Page 282 of Bad Prince
“This is the athletic complex. I spend more time here than in the library.”
Doors open.
The smell hits.
Polished wood. Sweat. effort.
Home.
Coach looks up.
Sees me.
Then sees him.
And pauses.
Really pauses.
Her eyes drag over him once—sharp, assessing—and I see it.
That flicker of recognition.
Not of who he is.
But of what he is.
“Well,” she says dryly, crossing her arms, “only Stella Cortez could disappear for three days and come back with an international business tycoon father.”
A few girls laugh nervously.
Emmauel doesn’t.
She steps forward. Extends her hand.
And for the first time—I see her adjust.
Just slightly.
Respect.
“Welcome to the chaos.”
He takes her hand.
His grip firm.
Controlled.
“Thank you,” he says. “Emmanuel Cortez.”
And his accent—it hits different here.
Rich.
Smooth.
That expensive, unmistakable Spaniard cadence layered over his English.
