Chapter 47 He's My Sugar Daddy

Chapter 47 He's My Sugar Daddy
The image on the screen feels like it is burning a hole through my retinas. I have spent the last hour staring at Professor Mercer and Richard Thorpe until their faces have blurred into a single, monstrous entity. There is something profoundly wrong about the way Thorpe’s hand rests on Mercer’s shoulder. It is a gesture of ownership, the kind of casual physical dominance that implies one man belongs to the other. I think about Cole and his secret business, then I think about Lena and her secret professor, and then I think about this photo. The lines of this world are not just crossing; they are being tied into a noose.
I reach for my phone, my thumb hovering over the empty space where Cole’s name should be. My chest still feels tight from the fight we had at his house. He told me we couldn't work. He told me we were acting like teenagers. And yet, he is the one up to his neck in whatever filth Richard Thorpe is peddling. I want to text him and demand to know why his boss and his daughter’s lover are posing for family portraits together, but I stop myself. I am tired of being the one who asks for clarity. If he wants to keep me in the dark while the house burns down, fine. I will find my own way out.
I close the laptop with a snap and lean back, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. The silence in the apartment is heavy. Lena is finally asleep in the guest room, but her presence feels like a ticking clock. I need to handle this myself. I need to know what Mercer’s role is before Lena finds out the truth and destroys herself, or before she finds out about me and destroys us both.
The chime of a new email notification breaks the quiet. I check it out of habit, expecting a university blast or a spam message from a sports apparel brand. The subject line is in Portuguese first, followed by a formal English translation.
Convite para Testes: Programa de Desenvolvimento Internacional de Futebol.
My heart stops. I click it open, the light of the screen blinding in the dark room. It is a formal invitation for a two-week trial at an elite soccer development academy in Portugal. The scout from the tournament, a man who had barely nodded at me after my final goal, apparently saw more than I realized. The program is prestigious, the kind of opportunity that leads directly to professional European contracts. They want me there in two weeks.
I read the words over and over until they stop looking like language. This is everything. This is the dream I have been chasing since I was six years old, kicking a ball against the garage door until the neighbors complained. It is my ticket out of this city, away from the blackmail, away from the ghost of my father’s expectations, and away from the impossible weight of Cole.
And yet, I feel a cold, hollow terror. I have two weeks to respond. Two weeks to decide if I am going to leave behind the only people I have ever loved to chase a life that might not even want me. I can’t tell Lena. She would be thrilled for me, but she would also realize that I’m planning an exit strategy while she is fighting for her life here. I can’t tell Cole. He would probably tell me to go, and the thought of him being the one to push me away is more than I can handle right now. I keep the tab open, a glowing secret that feels like a life raft and a sinking stone all at once.
"Riley? You still up?"
I jump, nearly knocking my coffee mug off the table. Lena is standing in the doorway, her hair a messy cloud and her eyes sleep-heavy. She looks so much like Cole in the dim light that it makes my throat ache.
"Just finishing some research for that history paper," I lie, my voice a bit too loud. I quickly minimize the email window and the photo of Mercer. "I couldn't sleep."
Lena walks into the kitchen and starts poking around for a glass of water. "Me neither. My brain is like a hamster on a wheel. I keep thinking about that R.B. handle. I’ve been running some numbers, Riley."
"Numbers?" I ask, trying to sound bored. I stand up and walk to the sink, putting my back to her as I rinse my mug. "What kind of numbers?"
"Schedules," she says, her voice gaining that familiar detective edge. She follows me into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. "I started looking at my dad’s calendar from the last few months. The late nights, the 'away games' that didn't have scouts listed, the times he said he was at the office but didn't answer his landline. I think the only person I know whitha schedule that inconsistent is you.”
My heart pounds in my chest even though I can tell she’s joking just by looking at her face. I try to force a laugh through the lump in my throat.
She snorts a laugh. “Funny enough R.B. stands perfectly for Riley Bennett.”
The mug slips from my hand and clatters into the sink. It doesn't break, but the sound is like a thunderclap in the small room. I don't turn around immediately. I need a second to fix my face, then I bark a laugh.
I decide to go for the throat. It’s the only way to stop her.
“Yea right. I’m sleeping with your father.” I say through a forced chuckle that I hope sounds sarcastic. “The man whose couch I peed on countless times when I was five is now my sugar daddy.” I roll my eyes. “Lena, I spend half my time complaining to you about how hard he pushes us on the field. You really think I’d sneak around with a man who spends his weekends yelling at me about my footwork?"
Lena winces, her confidence flickering. "I’m not saying I think it’s you. I’m just saying the data is being annoying. It’s like the universe is trying to mess with me. I know it’s not you. I’m just frustrated because I feel like the answer is right in front of me and I can’t see it."
"The answer is that you’re exhausted and obsessed," I say, stepping closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. It feels like a betrayal. "You’re letting this investigation get in the way of your actual life. Why don't we go for a walk? The sun is coming up, and the air will clear your head. No laptops, no notebooks. Just us."
Lena sighs, leaning her head against my shoulder for a brief second. "You’re right. I’m losing it. Let’s go. I need to breathe something that isn't apartment air."
We both pull on leggings and hoodies. Lena grabs a heavy windbreaker from the coat rack by the door. "Is this mine?" she asks, frowning at the dark gray fabric. "It smells like my dad’s house."
"He must have left it here the last time he dropped off your laundry," I say, my heart doing a frantic dance. "Just wear it. It’s cold out."
We head out into the early morning light. The city is still waking up, the streets quiet and draped in a thin, gray mist. We walk toward the park, the silence between us feeling more natural than it has in days. For a moment, I let myself pretend that everything is fine. I imagine telling her about Portugal. I imagine us celebrating, planning her visit to Lisbon, talking about the future like we used to.
"I just want him to be happy, you know?" Lena says suddenly, her voice small. "But I don't want him to be a fool. If this woman is just using him, I can't let that happen. He’s been through enough."
"I know," I say, looking at the sidewalk. "He’s a good man, Lena."
"He is. But he’s also a terrible liar. He thinks he’s so smooth, but he has these little tells. Like the way he tucks his hands into his pockets when he’s hiding something."
She reaches into the pockets of the jacket she is wearing, her fingers brushing against something inside. She frowns and pulls out a small, crumpled piece of thermal paper.
"What’s this?" she asks, stopping under a streetlamp.
I stop beside her, my breath hitching as I recognize the logo at the top of the slip. It’s the restaurant Cole took me to the day of the helicopter ride, the one day we let ourselves be a real couple. The day we sat in the corner booth and talked for four hours about things that had nothing to do with soccer or his daughter.
"It’s a receipt," Lena says, her voice turning sharp and energized again. She smooths the paper out against her palm. "Table for two for Friday the twelfth. That was the day he told me he had to go to some coaching seminar upstate."
I stare at the paper. I remember that night. I remember the way he looked in the candlelight. I remember the way he and I had seemed normal, exchanging jokes and banter like the entire world didn’t exist.
"This place is in another state entirely," Lena whispers, her eyes darting across the text. "He drove hours away just to have dinner. He’s definitely hiding her."
She pulls out her phone and takes a clear, high-resolution photo of the receipt. The flash is bright and jarring in the morning gloom.
"Look at the time stamp," she says, her face lighting up with a triumphant, terrifying glow. "He was there until ten. I have the location now, Riley. I can call them. I can see if they have surveillance or if the servers remember who he was with. This is it. This is our first big lead."
She looks at me, beaming, her eyes full of the hunt. I look back at her, and all I can see is the walls closing in. The receipt is in my pocket. The initial is on her screen. The email is in my inbox. I am running out of room to breathe, and the girl I love most in the world is the one holding the air shut.
"We got her," Lena says, tucking the paper into her own pocket like a trophy. "We finally got her."
I manage to nod, my throat so tight I can't even offer a lie. I just walk beside her, my mind screaming as I realize that every path I have left leads directly into the fire.