Page 175 of Scrum Heat

“Did you do it?”

She blinks. “Dowhat?”

“The comments,” I say, my voice steady. “The accounts. The messages. You knew I was being targeted. You saw it. And you said nothing.”

She waves a hand like I’ve just asked if the sky is green. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” My voice sharpens. “Was it you? Or was it Nigel?”

The silence stretches just a second too long. She fidgets with the napkin in her lap. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I—”

“Because I didn’t do what you wanted,” I interrupt. “Because I didn’t pick your perfect little beta prince, and I didn’t stay in this picture-perfect neighborhood, and I didn’t shrink myself into something palatable.”

Her chin lifts, defensive as she finally gives up on the act. “You think this is about Nigel?”

“No,” I snap. “I think this is aboutcontrol. About image. About what people like Mrs. Gleeson whisper at brunch.”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” she hisses through her teeth. “You’ve always had a flair for dramatics, Frankie.”

“You know what’s dramatic?” I bite. “Hundreds of strangers telling me I’m awhore. That I should be locked up. That I’m ruining the game, ruining men, ruiningmyself.That’sdramatic.”

“That wasn’t me—”

“But it came fromyour house!” I shout. “Fromyourdamn router. From the networkyoupay for every month. From burner accounts using photos and stories and private things only someone who knows me would know!”

She falters, and that pause is all the confirmation I need.

“I read every comment,” I say, voice shaking now. “Every disgusting word. About my scent. My body. How I must be sleeping with all of them for money. That I’m a pack pet, an omega for hire. That maybe my father was right to leave us, because at least he wasn’t raising me intothis.”

Her face twists. “I didn’t write that.”

“No?” I spit. “Then what about the one that said‘I bet they all take turns. Must be nice for a broke girl to find a way to eat’?”

Her hand flies to her mouth.

I shake my head. “Don’t act shocked. Don’t youdare.”

Tears well in her eyes now. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far—”

“But you meant to start it,” I say coldly. “You meant to light the match and watch it burn as long as it stayed quiet and convenient.”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“Protect me?!” I scoff. “Are you kidding me right now? You were trying tohumiliateme. You couldn’tstandthat I was happy without your help, that I built a life that didn’t revolve around your outdated fantasy of what an omegashouldbe.”

“Oh,please.What do you think people are saying, Frankie?” Her face goes pale. “Have you ever once thought about how embarrassing this has been for me? How it must feel for me to know that everyone in this town can see you hanging off the arms of four brooding alphas like you’re advertising some kind of…”

I stare at her. “Say it.”

“Like you’refor sale,” she spits. “Like you’re not eventryingto have dignity anymore.”

It hits like a slap; and still, she keeps going.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. What else are people supposed to think when you’re flaunting yourself around online? When you’re dressed likethat, with themtouchingyoulike that? Don’t tell me it’s just a job. Don’t tell me it’s journalism—”

“It’s not journalism,” I snap. “It’smedia. It’smarketing. It’s acareer, not a goddamn hobby, and Ilove it.And the people I work with? The people I live with? The pack I’ve bonded to?Theylove me. I have more safety and support with them than I’ve ever had in this house.”

“Because you didn’t give Nigel a chance.”

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