Page 59

I climbed out of the car, walked into my house, poured a glass of water I didn't drink, and stood in my kitchen trying to understand how I'd become this person.

How I'd gone from promising myself I'd never hurt Harper again after the dinner disaster to doing an action infinitely worse. How I'd taken her honesty, her bravery in sharing her trauma, and twisted it into an insult designed to cut deep.

I knew why. The answer sat in my chest, heavy and undeniable.

I was terrified. Terrified of how much I wanted her. Terrified of what wanting her meant. Terrified that if I admitted the attraction, if I let myself feel what I was feeling, everything I'd built would come crashing down around me.

My career. My endorsements. My carefully managed reputation. My entire identity as Captain Cameron Russo, the professional point guard who never let emotions interfere with performance.

All of it built on the foundation of staying hidden. Staying safe. Staying in control.

Except control had failed me. Spectacularly. Publicly. Irreversibly.

I'd hurt Harper because she threatened my control. Because she saw through my defenses and made me want something I'd convinced myself I couldn't have. Because she was brave enough to live openly, and that bravery highlighted my cowardice in ways I couldn't stomach.

I walked to one of my home gyms, wrapped my hands, and hit the heavy bag until my knuckles were raw and bloody through the tape and my shoulders were screaming—and I still couldn't escape the look on Harper's face.

At least I'm brave enough to be myself.

The words echoed. Indictment and truth combined into an assessment I couldn't argue with.

I'd been dishonest from the beginning. Pretending I didn't want her. Pretending my judgment wasn't about attraction I didn't know how to handle. Pretending I was better than her because I hid my truth while she lived hers openly.

I'd been dishonest, and cruel, and exactly the kind of scared that Harper had accused me of being.

The bag swung back, and I caught it, pressing my forehead against the leather, letting myself feel the full weight of what I'd done.

Harper deserved better. Deserved someone brave enough to love her publicly. Deserved someone who would protect her vulnerability instead of weaponizing it. Deserved someone who wouldn't make her smaller to make themselves feel safer.

I wasn't that person.

Might never be that person.

But I owed her an apology anyway. Not the careful, controlled non-apology I'd offered after our previous fights. A real acknowledgment of harm. A real admission of cruelty. A real understanding that what I'd done was unconscionable.

Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to say sorry in a way that mattered.

Tonight, I'd sit with the consequences of my fear. Tonight, I'd let myself understand that I'd just hurt the bravest person I'd ever met because I was too scared to admit she terrified me in all the best ways.

Tonight, I'd let myself feel what it cost to choose safety over honesty.

I hit the bag one more time with bloodied knuckles, felt the impact reverberate through bones that were already aching, and knew that no amount of physical punishment would fix what I'd broken.

Some damage couldn't be undone with discipline and control.

Some wounds required vulnerability to heal.

And I'd just proven in front of Fashion City's elite, in the worst possible way, that I didn't know how to be vulnerable without destroying everyone around me.

The worst part was knowing Harper had been right all along.

I was scared.

Not better. Not more professional. Not more controlled.

Just scared.

And my fear had just cost me a connection I hadn't even known I wanted until I'd destroyed any possibility of having it.