The faint melody of a piano filled the therapy room — soft, hesitant notes searching for harmony. Rosette sat by the instrument, her fingers gliding across the keys with practiced grace, her head tilted slightly as she listened for each sound.
"Beautiful," a voice interrupted from behind her — crisp, cutting through the calm like glass breaking.
Rosette froze. That voice didn't belong to her therapist.
"Who's there?" she asked softly, her hands hovering above the keys.
"Celine Summers," the woman said, her tone light, almost cheerful. "You've probably heard my name. I'm the one who posted that video about Dranred Masterson. I thought it was time we talked."
Rosette's fingers tensed. "You came all the way here… for what?"
"For a story," Celine replied, walking closer, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. "You're part of this, aren't you? The girl Dranred was trying to protect the night James punched him? People want to know who you really are. What made him risk his career for you?"
"You think this is a story?" Rosette's voice was quiet, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable. "You shouldn't be here."
"I just want the truth," Celine said, crossing her arms. "Your name's already out there. If you cooperate, maybe people will see your side too. Don't you want that?"
Rosette turned her face toward the sound of Celine's voice, her unseeing eyes calm but firm. "My side? You spread lies about people you've never met. You don't care about the truth. You care about clicks."
Celine's smirk faltered. "That's not fair. I report what people deserve to know."
"What they deserve?" Rosette's voice rose — not loud, but trembling with restrained fury. "You don't even know what you're talking about. Do you know what your reporting cost me?"
For the first time, Celine hesitated. "I know something happened to you—"
"I lost my sight," Rosette cut in sharply. "Because of that night. Because of his grandfather. The one you keep dragging into your gossip. And yet you walk in here, like this, asking for a story?"
The silence that followed was deafening — only the faint hum of the piano lingered between them.
"I… didn't know it was that bad," Celine muttered.
"You didn't care to know," Rosette said, her tone steady, final. "Now, please leave. Before I forget, I'm supposed to be healing."
Celine stood there for a moment, her confidence draining away. She opened her mouth as if to argue — then stopped. The faint melody resumed, slow and deliberate, as Rosette's hands found the keys again.
Each note seemed to push Celine further toward the door.
And for the first time, she had no words.
"Mr. Dranred Masterson."
The voice came from the far end of the corridor — soft but deliberate.
Dranred stopped just as he was leaving the Phoenix locker room. The rest of his teammates had already headed toward the court for the last game of the quarterfinals.
A young woman stood by the wall, half-hidden beneath the hood of her jacket. She straightened when she saw him looking her way, pulling the hood back.
Dranred's brows furrowed.
"Celine Summers," Peter muttered beside him, his tone laced with annoyance.
Dranred remembered the name immediately — the vlogger who had stirred chaos across social media, dragging his name and James's past into the spotlight.
"Mr. Masterson—" Celine began, taking a step forward.
Dranred didn't even stop. He brushed past her without a word.
Peter blinked, startled, as Dranred walked away.
"Running away?" Celine called after him, her tone sharp and taunting. "I suppose that's what you're best at — running. Just like when you betrayed your friend."
Dranred halted mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face her.
"You keep telling everyone in your interviews that you play for a friend," Celine continued, her smirk widening. "But from where I stand, you're just trying to pay a debt. You can't escape your guilt, can you? Not after what your grandfather did to him. You couldn't stand up to your family, so now you're pretending that basketball is your redemption—"
"Impressive," Dranred cut her off, his voice cold and even. "You really are talented at creating stories. But don't speak about my life, or my friend's, when you know nothing about either."
He turned to leave again.
"That blind girl—she's pitiful," Celine said suddenly.
Dranred froze. The air around him seemed to still. Slowly, he turned back, his expression darkening.
"What did you just say?"
"I visited her," Celine said, her confidence faltering just a little. "At the Masterson Foundation. During her music therapy session. She lost her sight because of what your grandfather did. And yet here you are—still trying to worm your way into their lives. Why? Because you feel guilty? Because you pity her?"
She stopped, her voice catching. Dranred's expression had turned glacial — his jaw tight, his eyes cold and unreadable.
"You went to see her?" he asked quietly, his words clipped, controlled — but every syllable hummed with restrained fury.
Celine swallowed hard. Something in his gaze made her step back, instinctively.
"I don't care what lies you spread about me to make money," Dranred said, his voice low but dangerous.
"But dragging Rosette into this—disturbing her peace—" He took a slow step forward. "That, I won't forgive. She's suffered enough. What gives you the right to exploit her? Who do you think you are?"
Celine couldn't speak. Her throat felt tight. This wasn't the composed, charming athlete she'd seen on screen. There was something far more frightening in him now — not rage, but something quieter, sharper, and far more real.
Dranred held her gaze for a moment longer before turning away.
Celine stood frozen, her pulse hammering in her ears as his footsteps faded down the hall.
For the first time, the fearless vlogger had nothing to say.
The echo of Dranred's footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the hum of the arena lights and the distant roar of the crowd beyond the tunnel.
Celine stood frozen in place, still feeling the weight of his voice in the air — that quiet, cutting anger that seemed to sink into her bones. She tried to steady her breathing, but her chest felt tight.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for her phone, the familiar comfort of the screen grounding her. She opened her notes app, thumb hovering over the keyboard, ready to type her next exposé — but for the first time, the words wouldn't come.
"He's just trying to protect her," she thought bitterly, trying to convince herself it was all performance — a perfect PR moment for a fallen star.
Yet the memory of his expression — that cold, unflinching look — burned behind her eyes.
She swallowed hard, lowering her phone.
"What the hell was that?" she whispered under her breath, her voice shaking. "Why did I let him get to me?"
A few of the Phoenix staff passed by, glancing at her curiously. She quickly pulled her hood back over her head, pretending to scroll through her phone. But her mind wouldn't stop replaying his words.
She's suffered enough.
Celine had brushed off plenty of criticism before — angry fans, celebrities, even legal threats. But this was different. For the first time, she felt… small.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and walked toward the exit, her footsteps quick and uneven. As she pushed open the heavy doors leading to the parking lot, the cold night air hit her face.
She leaned against the wall outside, closing her eyes.
"Pitiful," she whispered again, but her voice lacked its usual bite. The word felt wrong now — heavy, cruel.
From somewhere inside the arena, a wave of cheers erupted — Dranred's name echoing above the noise. Celine flinched at the sound.
Her chest tightened again, though she didn't understand why.