Page 566 of Bad Prince

---

That hurts too.

Because I know her well enough now to understand what that means.

It means she read it.

It means something old and ugly got touched.

It means she is probably holding herself very straight right now and pretending she doesn’t need anything.

That last part is the one I trust least.

I call her immediately.

Straight to voicemail.

I stare at the screen for half a second, then text.

Where are you?

No answer.

Another text.

I’m coming to you.

That one gets a reply.

Fast.

Don’t. Go to practice.

Then:

I’m fine.

Lie.

I can hear it in the punctuation.

I close my eyes briefly, breathing once through my nose.

Kane is leaning against the counter now, arms folded.

“What’s the move?”

I look at the article again.

At Stella’s face in the photo.

At the byline of some smug little parasite who has probably never taped a joint, played through a torn callus, or loved anyone enough to understand what it costs to have them dragged into a public narrative they did not consent to.

Then I look back at Kane.

“The move,” I say quietly, “is that nobody gets to use my name to reduce her again.”

Coach has us on a speed-and-strength day that already feels like punishment before I decide each rep now has a bylineattached to it. By the third set, Jalen is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

By the fourth, Coach whistles me dead and says, “Either tell me what you’re mad at or use less bar speed before you pull the rack apart.”

---