The Billionaire Jock's Game of Love (Taylor and Aiden) novel Chapter 128

Dylan’s POV

My apartment smells like old pizza and last night’s whiskey. I’m hunched over the laptop, the blue light making everything look sick. My thumb keeps hitting refresh. Refresh. Nothing.

The chat with Ruby is dead. My last three messages just sit there with those stupid little “read” receipts underneath them. No reply. I called her twice. Straight to voicemail.

She blocked me.

“Useless,” I spit out. The word tastes like acid.

Plan A is dead. The inside job, the footage, the perfect little betrayal–gone. She either got scared or Taylor got to her. Doesn’t matter. My wiretap into their perfect world just went silent.

I shove back from the desk, the chair screeching. Pacing this dump does nothing. My eyes catch the cracked trophy on the floor. A relic from when people actually listened to me.

They all choose him.

The thought burns through me. Taylor. The investors. Now even some messed–up kid chooses him over me.

A laugh scrapes out of my throat. I look at my own face on that faded poster, grinning like an idiot. “Pathetic,” I tell him. “You let them do this.”

The boardroom call. The silence after. The headlines praising Aiden’s big comeback. It all boils down to one thing now. It’s not about winning. It’s not even about proving their relationship is fake.

It’s about salt.

If I’m going down, I’m taking her with me. And I’m making sure he gets burned too.

I drop back into the chair. My fingers hover over the keys. No more waiting for some scared girl. No more playing nice.

I open an encrypted chat. A few names from the old days–people who don’t ask questions if the money’s right.

Need everything on Taylor. The physio. School, jobs, family. Dig until it’s dirty.

I attach what’s left of my money. My last real bet.

The stuff comes back in pieces over the next few hours. A patchwork of a life I can tear apart.

First, school records. Not so perfect. A whole semester missing senior year. “Withdrawal due to family circumstances.” I zoom in. A slow smile spreads. It’s a crack. Just a crack, but I can pour poison in it. Did she even finish? What’s she hiding? A Cinderella with a conveniently messy past.

Next, jobs. Gyms, community centers… then it. A six–month–old line: part–time at Velocity Sports Therapy. My pulse kicks. Velocity is bankrolled by Gregor Holdings–one of Aiden’s family’s direct competitors. A boring fact. Until I make it interesting.

My fingers fly. While dating Aiden? Or right before? Coincidence? Or was she gathering intel? Simple girl from a struggling family… or a plant? I don’t need proof. I just need the question. The stink.

Finally, the good part. Clips from that sickening livestream. I cut them up. Taylor laughing up at him. His hand on her elbow. The fall. That loaded look afterward. I edit it mean–cutting context, slowing it down, zooming in until every smile looks fake, every touch looks calculated. I set it to a creepy track, slap on big red text:

CALCULATED DESCENT: The Making of a “Girlfriend”

FROM PHYSIO TO PRINCESS: The Steps She Took

WHAT HE ISN’T SEEING

I package it all–the education doubts, the “spy” theory, the edited video. A complete character kill kit. I send it to three of the nastiest gossip channels I know, the ones that live for this shit. The payment is my last big wire.

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