Page 46 of How to Play the Player

“You started it. I simply finished it,” I correct him, my voice steadier than I feel. “If you’re going to fight dirty, I’ll be doing the same.”

Before he can respond, my phone rings—Lyla.

“Let’s head back,” I say after answering. “Your brother and future sister-in-law should be here any minute.”

Nathan watches me with an unreadable expression as he buttons and straightens his shirt. “Well played. But this isn’t over.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be.” I meet his gaze evenly. “But next time, remember which one of us walked away.”

As we make our way back to the main property, maintaining a careful distance, I realize I’ve achieved exactly what I set out to do—thrown Nathan off balance, proven I can affect him as much as he affects me. Yet somehow, it feels like a hollow victory when every cell in my body is still crying out for his touch.

Nathan’s apartment

Nathan

I can still taste her.

Hours later, sitting alone in my darkened living room with a glass of bourbon, Quinn’s taste lingers on my lips—sweet with a hint of coffee, exactly as I remember. Her scent clings to my shirt where she pressed against me.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, taking another sip of bourbon.

Today did not go according to plan. Not only did I nearly break my end of our bet, but I let Quinn drag me by the balls and allowed the head down south to do the thinking for me. The way she responded to my touch, the sounds she made as she came undone in my arms—It was exactly as I remembered yet somehow more intense after a year apart.

For a moment in that garden—with her taste on my tongue, the way she shattered into orgasm, and her sighs of pleasure in my ears—I’d forgotten all the pain between us. I’d forgotten everything except the feel of her against me.

And when I was about to take things further, fuck the consequences, she pulled away. Left me aching and hard as hell, blue balls and all.

The memory of her face as she straightened her clothes haunts me—that mix of vulnerability and triumph, her lips still swollen from our passionate kisses, her eyes bright with the afterglow of pleasure. She had to know exactly what was goingto happen. She played me masterfully, pushing me to the edge before walking away with that triumphant little smile.

I should be angry. Hell, I am. But beneath that is something else—a grudging admiration of her audacity and something dangerously similar to need. Not just physical, but a deeper hunger for the connection we once had. For the woman who knew me better than anyone.

But trusting Quinn again is out of the question. Isn’t it?

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. An email notification from Scott.

Analysis complete. Files in your secure folder. Interesting findings to discuss when you’re ready.

I set down my glass and pull my laptop closer, accessing the secure server where Scott would have uploaded his findings. The folder contains multiple files—server logs, IP traces, access records—all meticulously organized with timestamps and annotations.

One document draws my attention immediately: “IP_Source_Analysis.pdf.”

I open it. My heart rate picks up as I scan the contents. Scott has traced the original leak to an IP address to exactly where Jonathan said.

Holy shit, he was right.

But there’s more—he’s included a list of devices that connected to that network on the day in question.

Among the various phones and laptops, one device stands out—not for any obvious reason, but because of the timing of its connection. It accessed the network minutes before the leak went public, then disconnected immediately after.

I stare at the technical details, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. The device is registered in Quinn’s name.

Saw that one coming.

I pull up more files, searching for additional clues. Login records show multiple accesses to Quinn’s business accounts during the timeframe when she claimed to be in New Mexico, completely off-grid. As her boyfriend, when she told me she’d be going, I believed her. But after the leak… If she’s been telling the truth about being at the wedding…

I hesitate, then open a browser and search for her cousin’s name, which I vaguely remember from our conversations. It takes only a few minutes to find what I’m looking for—a public wedding registry and a handful of social media posts. Photos from the exact weekend of the leak show Quinn in a bridesmaid’s dress, clearly at a remote venue in New Mexico. There’s even a timestamp on one image, placing her hundreds of miles from Dallas when the information went public.

A coldness settles in my veins. If Quinn was truly there, physically present at that wedding when someone was accessing her accounts in Dallas…

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