26. Connor

The night stretched on interminably, each tick of the clock a stark reminder of the silence enveloping the house—a silence that seemed amplified in Brooke"s absence. Sleep eluded me, slipping through my fingers like sand, as my mind replayed our last moments together, the words spoken and the spaces between them filled with unvoiced emotions. The weight of the decision to tear up the contract, to give Brooke her freedom, felt heavier in the dark, solitary hours of the night. It was the right thing to do, a voice inside me insisted, but knowing that did little to ease the ache of her absence.

As morning crept in, the first light of dawn casting shadows across the room, I found myself mechanically making coffee, moving through the motions as if on autopilot. The ritual now felt hollow, each step a reminder of the mornings we"d shared. The Christmas lights, which had twinkled with magic and promise just days before, now seemed garish, their brightness a glaring contrast to the gloom that had settled in my heart.

Everything in the house reminded me of her—the way her laughter had filled these rooms, the warmth of her presence making even the coldest days seem bearable. Now, the house felt emptier than ever, a shell echoing with memories of what had been.

I hated it, the emptiness, the quiet that spoke volumes, reminding me of the void her absence had left. The realization that I had pushed her away, even in doing what I believed was best for her, was a bitter pill to swallow.

I stood in the living room, coffee in hand, surrounded by reminders of Brooke. The couch where we"d fallen asleep together, the kitchen where she"d made us hot chocolate, even the fireplace where we"d fucked in front of—all of it felt imbued with her essence. The thought that I might never share those moments with her again, that I might have driven her away with my actions, was a torment I hadn"t anticipated.

In the clarity of the morning light, the truth was undeniable—I missed her, more than I had imagined possible. The house wasn"t just emptier without her; I was. And as I sipped my coffee, staring out at the day beginning to unfold, I couldn"t escape the realization that in trying to do the right thing by Brooke, I might have irrevocably altered the course of what lay between us. The right decision had never felt so wrong, and I was left wondering if the cost of freedom was a price too high to pay.

I needed a distraction.

I couldn't mope around because she wasn't here. I had to do something.

Pacing the living room, the decision to reach out to my agent crystallized amidst the turmoil of my thoughts. Picking up the phone, I dialed Gary"s number, the familiar anxiety that came with career-altering conversations settling in my stomach.

"Bradley?" Gary asked.

"Gary, it"s Connor. I"ve been thinking about Toronto, about possibly playing there. Can we talk to them?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tension inside me.

There was a pause on the other end, and I could almost hear the hesitation before Gary finally spoke. "Connor, Toronto pulled out."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Why?" I asked, my voice tight with a sudden dread.

"You haven"t seen it?" Gary"s voice was a mix of surprise and sympathy. "Bradley, you"re all over the news. Again. Courtesy of your ex-wife. She"s saying you took advantage of your student. And she's not holding back. She says you and Dean Westwood's daughter are in some kind of illicit affair."

My heart dropped, a cold sensation spreading through my chest as the implications of his words sank in. The fallout from Sarah"s allegations was not just personal now; it was threatening to unravel the fragile threads of my career, again, the one aspect of my life I thought I could control. The sense of betrayal was sharp, a reminder of how far-reaching the consequences of past decisions could be.

Without a word of goodbye, I ended the call with Gary, a sense of urgency propelling me to flip on the television. The screen flickered to life, and there she was—Sarah, poised and polished, sitting across from a reporter. The headline scrolling at the bottom of the screen made my heart sink further: Another Fury Bradley Scandal: Ex-Wife Reveals All.

"Sarah, how did you come to know about this affair?" the reporter asked.

Sarah leaned forward, her expression a mask of calculated concern. "It was obvious something was going on," she began, her voice steady. "Connor has always had a...reckless side. But when I saw him with Brooke Westwood, a student, no less, I knew I had to speak out. It"s not just about me, it"s about ensuring that this kind of behavior is exposed."

The mention of Brooke"s name in such a public and damning context filled me with a cold fury.

"Brooke"s involvement," she said, pausing for effect, "is particularly troubling. She"s young, vulnerable. It"s clear she"s been manipulated into this situation. It"s a pattern with Connor, preying on those around him. It's so easy to fall for his charm, but to manipulate his own student when he's supposed to protect them? What kind of message does that send?"

"I heard Brooke Westwood is a brilliant student, top of her class," the reporter said.

"I wonder why," Sarah muttered.

I couldn"t listen anymore. The remote felt heavy in my hand as I turned off the TV, plunging the room back into silence. The impact of Sarah"s words, the way she so effortlessly wove a narrative that painted me as the villain and Brooke as a slut, sleeping with her professor in exchange for good grades, was a stark reminder of how quickly things could spiral out of control. The truth of our relationship, the complexities and the genuine connection we shared, were reduced to sensational headlines and speculation. My career seemed to slip further away, but more than that, it was Brooke who stood to lose the most from this unwarranted exposure. The urge to protect her, to shield her from the fallout, was overwhelming, yet in that moment, I felt utterly powerless.

What could I do?

The impulse to reach out to Brooke was almost overwhelming, a visceral need to connect with her, to ensure she was okay amidst the maelstrom Sarah had unleashed. But hesitation gnawed at me, a gnarling concern that any attempt to contact her could inadvertently exacerbate the situation. The thought of dragging her further into this scandal, of her name being sullied in the court of public opinion because of me, was unbearable. Brooke had already been through so much, her strength and resilience tested by the weight of her father"s issues and our complicated relationship. To add to her burden, to risk her peace for the sake of my need to hear her voice, to reassure myself she was all right, felt selfish.

The room was too silent, the weight of the world too heavy, and the isolation felt more acute. Each moment that ticked by where I didn"t act, where I didn"t reach out to her, felt like a betrayal of the connection we had shared, of the promises unspoken but felt. Yet, the fear of causing her more pain, of seeing her dragged through the mud because of her association with me, held me back. The media"s voracious appetite for scandal, for tearing down lives without a thought for the consequences, was a barrier I couldn"t breach. The risk of exacerbating Brooke"s ordeal, of making things worse for her in any way, kept my phone heavy in my hand, a lifeline I dared not use.

So, I remained in limbo, caught between the need to act and the fear of the repercussions. The silence of the house echoed, a reminder of the distance now between us. The desire to protect her, even from myself, warred with the instinct to fight back against the lies, to defend our truth.

But what was our truth? In the chaos that had become our lives, finding solid ground, a path forward that didn"t lead to more hurt, seemed an impossible task. And so, I waited, the decision to not reach out a heavy stone in my heart, hoping against hope that Brooke understood, that she knew it was not indifference but a deep, abiding concern for her wellbeing that kept me silent.

She was free now anyway.

She probably didn't want me to reach out to her, especially not after this.

A sharp knock broke me out of my thoughts.

I had almost convinced myself not to answer the door, to sink further into the solitude that had become my refuge and my prison. But curiosity, or perhaps a lingering sense of responsibility, propelled me to open it. Standing before me was Minka Mathers, her presence as commanding as ever, blonde hair cascading behind her like a banner of defiance, her blue eyes narrowed with purpose.

"Do you love her?" she demanded, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, her gaze piercing.

"What?" I managed, surprised by the directness of her question.

"Do you love Brooke?" she repeated, her voice insistent.

"Why does that matter?" I asked, a defensive edge creeping into my tone.

"Of course it matters," Minka countered sharply. "I need to know what kind of person you are, Professor. Because right now, Brooke is getting trampled on."

"No one's pulling any punches with me either," I remarked, bitterness tinging my words as I thought of the unfolding scandal.

"Yeah, well, your reputation was never pristine to begin with," she said, "and that was based on decisions you made." Minka paused, her gaze drifting to the Christmas tree Brooke and I had decorated together, then back to me. "You do, don"t you?" A hint of understanding softened her features. "This—" she gestured at the tree, at the living room that bore the traces of Brooke"s presence, "this is all her."

"Why does that matter?" I asked again, feeling cornered by the conversation, by the truths it sought to unearth.

"I"m looking into what happened with you and Detroit," Minka revealed, her tone shifting to one of determination. "Brooke asked me to. She seemed like she wanted to help you, like this was important. I"m trying to figure out why you were released, but so far, I have nothing concrete. I know for sure it wasn"t Brooke who said anything, though how she's involved, I'm not sure."

"I know that too," I admitted, the weight of the situation pressing down on me.

Minka"s glare intensified. "Now you do," she said, her words sharp. "Her father, though…" She let her voice trail off.

"What do you mean, her father?" I asked.

Minka turned to me. "There was a meeting December 4 that year between the two of them," she said. "I found it in the calendar."

December 4…a day after the party.

The party Brooke and I shared one night together.

"But how could her father know?" I asked.

"Know what?" Minka asked. "Actually, it's not any of my business. What you have to ask yourself is did anyone else know? Did it slip out while you were drunk? Were you bragging?"

"Of course not." I frowned.

Minka blew out a breath. "That year, we were trying for the Cup," she said. "My grandfather wanted to free up cap space. He put my uncle in charge of it. But my uncle is a greedy man. He didn't want to buy out contracts."

"He was looking for a reason," I muttered.

"And apparently, whatever you did, you gave him one," Minka replied. "Or, her father did, I should say. When I first saw the headlines this morning, I thought this was your way of getting back at her. Ruining her prospects. Now, everyone is going to think she slept her way to the top, that her grades are completely insignificant."

"Don"t you think I know that?" I snapped, frustration boiling over. "Do you think I wanted this for her?"

"I don"t know," Minka confessed, her gaze unwavering. "That"s why I came. To find out."

"And?" I asked, the silence between us charged with anticipation. "What did you find out?"

"I think you"re desperately in love with her and you"re too far gone, you don"t even know it," Minka said, her voice laced with a strange blend of accusation and sympathy. "And I think it"s not going to matter because of how your ex has painted you to be some pervert. You"ll never work again, Professor. No one will want you. No one will trust you."

Her words sliced through me with their honesty. I felt my jaw clench, a physical manifestation of the anger and hopelessness swirling inside me. "You think I care about that?" I asked the question more to myself than to her. The career I had fought so hard for, the reputation I had built over years, suddenly seemed inconsequential compared to the mess I had found myself in, especially when it came to Brooke. "Brooke... I just... tell me how to fix this."

Minka sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. Her gaze met mine with an earnestness that underscored the gravity of the situation. "I"m not sure you can."