Page 30 of Isolation

His thumb stroked along my collarbone in a gesture that would have once been intimate but now felt threatening.

“You think I don’t have records too? The money from our joint account you’ve been squirreling away bit by bit… The fact that you’ve been researching divorce lawyers... How you editedand posted all those social media updates that established my alibi…” He paused, allowing each revelation to sink in.

My blood ran cold. He twisted things, making me sound complicit in whatever he did. The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong. I did manage his social media presence, crafting the perfect image of a dedicated athlete focused on his family and career.

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” I replied, but my voice lacked conviction.

“Isn’t it? How do you think it would look to the police? To the league? To your precious friend Remi? My supportive wife suddenly claiming ignorance after years of helping build my career? After benefiting from every dollar of my success?”

He released my shoulder and stepped back, creating space between us again. The shift was disorienting. One moment, it was threatening then casual the next. It was as if we were having a routine conversation.

Mateo pocketed the USB drive. “What exactly would you tell them? That your husband had been involved in an accident that the league had already investigated and ruled exactly that—an accident? That you have recordings that prove… what? I’m ambitious? That I wanted to succeed?”

I watched him, this man I thought I knew inside and out, and realized I was looking at a stranger. The Mateo I married was driven but decent, ambitious but fair. This man in front of me calculated every move like a chess master, three steps ahead and willing to sacrifice anything, anyone, to protect his position.

“What happens now?” I asked quietly.

He shrugged, the gesture almost normal, almost like my husband again. “Nothing changes. We go on as we have been. You keep playing the supportive wife. I keep providing for our family. Mason grows up with his parents in a beautiful homewith every advantage, and you stop digging, stop talking to Remi, and accept that what’s done is done.”

The mention of our son made my throat tighten. Mason, who idolized his father, didn’t know that Daddy’s sudden success might be built on something ugly and wrong.

“And if I don’t?” The question hung between us. It was dangerous but necessary.

Mateo’s expression softened in a more frightening way than his anger.

“Dani, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I love you. I love our family. All of this—I did it for us so we could have the life we always talked about.” He gestured around at our expansive closet, the luxury items, the trappings of success.

“Don’t pretend this was for us,” I whispered, unable to bear his attempt to reframe his actions as sacrifices for our family.

“But it was, and now, we protect it… together. Because that’s what family does,” he insisted, and the terrifying part was he believed it.

Mateo stepped forward again, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I have a meeting with sponsors in the morning. Then we’ll have a nice family dinner with just the three of us. Like normal.”

Mateo put the USB drive into the safe and closed the door. He turned to leave, pausing at the closet door.

“Oh, and, Dani? I changed the safe code. And I’d check Mr. Ratty Bear if I were you. He’s looking a little worn these days.”

The casual mention of my hiding spot made my knees weak. He knew everything. As his footsteps receded down the hallway, I sank to the floor with my back against the wall. The reality of my situation crushed down on me like a physical weight. I was in isolation. Not just by the physical walls of this beautiful home we’d created, but by the invisible bonds of shared secrets and mutual destruction. Mateo was right—I was implicated nowwhether I meant to be or not. If his world burned, mine went up in flames too. And somewhere in the middle of all this was Mason—innocent, loving, caught between two parents playing a game neither of us could afford to lose.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting back tears that wouldn’t solve anything. I needed to think. I needed a new plan. Because one thing was crystal clear as I sat on the floor of our designer closet surrounded by the symbols of our success. The escape route I so carefully mapped out had just gone up in smoke, and I was back at square one. Only now, the man I was running from knew I was trying to get away.

The ball bouncedagainst the hardwood steadily beneath my palm. With twenty seconds on the clock, we were up by eighteen, and the arena was so loud I felt it in my chest. Here I was—Mateo Bryant, the man of the hour. The energy hit differently when you were the one they were screaming for, when you were the reason they were on their feet. All those eyes were on me, and only I knew what it took to get here, what sacrifices had to be made, and what accidents had to happen.

I crossed over my defender, breaking his ankles so bad I almost felt sorry for him.Almost.The crowd erupted as I blew past him. The sea of faces blurred into a wave of color and sound. But there was one face that stood out and had been standing out since the first quarter. Remi Pearson, DeAndre’s sister, wassitting courtside with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed like she was trying to set me on fire with her mind.

I first spotted her during warm-ups. I was going through my pre-game routine. Muscle memory took over as I drained jumper after jumper. That was when I caught her staring, not cheering, not booing, just… observing like she was studying me for a crime scene. I’d nodded at her just to let her know I’d clocked her presence. She didn’t nod back.

“Don’t let her throw you. You earned this spot. Focus up,” Coach said, appearing at my side like he had ESP or some shit.

I’d laughed it off. “I’m good, Coach. Trust.”

But the truth was seeing her threw me off for the first half. It had me second-guessing my cuts, hesitating on my shots. My numbers were trash—two points, one assist, one turnover—peasant shit. It was the kind of performance that would’ve kept me benched before DeAndre’s... incident. It was halftime when something shifted. I was sitting there in the locker room with the towel over my head when Coach pulled me aside.

“You playing scared, Bryant. That ain’t you. Whatever’s on your mind, whoever’s on your mind, let it go. This is your moment. You waited two years for it, so take it.” He lowered his voice low enough that the rest of the team couldn’t hear.

He was right. I spent two years warming that bench while hearing “stay ready” and “your time will come,” and all that other bullshit they fed the guys who weren’t quite good enough to start but too valuable to cut loose. So, I came out in the third quarter like a man possessed. First possession, I drove hard to the rack and finished through contact.

AND ONE. I flexed at the crowd and slapped hands with my teammates as I walked to the line. The free throw was nothing but net.

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