21. Chastity
Chastity
I pulled on the Serpents sweater—oversized, soft, smelling faintly of Wyatt's detergent because he'd washed it for me after the charity skate.
I shouldn't have liked that. I shouldn't have noticed things like that.
But I did. God help me, I did.
The fabric settled against my skin, warm and comfortable in a way that felt dangerous. Like I was claiming something I had no right to claim. Like wearing his team's name across my chest meant something more than optics and performance.
I grabbed my curling iron, hands less steady than they should've been. The barrel heated while I stared at myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, the kind of nervous energy that had nothing to do with crowds or cameras.
This was different. Wrong. Reckless.
I curled my hair in loose waves, the way I knew looked good in photos. Applied light makeup—mascara, a touch of blush, lip gloss that caught the light. Professional. Polished. The daughter Thomas Harrington raised to represent his brand perfectly.
Except I wasn't dressing for investors tonight.
I was dressing for him.
The realization hit hard enough I had to grip the counter. My pulse jumped, heat crawling up my neck as I tried to convince myself that wasn't true. That this was still fake. Still a performance. Still thirty days of obligation and nothing more.
But my reflection called me a liar.
I grabbed my keys, forcing myself to move before I could spiral further into whatever this feeling was. My stomach fluttered—not anxiety, not fear. Something lighter. Brighter. More terrifying than either.
Not for the game. Not for the crowd or the cameras or the public spectacle of being Wyatt Cole's girlfriend.
For him.
For the way he'd looked at me last night when I'd kissed his cheek. For the casual intimacy of his thumb brushing my chin. For the steady warmth in his voice when he'd said I didn't have to earn anything from him.
I caught my own eyes in the mirror one last time. "Stop being weird," I muttered.
But my heart didn't listen.
It kept beating too fast, kept pulling me toward something I couldn't name and shouldn't want. Kept reminding me that in less than two weeks, I'd started feeling safer with Wyatt Garrison than I'd ever felt with the man who raised me.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs, careful not to make too much noise. Wyatt had left an hour ago for pre-game prep, and the house felt unnervingly quiet without him in it.
The drive to the arena took twenty minutes through winter-dark streets lined with snow. I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, nerves building with every block that brought me closer.
The parking lot buzzed with life when I arrived—a sea of jerseys and face paint and electric anticipation.
Families streamed toward the entrance, kids bouncing on their toes, parents juggling foam fingers and hot chocolate.
Music thundered from inside the building, bass vibrating through my chest even from the car.
Vendors shouted about programs and scarves and last-minute tickets.
The giant screens mounted on the arena's exterior pulsed with player highlights and sponsor logos, bathing everything in flickering blue and silver light.
I sat for a moment, watching it all, feeling completely out of place.
These weren't my people. This wasn't my world.
But it was his.
I pulled out my phone, checking the text Wyatt had sent earlier.
Suite 12. Family/Executive section. Security'll have your name.
Family.
I nearly laughed.
The word sat heavy and wrong, tangled up with images of my actual family—my father's tight smile at the restaurant, my mother's nervous hands, the way they'd both looked at me like I was a business asset instead of their daughter. The way they'd handed me over without a second thought.
And now I was walking into Wyatt's world wearing his team's name, sitting in a section reserved for wives and girlfriends and people who actually belonged to the players they were there to support.
Except I didn't belong to him.
This was fake. A performance. A month-long arrangement that would end and leave us both exactly where we'd started.
I repeated that to myself as I got out of the car, locked the doors, and joined the stream of fans heading inside. The cold air bit at my face, sharp enough to ground me. Music grew louder with every step. Lights brighter. Voices merging into a roar of excitement I couldn't quite match.
But my heart beat faster, anyway.
Because somewhere in that building, Wyatt was lacing up his skates and pulling on his jersey. And for reasons I refused to examine too closely, I wanted to be there when he stepped onto the ice.
I found Suite 12 on the second level, tucked behind glass doors that muffled the arena noise into something almost civilized. Security checked my name, gave me a polite nod, and stepped aside.
The moment I walked through, my father appeared. Just that tight, practiced smile—the one he wore at board meetings and investor dinners. The one that never quite reached his eyes.
"You made it. Good. Investors are watching tonight."
Not how are you?
Not feeling okay after last night?
Just performance.
Always performance.
The familiar weight settled over my shoulders—the expectation, the scrutiny, the unspoken reminder that I represented him. That everything I did reflected on the company. That even here, even now, I wasn't just his daughter. I was a brand asset.
I forced a polite smile, muscles moving on autopilot after years of practice. "Of course."
He gestured toward the suite's interior with one hand. "Barbara's already here. Some of her team as well. The merger's practically finalized—tonight's about showing stability."
Stability.
The word tasted like ash.
I nodded, moving past him into the warmth of the suite, and then froze.
The space opened up before me: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice, plush seating arranged in careful clusters, a catered spread laid out on sleek tables. Soft lighting. Expensive everything. The kind of luxury that whispered wealth instead of shouting it.
But none of that stopped me.
She did.
Barbara Hale stood near the window, champagne in hand, speaking quietly to a man in a tailored suit. Her posture perfect, her expression composed, her entire presence radiating the kind of cold control that could freeze blood.
The woman who'd sneered at Wyatt in the tunnel. The woman I'd defended him against without thinking. The woman whose company was merging with my father's—which meant she was about to become my boss.
Her eyes lifted, found mine across the room. And something sharp flickered in her gaze. Recognition. Assessment. And something else I couldn't quite name.
My stomach dropped.
This was going to be a very long night.
Barbara’s eyes flicked over my outfit—slow, deliberate, assessing. "Cute sweater. Very… girlfriend."
I stiffened, fingers curling against my sides.
My father cleared his throat behind me, voice carrying that boardroom smoothness I knew too well. "She's here to support Wyatt. It reflects well on the organization."
Barbara's smile was thin. Practiced. The kind that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, it absolutely does. Fake relationships are amazing publicity. Fans eat it up."
The words hit like ice water.
Fake.
Publicity.
My chest tightened, breath catching somewhere between my lungs and throat. I wanted to argue. Wanted to defend—what? Us? The arrangement we'd both agreed was temporary? The performance we were selling to the world?
Except it hadn't felt fake last night when he'd held my hair back. When he'd covered me with blankets and left water by my side. When he'd touched my cheek and checked my temperature like it mattered.
Barbara sipped her drink, feigning innocence with surgical precision. "Honestly, I'm proud of Wyatt for pulling it together. He's never been good with… keeping things stable."
Heat flooded my veins. Sharp. Defensive. Instinctive. "He's been nothing but stable with me."
The words came out harder than I meant them to. Sharper. More protective than a girl in a fake relationship had any right to be.
Barbara raised an eyebrow, something amused flickering in her expression.
"Darling, everything he does is calculated. Especially now." She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Don't confuse performance with affection."
My heart kicked against my ribs.
Performance.
The word echoed in my skull, pulling up every moment I'd tried to dismiss as strategy. Every touch I'd told myself was for the cameras. Every soft look I'd convinced myself meant nothing.
But Wyatt steadying my hand during practice—that had been in his living room.
No cameras. No audience. Carrying me home drunk, holding my hair back while I was sick, covering me with blankets—that had been private.
Necessary. Nothing to gain. Brushing my hair back in the car.
Kissing my cheek in the kitchen when I'd stumbled into him.
Telling me I didn't have to earn anything from him. Asking me to come to this game.
If you want.
Those two words had been quiet. Almost uncertain. Nothing like the cold, calculated man Barbara was describing.
None of that had been for show.
Had it?
My stomach twisted, doubt creeping in like frost along glass. Because Barbara knew him longer. Barbara had been married to him. Barbara understood the man behind the scars in ways I couldn't begin to.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was just another piece in whatever game he was playing. Another strategy. Another move on a board I didn't fully understand.
Except…
My mind flashed to the way he'd looked at me last night. The stillness in his body when I'd kissed his cheek. The tension in his jaw. The way his hand had almost reached for me before he'd stopped himself.
That hadn't looked calculated. That had looked like a man barely holding himself together.
I met Barbara's eyes, forcing my voice steady even as my pulse hammered. "You don't know him anymore."