Page 266 of Bad Prince

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The city keeps moving.

But something fundamental—has just shifted.

I replay it, immediately.

Then again.

The third time, I sit down.

The glass of wine remains untouched in my hand. Her voice fills the room again. Not emotional. Not pleading.

Just—certain.

Confident.

She didn’t ask for anything.

Sheinformedme.

My jaw tightens.

I open my browser.

Type her name.

Stella Cortéz.

The results populate instantly.

Stanford University.

Division-1 volleyball.

Images.

I click one.

And everything else disappears.

She’s mine.

There is no doubt.

The height.

The bone structure.

The eyes.

Dark. Sharp. Unapologetic.

She stands on a court, mid-play, body coiled with power, focus carved into her expression like it’s part of her DNA.

I zoom in.

Closer.

There it is.

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