absence of sound. Like someone had hit mute on the entire ballroom.

I looked up.

Harper had gone very still. Her face was twisted in an expression I'd never seen before, cycling through shock, hurt, devastation in the space of a breath.

The pen slipped from my fingers.

Oh god.

What had I just said?