Renesmee's Pov

I let out a heavy sigh, the sound loud in the quiet of my room. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, my laptop burning a hole in my lap as I surf through the internet, desperately searching for some glimmer of hope.

I need to find a job, any job, to start gathering the impossible funds to pay for the damages. The number fifteen million dollars flashes behind my eyes every time I blink. How on earth would I pay that?

My mom's studio was closed. We've sold almost everything and I can't even think of a loan.

His words have stuck with me for the last two days, playing on a loop in my head. I've seen my mother in a jail cell. I've seen her at the park wearing a bright orange vest, forced to carry out community service, all for the crime of scratching his stupid, smug face.

The more I think about what he said to me in that locker room, the more my pain curdles into a deep, sickening regret. And that regret is now burning into a new feeling, a sharp and urgent need to make sure he pays for what he's done. He can't just get away with this.

Maybe I could write a bad article about him anonymously, something so explosive it would go viral and finally show people the truth. I turn on my laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light, and start searching for anything I can use against him.

But all I see is news about his upcoming engagement party, his mother's goodwill message after being spotted by paparazzi with his fiancée at some fancy restaurant. It's all so perfect, so clean. But I don't see anything about his father. It's like the man doesn't exist.

Not until I stumble upon an excerpt from an old, buried article on Hayes Kensington. My eyes scan the text quickly.

["He's failed on a lot of things, hasn't he? On fatherhood and even managing an agency, it's a shame that he remains the number one player...but not for long," Dalton had answered with a smile. Our correspondent, Sameen Joe, had pressed forward, "Do you believe that you can defeat your father?"

"The apple doesn't fall from the tree," Dalton said. "In my case, the apple would grow higher than the tree. Hayes doesn't know what's coming for him."]

My heart starts to beat a little faster. This is it. This is a thread I can pull. My next move is decided instantly. I spend the rest of the day surfing through the internet, digging deeper, studying this feud. I've always known Hayes Kensington as one of the top players in the league, a billionaire, an ultra-quiet man who never spoke on anything personal.

From what I learn on my deep dive, Dalton's fight has been completely one-sided. Hayes has never addressed anything regarding his son publicly, aside from a single, terse confirmation that they were, in fact, related. No interviews, no comments, nothing.

This article was likely missed by Dalton's PR team during their usual clean sweep, because I can't find anything else about it anywhere. But one thing is now perfectly clear. Hayes Kensington was his father, and Dalton envied him. He would do anything to feel superior to the man.

If Hayes has been this quiet all these years, it's either because Dalton is right and he has failed, or because Hayes knows something that could jeopardize Dalton. And that would make him a potential ally against a common enemy.

A plan, wild and desperate, begins to form in my mind. I'm dialing Reggie's number next. He picks up after my second attempt, his voice sharp and impatient. "What do you want?" He snaps.

"I just need another chance, Reggie." My voice is tight with the effort to sound calm. "An investigation wasn't even carried out. No one ever heard my side of the story before you just threw me away."

"We did what we did to protect the company," he retorts, not a shred of sympathy in his tone. "Our name is now in shreds because of you. You have no idea how much time I've spent trying to clean that mess up."

"Please," I beg, the word tasting like ash. "Just give me one more shot. I have an idea, a real idea, that could fix all of this."

He laughs, a dry, humorless sound. "Unless you can somehow get an interview with Hayes Kensington himself, there is literally nothing you can actually do to redeem yourself, Rennie."

Just at the right time. The name is a gift.

"I'll do it," I say, the words rushing out before I can second-guess them.

I hear the sharp sound of his office chair scraping against the floor. "You'll do what? You know that's-"

"Impossible?" I cut in, my pulse racing. "But if I could do it, if I could get the interview, would I get my job back?"

"Well, obviously," he chuckles, but he sounds less sure now. "Every reporter in the country would kill to have a Hayes story that isn't about the game. But you won't. No one can."

"Thank you. I'll give you the update once I've finished setting it up-"

"Tomorrow, Rennie." His voice is flat and final.

"What?" The word is a gasp.

"Get the interview with Hayes Kensington before the end of business tomorrow, and you can have your job back. That's the deal."

"What? You know that's not enough time! You know he-"

"That's the best I can give you." He ends the call before I can say another word, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

I hold back a scream of pure frustration and toss my phone onto the bed beside me. It bounces on the mattress and lands on the floor.

How the hell am I supposed to get an interview with the most reclusive man in sports by tomorrow? The impossibility of it crashes down on me, but the burning urge to make Dalton pay just burns hotter.