Chapter 51
Hayes's POV
"She was a distraction." He stood, moving around the desk with the predatory grace of a man used to winning every battle. "You were on track to become everything we'd prepared you for—business acumen, the perfect heir to Sterling legacy. And then she came along, filling your head with romantic notions about defying your family, choosing love and dreams over family responsibility."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the conviction burning in his eyes.
"So yes, I intervened. I made it clear that if she truly cared about you, she'd remove herself from the equation. And she did." His voice dropped. "She made the right choice, Hayes. The mature choice. Something you were too young and foolish to make yourself."
The air in the study felt thick, suffocating. I stared at my father, really looked at him, and saw a stranger. A man who could quantify human emotion like stock portfolios, who measured relationships by their return on investment.
"You didn't give her a choice," I said, my voice shaking with barely controlled fury. "You backed her into a corner and made her think leaving was the only way to save me. You used her love for me as a weapon against her."
"I used logic and leverage." Malcolm returned to his seat, dismissing my anger with the same ease he'd dismiss an underperforming employee. "And it worked. She left. As for football, you could continue. But you won't be on the field forever."
I clenched my fists against the rage threatening to explode. "She spent six years protecting my dreams. Six years carrying the guilt of a choice she never wanted to make. And I spent six years hating her for something she never did."
"Don't be dramatic—"
"I'm done." The words came out flat, final. "I'm done pretending this is about protection or family duty or any of the bullshit you've been feeding me my entire life."
I grabbed my phone from the desk, my movements sharp with barely leashed violence.
"Hayes—" Malcolm's voice carried a warning edge.
I turned back. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay away from Sienna. You're not going to threaten her, contact her, or so much as mention her name. And if I find out you've tried to interfere with her life in any way—" I paused, making sure he understood every word. "I'll walk away from the family. I'll hold a press conference and tell everyone exactly why I'm leaving. And I'll make sure the whole world knows that Malcolm Sterling's empire is built on threats and manipulation."
The color drained from his face. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." I held his gaze, letting him see that I meant every word. "My reputation and brand value are tied to the Sterling name," I said, enunciating each word carefully. "I will destroy every single one of Sterling's positions in the sports world. Sponsorship deals, team stakes, league connections—they all follow my name. You know the math."
Malcolm slowly rose to his feet, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "You would give up everything for her?"
"In a heartbeat."
The silence that followed felt like standing in the eye of a hurricane. My father stared at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw uncertainty flicker across his face.
"You're no longer the child I could manipulate at will," he finally said, his voice low, something in his tone subtly shifting.
The words landed with more finality than any argument.
The study fell quiet for a long time, filled only by the sound of wind through the trees outside the manor.
Then Malcolm said in a low voice, "I won't interfere with you two again."
I didn't answer immediately.
"But you should consider what comes after retirement," his voice regained that habitual calculating edge. "The league won't be yours forever. Knees, age—it's only a matter of time."
He was right. I had considered this before, thought about it many times. A professional athlete's prime never lasted long, and my knee had given me the most direct warning last season. I couldn't live on the field forever—that was fact, not threat.
"I'll finish this season," I said. Paused. "After the Super Bowl, I'll retire."
Malcolm didn't move.
"I'll come back to Sterling," I continued. "I'll start learning the family business. That's what you want, and I can give you that."
His eyes returned to me, holding something complex I couldn't quite identify and didn't want to spend time deciphering.
"But there's one condition." I looked up, my voice cold. "My relationship with Sienna is permanently off-limits to you."
Malcolm didn't answer immediately.
"My relationship with her," I said, "is non-negotiable."
Another silence. Then he slowly nodded. Just nodded, nothing more.
I turned toward the door.
No handshake, no reconciliation, no symbolic closing gesture. I simply left, as if walking out of a conference room, closing the door behind me.
The hallway was long, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor, amplified by the high ceiling, accompanying me all the way to the manor gates.
Iron gates, columns, fountain—every detail felt deliberate and cold, like an architecture magazine cover, with no connection to the word "home."
I stood by my car for a moment, looking up at the building.
The hatred hadn't disappeared. I knew it wouldn't fade anytime soon—six years of lies and manipulation didn't earn forgiveness. That wasn't a debt a few words could cancel.
But I needed to go back first.
Back to Sienna's side.
I started the engine, pulled out of the estate, and headed straight for the hospital.
---
I pushed open the hospital room door, moving quietly, worried about waking her.
Sienna was asleep.
Her complexion looked better than this morning, but still pale, her hair spread across the pillow, the IV line delicately taped to the back of her hand. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the monitor and the occasional sound of carts in the hallway.
I walked to the bedside, pulled the chair closer, and sat down.
I didn't wake her. Just watched her.
What was it like for her, facing all that alone six years ago?
The thought came suddenly, lodging in my throat, so heavy I could barely breathe. She'd faced Sterling family lawyers and that agreement alone, with no one to turn to, no way out. And I'd known nothing, consumed by pain, consumed by hate.
I looked down at her hand. The swelling at her wrist hadn't subsided, the skin showing faint redness from inflammation, bruises from the IV needle still visible on the back of her hand.
I reached out, wanting to hold it, but in the end only lightly touched her fingertips—so gently, afraid of waking her, yet afraid she wouldn't feel it.
"I'm sorry," I heard myself whisper, my voice thin as a thread in the quiet room.
She didn't wake.
Her lashes rested peacefully, her breathing light and steady.
I leaned back in the chair, said nothing more, and didn't leave.