Hayes' Pov.

I start my way out of the villa, adjusting the cuff of my suit as I check the time on my watch. It's 6am. I have to be at the office quite early today. We have had a lot of ruckus to cover up, a flood of interviews to refuse, and carefully worded statements to release regarding the unfortunate death of Rutherford.

I slide into the back of the Audi, leaning my head against the cool leather of the seat. Dawson, my assistant, finds his seat next to me just as the car pulls out from the driveway and onto the main road.

"Dalton has commented on Rutherford's death yesterday, Sir," Dawson informs me, already tapping on his tablet.

A faint, cold smile curls on my lips at the predictability of it all. It is almost impressive how desperate the boy I unfortunately fathered has become, and how much more stupid he grows with every passing day. He is nothing if not consistent in his foolishness.

"What did he say this time?" I ask, eager to hear another short episode of his public clownery.

"The same tired thing," Dawson reads out in a bored, flat tone. "He believes that you should be arrested and that you are personally responsible for the death of your players. I think he is just trying to ensure you do not play in the MapleBerry Cup this season. You know it is the final game before you retire. He is simply intimidated."

"Or he is trying to intimidate me," I shrug, looking out the window at the blur of the city. "It is almost puzzling he has time for this, given that he has his own considerable issues to manage. Any updates on Miss Batista? Have the hospital directives I sent managed to locate her?"

I have been quite interested in the girl since her entire story with Dalton exploded across the news. This is not his first offense. He publicly humiliated a girl back when he was still in college, sharing her private photos online. It took me six full months and a significant sum of money to cover that up and compensate the girl, who is thankfully now building a life in the Navy.

Renesmee's case is even more outrageous, given that she had a legitimate career as a journalist. The damage he is causing is far more deadly to her future. I had thought the worst of it ended with that terrible car accident, but then I found out Dalton had bribed his way through the civil court case she had against him. The boy has no bottom to his depravity.

Hopefully, I can get this handled quickly and help the girl get back on her feet. It is the least I can do. It is my fault, after all; I am the one who fathered that walking social hazard.

Dawson changes the tab on his tablet to another image, this one seemingly of her and Dalton in his locker room. She appears to be crying, her face a mask of pain, while a cruel, victorious smile is plastered on his lips. The contrast is sickening.

"You should handle this, Dawson," I say, my voice firm. "I will pay you extra if I have to. There is too much going on at KAM right now. Dalton should be the least of the problems I should be thinking about."

"Understood, Sir," he replies without looking up.

"I need a full record of whatever ridiculous sum they asked her mother to pay. Be ready to meet with the girl yourself to discuss her options, including moving from Seattle. This will all be old news soon enough, but she needs to start her life over somewhere else," I add just as the car drives smoothly into the parking lot of KAM. "Her new location should be decided by her, of course. Anywhere far from this city."

He affirms my orders again and I get out of the vehicle. The lot is still quite empty at this hour, with only a few other early workers driving in hurriedly. They adjust their IDs and bow in greeting as I pass. I wave a dismissive hand at a few and stride directly to the private elevator, with Dawson following close behind, trying to keep up with my pace.

When I get to my floor, the receptionist, Terry, is already at his post. He hands me my morning coffee without a word. I check the time again; it is already 6:50am. A fair start to what will undoubtedly be another hectic and ultimately boring day.

I am about to push my office door open when I come to a sudden stop. The door handle has been tampered with, the metal around the lock slightly scratched. Then I hear something faint, something dropping from inside. Someone has broken in.

With all my senses now on high alert, I hurry to push the door open, my body tensing. Dawson scurries right behind me, his own posture stiffening. My eyes widen for a moment, not in fear, but in sheer surprise at the sight before me. A young woman is standing behind my desk, her back to me as she tries to adjust the height of my swivel chair.

"It has to be dramatic a bit..." she mutters to herself, sucking her red-painted lips in between her teeth. She clears her throat, practicing. "He's going to be like, 'Who are you?' And I'll be like, 'It is I... your worse nightmare.'"

She lets out a frustrated groan and walks away from the chair, tapping her forehead with her fingertips.

"That sounded like a cheap villain script," she scolds herself under her breath.

Dawson makes a move to speak, to intervene, but I stop him with a sharp raise of my hand. I simply take a slow, deliberate sip of my coffee, my gaze fixed on her. I am more curious than angry now.

She sits down in the chair, facing away from me. "Maybe something more like, It is I, Reneesme Batista," she whispers to herself. Then, in one sudden push, the swivel chair turns, causing her eyes to land directly on mine. She flinches violently, her entire body jolting like a cat that has just been doused in cold water.

I take the styrofoam cup from my lips, my expression unreadable. "Am I interrupting something?"