Chastity #2
The comments beneath made my stomach turn.
Lucky bitch
Must be nice being rich AND getting that
Gold digger energy
Daddy's little princess slumming it with the players
My cheeks burned. Hot enough I felt it spread down my neck.
I locked the screen. Set the phone face-down. Counted to ten.
It didn't help.
I picked it up again. Scrolled further. Found worse.
Someone had dug up old interviews. Tabloid articles from two years ago about Wyatt Garrison's divorce. His temper. His "concerning behavior" during games. Headlines that painted him as volatile. Dangerous. A man who couldn't control himself. His scandalous divorce because of cheating and violence.
And now they thought I'd let him touch me in the dark.
I stared at my reflection. At the stranger in professional armor who looked nothing like the girl I'd been yesterday.
My throat tightened. "This isn't fair."
The words came out barely above a whisper. Spoken to no one. To the empty room. To the version of myself trapped behind glass.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn't look.
The car smelled like leather and his cologne. Familiar. Safe. Except nothing felt safe anymore.
My father drove without speaking. Hands positioned exactly at ten and two. Eyes forward. Jaw set in that way that meant his brain was three steps ahead of whatever conversation we weren't having.
I pressed my palms together in my lap. Squeezed until my knuckles went white.
The city passed outside my window. Gray buildings. Gray sky. People walking with coffee cups and phones who had no idea my life was imploding.
We hit a red light.
His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. Stopped. "You will say nothing."
I nodded.
The light changed. He accelerated smoothly. No sudden movements. Everything controlled.
"Let me handle this."
My throat felt too tight to answer. I nodded again.
The silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating. I watched the buildings blur past and tried to breathe around the pressure building in my chest.
"I'm sorry." The words came out barely above a whisper. Small. Broken.
His hands tightened on the wheel. Knuckles going pale against dark leather. "This isn't your fault."
He meant it. I heard it in the way his voice softened just slightly. The way he didn't look at me because if he did, something might crack.
But tension lived underneath. Coiled tight in every syllable.
I turned toward him. Really looked. Saw the line between his brows that hadn't been there at breakfast yesterday. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The way he kept checking mirrors like someone might be following us.
For the first time in my life, my father looked afraid. Not angry. Not disappointed. Scared. The realization hit harder than any headline.
Thomas Harrington didn't get scared. He got strategic. He got focused. He solved problems with phone calls and contracts and the kind of quiet power that made boardrooms shift in their seats.
But right now, driving through morning traffic with his daughter beside him, he looked like a man who'd just realized he couldn't control the narrative. Couldn't fix this with money or influence or carefully worded statements. Something had slipped beyond his reach.
I faced forward again. Watched the road disappear beneath us. My hands stayed folded in my lap. Small. Still. Waiting for whatever came next.
The restaurant should have been loud. Clinking plates. Quiet conversation. The hum of lunchtime crowds pressing against windows and waiting for tables.
Instead, silence.
My father's hand stayed at the small of my back as he guided me through the entrance. Past the hostess stand—empty. Past rows of tables draped in white cloth—vacant. The lights hung dim and golden overhead. Casting shadows that pooled in corners and made the entire space feel like a stage set.
Only one section lived. One table. Already prepared. Wine glasses catching light. Silverware gleaming against dark linen.
One man.
He sat facing the door. Casual. Controlled. Like he'd been waiting exactly this long and expected nothing less.
No mask this time.
My stomach dropped so hard I stopped moving.
My father's hand pressed more firmly against my spine. A silent command. Keep walking.
I recognized him instantly. The height. The shoulders. The way he occupied space without shifting. Still as carved stone. Still as a predator deciding whether prey was worth the chase.
But without the mask, he was more.
Worse.
A scar cut clean across his left cheekbone.
Pale against tan skin. Another traced faint and silver along his jaw.
Not fresh. Old enough to have settled into permanence.
Arena lights and years on ice had weathered his face into something hard.
Unyielding. Not pretty. Not polished in the way of men who lived behind desks and wore tailored suits because image mattered.
This man wore violence like other men wore cologne. His eyes tracked our approach. Dark. Unreadable. The kind that gave nothing away even when they saw everything. Not handsome. But impossible to ignore.
He looked like someone who had survived something brutal. Walked through fire or hell or whatever burned hot enough to leave marks. And instead of breaking… He'd sharpened.
My pulse hammered against my ribs. Loud enough I was certain everyone could hear it.
He didn't stand when we approached. Didn't smile. Didn't offer any of the polite gestures men usually performed when my father brought me anywhere that mattered.
He just watched. Waited. Let the silence stretch until my father pulled out my chair.
I sat because my legs wouldn't hold me much longer.
Wyatt Garrison's gaze never left my face.
And for the first time since the photograph broke, I understood exactly how much danger I was in.