Renesmee's P.O.V.

He's here. He's actually here. My mouth feels instantly dry at the sight of Hayes Kensington walking into the room, a faint, unreadable smile on his face and a cup of coffee held casually in his hand. The man next to him follows, looking at me with a judgmental sigh that makes my skin prickle.

I spring up from the chair so fast I get a little dizzy. I hurry to straighten the creases on my dress, my heels suddenly feeling too tight and unsteady. I force my composure together into a shaky smile, hoping it looks more confident than it feels.

He is a very gorgeous man, I shouldn't have noticed but it is so blatantly obvious. I have seen him play before, of course, but that was always from the distant bleachers or just on a television screen. He is much more sophisticated in person, his presence sucking all the air from the room.

From my calculations, he should be around forty-three, which means he had Dalton when he was only eighteen. But the only real indication of his age is the soft, distinguished streaks of grey at the temples of his lush dark hair.

Dalton looks nothing like him, except for their shared clef chin, which Hayes's clean-shaven face highlights perfectly. The rest of his features are ruthlessly handsome, from the sharp line of his jaw to his intense eyes and well-defined lips and...

"Miss. Batista?" The man next to him calls, snapping me back to reality.

I blink hard, breaking out of my haze. Hayes is now seated on his leather couch, legs crossed comfortably with his coffee placed neatly on the tea table before him.

Please tell me I did not just drool.

Wait... how does he even know my name? Oh, right. I almost forgot that my face and my story are still a trending topic. Of course he knows.

"I'm really sorry I broke in. Mr. Kensington, Sir. I umm..." I start, my voice trembling slightly.

His eyes are still locked on me, studying me in a calm, analytical way that causes my voice to trail off again. For a single, sharp moment, I deeply regret this entire decision. But I cannot keep cowering. I came here for business, and business I will get.

"It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Kensington," I clear my throat, forcing myself to look directly at him with a newly found, fragile confidence.

"The pleasure is mine," He replies, that same faint smile playing on his lips. His British accent is thick, it's clear that Dalton didn't grow up with him,they don't even sound the same.

"I am Renesmee Batista, a reporter with Sports Watch TV. I am here for an interview with you, Sir."

He looks pretty chill about this entire insane situation. He turns to the stunned man still hovering, probably waiting for Hayes to finally devour me whole. "Dawson, ask Terry to fetch some coffee for our guest," Hayes says, his voice even.

I gulp. This unnatural calmness is getting scarier by the moment.

"Huh?" Dawson's eyes grow wide with disbelief.

"You heard me," Hayes says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Dawson gives me one last long, disapproving stare and then leaves. While he is stepping out, I quickly gather my stuff from the table and walk briskly towards Hayes. The dreamy, almost amused smile on his face only grows wider as he clasps his fingers together, waiting.

"I am really sorry once again for breaking in. I am fully aware of the consequences of my actions, but I really needed to do this. I need to interview you. I just have to do it so I can get my job back." Wow, that entire speech sounded really schmaltzy and desperate even to my own ears.

"I am guessing you would have me bound to that chair if I said no," he remarks, his eyes glinting.

"What? No... not at all. I just-" I stammer, horrified.

"The ruined knob would not go to waste, then. Ask away," he sighs, sitting up a little straighter as if preparing for a mildly interesting meeting.

I freeze. Did he just... say yes? The Hayes Kensington just agreed to an interview?

"Twenty minutes, Miss. Batista," He declares, and sets a timer on the table. It starts ticking down immediately, the sound suddenly deafening in the quiet room.

I quickly turn on my recorder, set it on the table between us, and take my seat. I open my bag to check for my notepad, but the pressure of him staring directly at me causes me to fumble with the zipper for a moment. By the time I have finished setting up, two precious minutes are already gone from the clock.

"Can you briefly introduce yourself?" I ask first. My questions are already strategically positioned in my mind, all leading to my main goal. To bring Dalton down.

He raises a brow for a second but does not question me. "I am Hayes Kensington, Hockey Captain of the Seattle Hawks, founder of Kensington Sports Management, and a best-selling author," he states smoothly.

"Given your experiences in leadership positions, how do you manage being a boss and a reliable friend, especially to your players, Mr. Kensington?"

"I believe that there are no friends in business. I do my best to not get too sentimental. I am quite principled and religious, a Christian," He clarifies, "so I try to weave in the tenets of my faith with my leadership. My players are really good at what they do, considering the rigorous process we use to select them."

I suck in a deep breath, steeling myself for the next question. "Do you have any comments regarding the current deaths of your players? Can this be attributed to the rigorous process used in selection?"

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but his calm composure does not waver. "No. There are ongoing investigations with the authorities, and I have been fully cooperative. Yes, I do not believe that their deaths are natural, and I am committed to unfolding the truth."

I nod, scribbling a note. It is a vague, practiced answer, but I am not really here to ask more about his players. I am here for the foundation, seeing that I have gotten the basics that I need. I look at the clock. Seven minutes are gone.

"Is your drive to uncover this a demonstration of your fatherly instinct? Especially given that your son, Dalton Kentucky, also plays hockey?"

He leans back into the couch, fighting back a wider, knowing smile. I hope he is not some kind of serial killer. How could someone be so... accepting of this line of questioning.

"I am not concerned with Dalton Kentucky's safety. I do not consider him my son."

"But you said.." I clear my throat, "You have affirmed your relationship publicly in the past."

"I had Dalton when I was quite young," he says, his voice losing none of its coolness. He grabs his coffee again and takes a slow sip. "Around the age of eighteen. His mother was a model I met during a trip, and we got entangled together. She took full custody of him since he was four months old. I have only paid his child support until he turned eighteen. Would you consider that a father-son relationship, aside from the blood we share?"

"Well, not really if you put it that way, I mean, but do not you think that Dalton's current rebellion is due to your absence?"

"And what would you call a rebellion, Miss. Batista?" He has just smoothly turned the table right back in my face, asking the questions instead of me.

"He is making lots of headlines lately for all the wrong reasons, one of which I am unfortunately a part of. I am only here because of his mischief. I aim to get this interview published to get my job back."

Hayes sets the cup down with a soft click. "And what makes you think that will work, Miss. Batista?"

"I had a deal with my boss and-"

"You are lying." He cuts me off, his voice still calm but sharp as a blade.

"What do you mean? I did not-"

"You think I am going to buy this?" he continues, his tone becoming a mimicry of what I fear most. "'Hayes Kensington agreed to do an interview with you? It is probably AI-generated. This was a really low move, Renesmee. You could get sued for this, and we cannot have a dishonest reporter in our station.'" The words roll off his lips smoothly, each one stabbing my chest as reality slowly, painfully hits me. "Those are the exact words you should expect from your employer, Miss. Batista. I know you would not risk your freedom and what is left of your reputation for a few words on paper. So, I will ask you again. What do you really want, Renesmee?"

I sniffle, the fight draining out of me. The timer is still ticking, but it does not matter anymore. "I am here for the interview, really. It is the only thing I have left. My mother's civil court case with Dalton ended with her having to pay fifteen million dollars in damages. This is risky, yes, but it is the only choice I have."

"I might just have a better deal for you, then," he says, his eyes glinting with a new, unsettling light.

My eyes brighten with a flicker of desperate hope. "Really?"

"Yes," he says. A slow, predatory smirk curls on his lips. "I would like to sleep with you."