THE SECOND SHOT

I had expected to feel steady when I raised the rifle. Instead, my fingers shook. My right hand was useless in its brace, and the weight rested awkwardly against my left shoulder. Dante had offered to take it from me. I had refused.

If I let someone else act for me now, I knew I would spend the rest of my life wondering whether I had done it because I wanted to or because everyone around me expected the Sterling heir to retaliate.

I thought of the steep bank at the paintball field and the sound of the shot that had ended my attempt to defend myself. I thought of the laughter that followed. I did not want to become a person who could be cruel for pleasure. I wanted Grant and Riley to understand what they had called a joke.

The rifle’s sight held on Riley. She was close enough that I could see the red in her eyes and the dirt on her cheek. I lowered the barrel by an inch to avoid her face.

Then The silence before the shot lasted only a second, but I heard the heater ticking and the faint groan of the damaged door. I saw Riley’s eyes move to the men along the wall, searching for one familiar face. No one met her gaze. I kept the rifle trained on her shoulder.

A guard moved between Riley and the rifle, not to protect her from me but to keep her from rushing forward. I nodded once. He stepped aside. I had decided to make her feel the eyes on her, but I would not let the room become a free-for-all. My terms were mine.

I fired.

I fired.

The paintball struck Riley’s shoulder with a hard crack. Red paint burst across her black jacket, and the impact knocked her sideways. She cried out and grabbed the spot through the fabric.

No one moved to help her.

The sound hung in the room. I adjusted my grip. The rifle kicked against my shoulder, and my injured wrist throbbed beneath the brace.

Riley stared at me. “You can’t do this.”

“You already did.”

The second shot hit her thigh. She folded to the ground with a scream, one hand clutching her leg, the other pulling at the torn edge of her jacket. A third round struck her side. The hard shell ripped the fabric and splashed red paint over the gray shirt underneath.

Her friends stayed pressed against the wall.

Connor took a step forward, then stopped when Dante’s men shifted their weapons.

“Help her,” Riley shouted at them.

Nobody answered.

I lowered the rifle a fraction. “Yesterday you wanted to be one of them so badly. Look around. Not one of them is stepping forward.”

Riley curled inward, trying to cover the opening in her clothes. The sight of her on the floor, watched by the same people who had laughed at me, made my stomach tighten. I kept my face still. I had chosen this. I would not pretend it felt clean.

“You’re just like me,” she said, her voice shaking.

“No. I’m doing this because you did it first.”

“That’s what they always say.”

“Maybe.”

I moved the rifle toward Grant.

He went rigid. “Sloane, listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t sorry yesterday.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“You realized when you saw the clothes torn. You realized when I told you what happened. You watched me stand in the mud with a swollen wrist and called me crazy.”

He shook his head. “We can fix this. We can still get married. I’ll make it up to you.”

“By giving me Whitmore stock?”

His eyes flicked toward Connor, then back to me. “I’ll transfer shares. Whatever you want. The engagement can continue. We can tell everyone this was a private dispute.”

The offer sounded almost tender, except he was bargaining because the rifle was pointed at him.

“I spent years thinking there was something decent in you,” I said. “I kept telling myself that your friendship with Riley was harmless. I thought you would choose me when it mattered.”

“I do choose you.”

“No. You choose yourself.”

I aimed at his right wrist—the same one he had injured on me with his shot. He began to cry. His face crumpled, and he pleaded with me to stop.

I fired.

The hard paint round hit his wrist. The crack of impact was followed by a sound from Grant that filled the shop. His hand went slack. Red paint ran down his fingers, mixing with blood from the broken bone.

He passed out.

I kept the barrel pointed at the floor while Dante called for medical help. My shoulder stung from the recoil. I was aware of every breath I took, every person watching me, and the blood on Grant’s fingers. No one could mistake my silence for uncertainty now.

I lowered the rifle. The room stayed silent.

“Game over,” I said.

I placed the rifle on the floor near Connor’s shoes. He flinched as it hit the concrete.

“The cameras caught everything,” I told them. “They also caught you carrying bats into this building. Anyone who tells the press a different story will be explaining why he came here armed.”

“You can’t threaten all of us,” Connor said, though he didn’t look at me.

“I just did.”

Dante’s team opened a side entrance and called for a private ambulance. I didn’t want Grant to die. I wanted him alive enough to remember that his actions had consequences.

While the medics worked, Riley sat with her back against the wall, arms wrapped around herself. No one comforted her. Grant lay unconscious on a stretcher. The group that had arrived claiming to be his family of choice had nothing to say.

I stepped outside. The sunlight was bright, and the fresh air felt strange after hours in the shop.

Dante followed me. “You’re done?”

“For today.”

He held out a cigarette. I shook my head and raised my brace.

“I’m injured.”

He smiled without humor. “You’re still you.”

I opened my car door. Behind us, the men were loading Grant into the ambulance. I didn’t look back.