Desired by All and He Threw Away 65

months ago that woman would have been scared to dig deeper.But not anymore. 

“he is not going to manipulate anyone else,” i say out loud my voice steady this time. “not if i can help it.” 

The words ground me.determination replaces the fear curling at the edges of my thoughts. Dylan may be cunning but i have learned too much to fall for the same tricks. 

still part of me wonders what Ella’s thinking tonight.whether she is sitting in her penthouse like i am scrolling through the chaos wondering if shes made a mistake- or if shes trapped. 

the clock on my desk glows past midnight.my phone buzzes once a reminder from the team’s calendar: Annual Celebration Gala -Tomorrow 7:00 PM. 

Right. That’s tomorrow. The event everyone’s been drowning in for weeks–sponsors, press, executives. I’m expected to be there, assisting the physical therapy department, managing player schedules and safety checks. 

And Aiden will be there too. 

Just thinking his name sends a flutter through my chest I don’t want to acknowledge. We haven’t talked in days. He’s buried in logistics and press meetings, his messages short, clipped. But I’ve seen him around the facility- shoulders tense, eyes shadowed, voice a little too controlled. 

When I pass him in the hallway earlier, he barely looked up from his clipboard. 

“Big night tomorrow,” he said. 

“Yeah,” I replied. “You ready?” 

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “do i have a choice?” 

thats the thing about Aiden- he carries everything like a weight he is not allowed to set down. 

now as i stare at the mess of papers on my desk i wonder if i should tell him what i have been digging into.but he has enough on his plate. And until I have real proof, it’s just noise. 

the night of the gala hums with energy. 

the venue is a sprawling hall wrapped in glass and silver light the kind of place that smells faintly of champagne and ambition.music pulses low through hidden speakers blending with laughter and the clinking of glasses. 

cameras flash from every corner. 

I stand near the stage with a tablet in hand, scanning the list of players scheduled for media appearances. My role tonight is technical, routine–assist the physical therapy department, make sure no one overstrains or disappears before interviews. Easy enough on paper. 

but every time i spot Aiden across the room focus slips through me like water through open hands.hes standing near the buffet table half turned toward a sponsor and the sight of him knocks the air right out of me. 

the suit dark perfectly tailored fits him like it was made for every line of his body.the fabric catches the light when he moves tracing the shape of his shoulders the lean stretch of muscle along his arms.As his arm move 

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Charter 65 

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his a wristwatch that gleams every time he gestures. 

his hair is pushed back in that effortless way that probably took him two seconds but somehow looks like sin in motion. 

he laughs at something the man says that low easy sound that always manages to find its way under my skin.then he turns and our eyes meet across the space.for a heartbeat the room fades.the music the chatter the flash of cameras – all of it dissolves. 

he smiles that quiet knowing curve that softens his face but never quite hides the edge underneath.its unfair the way he looks tonight: tall composed every inch of him carved from control and heat. 

i drag my gaze away before he can read whats written all over my face but its too late.My pulse already knows 

his name. 

He nods. Just that—no smile, no words. But something in the look holds longer than it should, charged and complicated.i open my mouth then close it again.he turns back to his conversation and the moment breaks. 

“Taylor!” 

one of the therapists waves me over holding a clipboard.I slip back into motion, scanning checklists, answering questions, adjusting the schedule. 

The rhythm steadies me. Professional. Detached. That’s how I survive nights like this. 

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