Chastity #2
The reminder hit like cold water. This wasn't about me. Wasn't about us. Wasn't even really about the photos or the narrative or selling a love story to strangers.
This was about my father. The merger. Protection from whatever history existed between these two men that neither would fully explain.
I was collateral. A tool. A means to an end.
The flutter in my chest died instantly. Replaced by something heavier. More familiar. Resentment.
"Right." I pushed away from the table. "Let me know what outfit works best for tomorrow's performance."
Sarcasm dripped from every word. Sharp enough to draw blood if he'd cared enough to feel it.
He didn't look up from his phone. "Something that photographs well in low light. We're going upscale."
I stared at him. Waited for any sign he understood how dehumanizing this felt.
Nothing.
Just Wyatt. Controlled. Strategic. Already three steps ahead of whatever game we were playing.
"I'll be in my room."
"Our first official Instagram post goes live in an hour."
I froze halfway to the stairs. "What?"
"Check your email. I sent you the photo for approval."
My stomach dropped. "You're posting—"
"We're posting." He finally looked up. Expression unreadable. "Together. Like a couple."
I sat upright so fast the chair scraped against the hardwood. The sound echoed through his too-quiet house. "You could at least pretend to care that this is… awful for me."
Wyatt took a slow sip of water. Deliberately slow. Like he had all the time in the world to consider my distress and decided it wasn't urgent.
He set the glass down with precise care. "If I start pretending, it'll get messy."
My jaw dropped. "You're impossible."
"And you're dramatic."
Heat flooded my face. Actual indignation burned through my chest. "Excuse me?! I am not dramatic."
"You just declared war on a croissant when we walked into the cafe."
I sputtered. Actually sputtered like some Victorian lady who'd been mortally offended. "It crumbled aggressively!"
His mouth curved. Not the controlled, calculated expression he usually wore. An actual smirk. Real amusement flickering in those dark eyes.
"Sure."
The single word dripped with skepticism. Mocking. Teasing in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness I absolutely refused to name.
I crossed my arms. Fully annoyed. Fully flustered. Completely thrown off balance by the shift in his demeanor.
"You're enjoying this."
"A little." He didn't even have the decency to deny it.
"I knew it." I jabbed a finger in his direction. "From the beginning. You've been getting some sick satisfaction out of—"
He leaned forward slightly. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just… closer. Close enough I felt the shift in air between us. Close enough my breath caught without permission. "You're getting used to me."
My pulse stuttered. Traitorous heart doing that flutter thing again. The one I'd specifically ordered it to stop. "I am not—"
"You are."
The certainty in his voice made something twist low in my stomach. Not fear. Not quite. Something more dangerous.
My cheeks burned. I hated the heat spreading across my face. Hated that he could see it. Hated the knowing glint in his eyes that said he'd catalogued my reaction and filed it away for future use.
Damn him.
"This doesn't mean anything." The words came out defensive. Too quick. "I'm surviving. That's different from getting used to you."
He leaned back. That infuriating smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."
The endearment hit different this time. Less weapon. More... something else. Something that made my skin feel too tight and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
I stood abruptly. Chair scraping again. "I'm going to my room."
"Check your email first."
Right. The Instagram post. The next performance. The endless cycle of pretending this was real when nothing about it felt remotely safe.
I grabbed my phone. Headed for the stairs without looking back. Because if I looked back—if I met those dark eyes one more time—I might do something truly stupid.
Like admit he was right.
The guest room wrapped around me like a cocoon I hadn't earned. Too comfortable. Too quiet. Too his.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, phone face-down beside me. Couldn't bring myself to look at the notifications again. Couldn't stomach another headline dissecting my life like I was public property.
The silence pressed in. Heavy. Weighted with thoughts I'd been successfully avoiding for hours.
Then it hit. Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Like stepping off a ledge I hadn't known existed.
I was less terrified than I'd been this morning. Less stiff when he stood close. Less overwhelmed by the weight of eyes I couldn't see.
The realization settled into my chest with uncomfortable clarity.
I'd... adjusted. Not to the cameras. Those still made my skin crawl. Not to the press. They'd probably never stop feeling invasive. To him.
The way he'd anticipated the crowd at the café before I'd even registered the surge. How he'd positioned himself between me and the tightest cluster of bodies without announcing it. The precise moment he'd taken my hand—firm enough to ground me, gentle enough I could've pulled away if I'd wanted.
He hadn't asked if I was okay. Hadn't coddled me with reassurances or empty platitudes.
He'd just... known. Read my discomfort in the tension of my shoulders.
The shallowness of my breath. The way my fingers had twitched toward my purse strap.
And he'd acted. Not kindly. Wyatt didn't do kind.
But effectively. Protectively. Without making it a production.
My ex would've made a scene. Would've gotten loud and aggressive and turned my panic into his masculinity display. Would've needed me to soothe his ego afterward while my own fear went unacknowledged.
Wyatt had simply... stood near me. Steady. Immovable. A wall I hadn't asked for but leaned against, anyway.
The comparison twisted something sharp in my chest.
I pulled my knees up. Wrapped my arms around them. Pressed my forehead against the soft fabric of my leggings.
"I'm starting to get used to you."
The words escaped into the quiet. Barely a whisper. Like saying them too loud would make them more real. More damning.
My throat tightened.
I hated the truth in those seven words. Hated how they settled into my bones with uncomfortable weight. Hated that after one day—one day—of this forced proximity, my nervous system had already started cataloguing him as... not quite safe.
But safer. Safer than cameras. Safer than strangers. Safer than my ex ever was.
That terrified me more than any headline could.
I lifted my head. Stared at the closed door separating my space from his. Wondered if he was downstairs. In his office. In his gym. Somewhere in this house, existing with that maddening calm while I came apart at the seams.
Part of me wanted to hate him for it. The cruel efficiency. The calculated touches. The way he'd turned my life into strategy without flinching.
But the rest of me…
The rest whispered something more dangerous.
This didn't feel entirely bad.
And that truth settled into my chest like a stone I'd be carrying for the next twenty-nine days.