ONERowan
Two can play this game.
That’s the motto I repeat over and over with each step, each click of my sky-high fuck-you heels that echo as I waltz into the TinSpirits office.
My bravado might be false, but my resolve is stronger than ever.
It’s been six days.
Of utter confusion.
Of chest-aching heartbreak.
Of dodging Chadwick and my mom and their incessant push for wedding plans—all of which makes my stomach churn.
Of trying to figure out how to play any and every angle of this mess to my advantage but still coming up short.
Of Holden’s utter fucking silence.
Isn’t that what hurts even worse than his betrayal? His ability to just cut me off like I never mattered? Like the night in New York and the unspoken I love yous that I thought we both felt, but clearly didn’t, never mattered or existed at all?
On his end anyway.
The man gave me one of the best, most thoughtful nights of my life, a private Clayton Seaburn concert. In hindsight, it was all a part of his smoke-and-mirrors show to distract me—or assuage his own guilt—from what he was doing elsewhere.
Like screwing me over.
I keep my head held high as I walk down the hallway, praying no one congratulates me on my engagement and steeling myself against having any reaction, any expression, when I eventually see him.
Because I will see him. It’s inevitable.
Three nights.
That’s all I gave myself to cry in the silence of my hotel room in Georgia. Three nights of tears and heartache and being a slobbery mess who doubted herself and her ability to judge other people. Who allowed herself to be utterly heartbroken over a man she fell for when she knew she shouldn’t have.
During the day I put on a brave face and sold the shit out of our company, negotiating my ass off and sealing the deal on a very forward-thinking contract with a new supplier. And then at night, I returned to my hotel room and gave myself the grace to fall apart.
But that self-imposed grace has expired.
Now that I’m back home in Westmore, I must face the reality that I gave my heart to a man who set out from the get-go to destroy it.
And as much as I’d give anything to avoid Holden with all I have, that would make me just like him. A coward.
Two can play this game.
* * *
“I know you have to get married to claim Gran’s inheritance.”
Chad’s comment is enough of a stunner as I fly in Holden’s private jet to Georgia. My hand grips the cell phone tight as I try to process the words that just came through it. Especially when they were delivered on the heels of me finding the executed contract that proved the deal was done and that Holden’s word isn’t to be trusted.
He screwed me out of everything he promised.
“What do you mean you know I have to be married?”
“My uncle let it slip,” Chad says, referring to Gran’s estate attorney.
“Awesome,” I mutter. Just fucking awesome. Anger should fire at private, legal details being spilled out into the open, but I’m too heartbroken, too overwhelmed to find enough fucks to give.
But then Chad speaks.
And changes everything.
“I have a plan on how we can make this work. How we can both benefit from it. Let me explain.”
* * *
My conversation with Chad replays in my mind. How was it only nine days ago that it took place and my world tilted askew again from one hour to the next?
But it did.
And I’m here.
Trying to wear it like a second skin when I hate the very feeling of it. But no one would know that from the outside looking in. I offer smiles and greetings to my staff in the marketing department as I stride through the second floor toward our in-house studio. A photographer awaits my arrival.
Holden wanted a new campaign for TinSpirits? I’m giving him one.
And in the process, I’m more than ready to show him just who he fucked with.
You wanted a war, Holden Knight.
You’ve got one.
Two, most definitely, can play this game.
TWOHolden
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Audrey asks as she enters my office. As my personal assistant, scheduler, right-hand person over the years, she’s the only person in this whole damn place who has the balls to do so.
“No,” I grunt, my back to her as I continue to rifle vigorously through the files on the credenza behind my desk.
“Perfect. So this is about the time when I tell you how absolutely giddy I’ve been, getting up the past few mornings to come to work and deal with a surly fucker such as yourself,” she says flatly.
I glance over my shoulder to catch the sarcasm etched in the lines of her face. My glare is the only answer I give as I continue to sort through the piles of shit on my desk.
I never have piles on my desk.
I never lose anything.
And I’ve never gotten screwed over by a woman before, either.
First time for everything, Knight.
I straighten up as if staring at the whole of the desktop will help me see what’s right in front of me.
But I can’t find the folder on WillowBend. All I see is the box of cuff links I had shoved into the corner, which makes no fucking sense in light of the current situation.
Why did Rowan leave them on my desk for me? A parting gift? A silent consolation prize or a fuck you as she agrees to marry dickless Chad? At least I’m assuming they were from her—the sunburst-shaped cuff links inside. Sunshine. My nickname for her.
I’d ask her but that would mean I’d have to talk to her. Fuck that. I will not call. I will not text.
I let my guard down.
Copyright © 2025 by K. Bromberg
