Maya
"Are you insane?"
My voice cuts through the thick, cigar-smoke air of the Westbridge United executive boardroom. I slam both hands onto the mahogany table, glaring directly at Chairman Alistair Vance-who also happens to be the billionaire uncle of the kid Ethan Cross just flattened on the pitch.
"You want me to do what?" I demand.
Alistair doesn't blink. He calmly sips his whiskey, his tailored suit completely unwrinkled despite the absolute chaos unfolding on the television monitors behind him.
"Westbridge isn't paying you to save Ethan Cross, Doctor Benette. It is paying you to save this club." Alistair says, his voice smooth and cold. "Ethan Cross is a global asset. Right now, our stock prices are plummeting because he acted like a feral animal. Our biggest sponsors are threatening to walk away. Apex Athletics
"Then fine him," I snap. My pulse stutters. "Suspend him. Let me treat him clinically. But forcing me to sign a public relations contract to play his supportive girlfriend? That violates every ethical boundary I have as a licensed psychologist."
"You won't be his clinical psychologist anymore," Alistair counters easily. He slides a thick manila folder across the polished wood. "We will assign Cross to Dr. Sterling. Your clinical hands remain clean. To the public, you met during a team assessment, sparks flew, and you are now the grounding force helping football's bad boy find his inner peace."
"I refuse," I say, stepping back from the table. "My integrity isn't for sale."
"Are you sure about that?" Alistair smiles. It is the smile of a shark that has already caught its prey. He opens a folder and slides it towards me. My blood turns cold. "No, not that folder.Not Leo." I whisper as I go through the folder, revealing medical documents with a Swiss logo at the top.
"Your brother, Leo, is just twenty years old. A former Westbridge Academy prospect until his spine injury last year."My breath catches in my throat. The room suddenly feels entirely too small. "Leave my brother out of this."
"The neuro-regeneration clinic in Zurich has a slot open next week," Alistair continues, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "The experimental surgery costs two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Your insurance denied the claim yesterday, didn't they?"
My hands begin to shake. I ball them into fists inside my blazer pockets so he won't see.
If I don't do it myself, it crashes, my mother's voice whispers in my mind, a reminder of a childhood spent cleaning up everyone else's ruins. Rely upon no one.
For months, I've fought insurance companies, begged for loans, and chased every impossible solution. Leo is running out of time. So am I.
"Six months," Alistair says, sliding a pen toward me. "Play the part. Attend the galas. Move into his penthouse so the paparazzi catch you together. Keep him out of the headlines. The moment the season ends, the club pays for Leo's surgery in full.
My soul screams at me to walk out the door. But then I think of Leo, sitting in his room, staring at his useless legs.
I reach out. My fingers lock around the heavy fountain pen.
"No touching unless the cameras are flashing," I say, my voice trembling but sharp. "And the moment Ethan Cross acts out again, the deal is off, but you still pay for my brother."
"Deal," Alistair purrs.
I sign my name on the dotted line. My signature stares back at me like a prison sentence.
Ten minutes later, I am walking down the cold, concrete player tunnel toward the away locker room.
The weight of what I've just done crushes my chest. I am a professional. I am a woman who prides herself on logic, control, and independence. Now, I am a paid prop for an arrogant athlete who doesn't even know how to control his own temper.
I stop in front of the door. I can hear the muffled sound of things being thrown inside. He is angry. Volatile. Dangerous.
I take a deep breath, forcing my clinical mask into place, and push the heavy door open.
