Calculated Betrayal

Sienna

I remained inside the cramped cupboard because returning to the apartment felt unbearable.

That apartment belonged to Landon and me. The kitchen table where we had breakfast this morning, the mail stacked by the door, the keys resting in the brass bowl—facing any of it was impossible. I stayed on the vinyl treatment table with my jacket in my lap, staring at the grey paint on the wall.

He was bluffing.

I repeated the thought to push down the panic rising in my chest. Landon was furious because I had caught him in the act. Cornered men lashed out; they reached for the nastiest threat available to force a surrender. But destroying my career with an irreversible lie was a boundary even he would not cross.

We had two years together. When my mother was sick, Landon sat with me in the hospital and held my hand until dawn. He learned how I took my coffee and brought it every morning. He had told me he loved me hundreds of times, and I believed him. A man who shared that history would not obliterate my life.

Footsteps approached along the corridor.

The door opened, and the dark-haired woman from the treatment room stepped inside. Paige looked composed now, her clothes smoothed down and her lipstick fresh, erasing any trace of what had happened.

Paige leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded over her chest. "You are still here."

I kept my voice steady. "This is my place of work. Who let you back in here?"

Paige inspected her manicured nails with an unapologetic, frigid smile. "I came to tell you something. You should probably not make any plans for tomorrow."

I stared at her, feeling anger prickle beneath my collar. "Excuse me?"

"Landon is taking care of everything. He told me what you said about going to Coach Rostov. Did you really think that was going to work?" She looked me up and down with open disdain.

I pointed toward the open corridor. "I think you should leave."

Paige tilted her head with a small, cruel smirk. "He has been planning this for weeks, actually. The press conference, the journalist, the entire story. Way before today. This afternoon just moved his timetable forward. You have no idea what is coming, do you?"

My chest tightened, but I kept my chin up. "If you have something to say, say it."

She gave a short, harsh laugh. "I just did. Do you honestly think you can threaten Landon Thorne and walk away? He is going to destroy you tonight. And honestly, you fucking deserve it."

Paige turned on her heel and strode down the hallway, the sharp click of her shoes fading away.

I sat frozen in the small room.

The reality hit me with brutal clarity.

Landon had spent weeks taking hushed phone calls and hiding his screen. When I caught him earlier, he had not shown the panic of a cornered man. He had shown the cool focus of someone executing a prepared strategy.

His threat was not a desperate reaction to my ultimatum about Rostov. It was a trap already sprung. Landon had coordinated with the press, briefed a journalist, and crafted the narrative for weeks, with this afternoon merely accelerating his timetable.

Nausea twisted my gut. Desperate to witness the fallout or stop it, I grabbed my jacket and rushed through the city toward the Crestview Hotel.

My lungs burned, my staff lanyard bouncing against my chest. I knew about the seven o'clock press conference from passing whispers in the lounge. The Denver Dragons had scheduled an event to unveil a blockbuster acquisition while keeping the player's identity secret.

I pushed through the revolving doors and followed the signs to the second floor.

The conference room was a media circus.

Reporters and camera operators packed the room wall to wall. Lenses rested on tripods, red tally lights glowing in the perimeter. At the front, a raised platform stood beneath a banner bearing the Dragons colors.

Landon sat at the center of the dais. He wore an immaculate tailored charcoal suit, looking composed and in command. To his left, Paige stood near the platform steps, wearing a sleek black dress and holding a bottle of water with a smug grin.

Landon took the bottle without looking at her. His gaze drifted across the crowded room, gliding over the press before locking squarely onto me near the back wall.

His expression did not shift. He showed no surprise, no guilt, and no hesitation. He simply turned back toward the microphone.

A representative stepped to the podium. "Thank you for joining us tonight. On behalf of the Denver Dragons organization, we are proud to introduce our newest acquisition. Please welcome Declan Brooks."

A side door opened, and a hush fell over the room.

Declan Brooks walked onto the stage.

He was broad-shouldered and formidable, carrying a presence that commanded attention without effort. Dark hair framed sharp features, while piercing green eyes surveyed the press with cool detachment. Landon openly despised Declan; their brutal clashes on the ice had fueled division headlines for three seasons. How management pulled off the signing remained a mystery.

Declan took the empty chair beside Landon. He slumped into the seat, resting his forearms on the armrests with blatant disdain for the spectacle. He did not look at Landon, nor did he acknowledge the flashbulbs lighting up the dais.

Reporters shouted questions about the trade and line chemistry. Landon handled them with smooth charm, delivering polished soundbites for the networks. Declan answered in clipped, dry sentences, making his disdain for the spectacle clear.

Standing in the shadows by the back wall, I held my breath. I prayed Paige had been lying. Landon was calculating, but airing private lies on television seemed too reckless even for him.

A reporter in the front row stood up with a handheld microphone. "Landon, there has been talk online regarding your relationship with team physiotherapist Sienna Cross. Can you clarify where things stand?"

The ambient noise in the hall died instantly.

Landon leaned forward toward the microphone, resting his hands flat on the table.

"Yes, I can clarify that." Landon spoke with an easy, untroubled cadence.

My breath hitched in my throat.

He paused just long enough to let the room lean in. "Sienna is talented. She knows her job. However, she did not earn her position through skill alone."

The silence in the room grew heavy and suffocating.

Landon leaned closer to the microphone, his tone steady and devoid of hesitation. "A year ago, Sienna Cross slept with an ex-coach to secure her position with this franchise. You heard me correctly. She is a slut who used her body to get hired, and she tried to seduce me into her games."

The room hung suspended for two seconds.

Then the conference room detonated.

Reporters shouted at once, pointing toward the rear. The primary broadcast lens on the center riser swung around, tracking across the crowd until it pinpointed my position against the back wall.

The spotlight hit my face in a blinding glare as fifty heads turned in unison.

My composure disintegrated into raw fury. Two years of trust, every compromise I had made, and every promise he had given shattered into dust.

I shoved away hands trying to restrain me. "You are a liar! Every word coming out of your mouth is a lie!" My voice tore across the hall, cutting through the pandemonium.

Flashbulbs flared relentlessly against my eyes.

Tears of humiliation and rage burned behind my eyelids. "You fabricated this entire story because I caught you cheating! You are destroying my career to protect your own image!"

Reporters surged closer, thrusting digital recorders and boom mics toward my face.

I looked past the lenses toward the dais, searching Landon's eyes.

Landon sat back in his chair with his hands folded in his lap. He watched me across the sea of flashing cameras. There was no shame in his eyes. There was no anger, and no triumphant smirk.

There was only cold, calculated pity.

A wave of dread washed through me, paralyzing my limbs.

He had planned for me to follow him here. He knew I would stand in the back, lose control, and scream on live television. My public breakdown was scripted from the start. He had labeled me unstable, and I had walked straight into his snare.

The fight died in my chest. My mouth fell shut. I stood silent under the blinding lights, paralyzed by the realization of what I had done.

Reporters shouted questions over one another, their voices merging into a deafening roar.

Beside Landon, Declan Brooks shifted in his seat.

He had not uttered a single word during the explosion, his dark, unreadable eyes taking in the entire room. Now, he reached across the table, pulled the gooseneck microphone toward his mouth, and delivered five cold, measured words.

"I think we're done here."

His voice cut through the noise, flat and decisive.

Declan rose from his chair, turned his back on Landon, and walked off the stage without sparing a glance in my direction.

The conference room erupted into fresh pandemonium as journalists scrambled after him.

I remained frozen in place, blinded by the flashing lights, unable to locate an escape route through the crowd.