Chapter 15
My laptop hums softly, an open tab flashing articles about the bar fight incident I’ve been obsessing over. I force myself to take a deep breath, knowing Marcus Webb would chew me alive if he knew I was still chasing scraps of information instead of producing scandal.
I scroll through the police reports again, cross-referencing names, dates, and witness statements.
Something has always felt off about the coverage.
The narrative painted Kai Morrison as aggressive and reckless, a man who couldn’t control himself.
But my instincts and the little footage I saw myself, told a different story.
And now, with the patience of a journalist on the hunt, I’m starting to see why.
I click through another archived article and freeze.
The woman in the surveillance footage isn’t just anyone.
Her name catches my eye. Kennedy Walters, Senator Walter’s daughter.
The connection hits me like a punch to the chest. Suddenly, the bar fight takes on a whole new context.
This isn’t just a drunk altercation blown out of proportion.
It is a high-profile situation that Kai Morrison stepped into to protect someone who could easily destroy him in the media if things got twisted.
Nodding in new understanding, I lean back in my chair, pressing a hand to my forehead, and trying to process it.
Kai Morrison, hockey’s aggressive bad boy, defending someone.
Shielding them. The thought makes my chest tighten in more ways than one.
I remember the way he moved in that footage.
He was calm, controlled, and protective, the opposite of the violent image the tabloids had been selling.
It makes me think about him differently, yet again. That same man who pushed me against the conference room wall, whose hands and mouth left me breathless in the locker room a few days ago, was also capable of selfless action, of restraint when it was necessary.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, wanting to type out the revelation, but also hesitating. This could change everything about the story Marcus expects from me. There’s no dirt here, no easy scandal, only a truth that complicates everything I thought I knew.
I feel my pulse quickens as I realize I’m caught between admiration for Kai’s integrity and the pressure of my professional obligations.
I can’t tell Marcus this is the real story, or else he would fire me without hesitation.
But lying feels wrong, even as my heart pounds remembering the locker room moments from three days ago.
The memory of his hands on me, the hot tension and reckless desire, lingers, threading through my thoughts and making it almost impossible to focus.
I close my eyes for a moment and let the tension settle in.
I’ve been chasing shadows, trying to dig up dirt on him while he’s been showing a side of himself only I’ve glimpsed at.
He’s protective, careful, commanding in ways that have nothing to do with the headlines.
It’s infuriating and exhilarating all at once.
When I open my eyes and glance at the surveillance footage on my screen, the woman’s frightened expression frozen in time, and Kai’s body blocking her from harm.
A shiver runs through me, not entirely from the cold, and I realize the story I’ve been chasing isn’t a scandal at all.
Rather, it’s a truth I never expected to see.
And as I lean back in my chair, the heat from that locker room encounter creeping back into my memory, I can’t help but wonder just how many sides of Kai Morrison I’ve yet to discover, and what that means for me, my article, and the line I’ve already crossed with him.
The hotel lobby is a swirl of movement by the time I arrive, the sound of excited chatter and soft classical music mixing with the clinking of champagne glasses.
I tuck my notebook under my arm, moving carefully through the crowd of well-dressed attendees, all of them sparkling under the chandeliers and camera flashes.
The charity gala is a sight to behold, with glittering lights, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and everyone dressed to show that the night itself demands perfection.
I keep my professional composure, reminding myself I’m here to cover the event, not to get swept up and distracted by it.
And yet, even as I make my way toward the press area, my pulse skips when the crowd parts for him.
Kai Morrison. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, crisp white shirt, the sharp lines accentuating the bulge in his arms. The moment he steps into the room, all the noise seems to dim around him.
Conversations falter mid-laugh and eyes flick towards him.
I feel the familiar tug in my chest, that pull I always try to ignore yet fail miserably every time.
He scans the room, pausing briefly before his gaze finds mine across the marble floor.
A brief acknowledgment, a nod, and an almost imperceptible smirk.
His smirk alone is enough to make my knees betray me.
I force myself to adjust the strap of my clutch, mentally reminding myself that I’m here to work, to gather notes for the story, not to get lost in the mess of desire and complication he always stirs in me.
Even as I try to focus, I can’t help but notice the way other women gravitate towards him like moths to a flame.
Puck bunnies in sequined dresses, socialites with sharp heels and sharper smiles, each one leaning in with touches on his arm, flirtatious laughter, and whispering compliments.
His politeness is effortless. He has an irresistible charm, and his attention is measured yet it still has that magnetic pull.
He acknowledges everyone without missing a beat, letting them bask in the glow of his attention, while somehow, impossibly, still holding the space for me in his peripheral vision.
I should stay detached. I should take notes, ask pointed questions about the event, about the team, about the charity itself.
But instead, I find myself measuring every interaction, every laugh, every brush of hair behind an ear, mentally tallying how much of him they can have without my interference.
The brown-eyed monster I try so hard to suppress for weeks flares violently, leaving me uncomfortably aware of the heat coiling inside my chest.
Kai turns slightly, and I see the subtle flex of his arm as one particularly stunning redhead monopolizes his attention all for herself.
Her hand lingers on his bicep for much longer than necessary.
She keeps her lips close to his ears, whispering and laughing as she does.
It pisses me off that he lets her, not with disinterest, but with that effortless control of the charming presence he always has.
My stomach clenches. That could be me. It should be me, but I have no grounds to demand his presence tonight.
I force my gaze back to the notebook I haven’t touched in minutes, scribbling nonsense to mask the fact I am barely listening to the other players being interviewed nearby.
My fingers trace invisible patterns on the page as my eyes keep darting back to him, watching the easy sway of his movements, the way he laughs politely at jokes, the way other women lean just a little too close.
“Ms. Winters,” a photographer’s assistant mutters, startling me. “Ready for some shots of the team?”
I nod, plastering on a professional smile, the kind I use to fool fellow reporters and teammates alike. But inside, I’m boiling. Jealousy and desire collide, threatening to erase every ounce of objectivity and logic I have left in me for tonight.
I can see him now, turning slightly towards me again, catching my gaze.
That same smirk, half-mocking and half-challenging, as if he knows exactly what is running through my head.
I hate him for it, and yet, I hate him even more for how much it makes me ache and crave for him.
I remind myself over and over that this is his world––the gala room, the attention, and the power he wields so effortlessly, and I am just trying to navigate it without losing my mind.
The night presses on, with drinks flowing, and soft music threading through conversations, and I realize that I am no longer just observing him.
I am internalizing everything. The touches, the laughter, and the way his eyes softens slightly when he glances at me, acknowledging me in that unique, maddening way.
My professional instincts and personal turmoil collide, leaving me jittery, flushed, and painfully aware that the jealousy I feel is only part of the dangerous attraction that has been building between us from the very first glance.
By the time I end the interviews and moved to the edge of the bar, I can’t look away.
Kai Morrison, surrounded by admirers, by women who have no idea what kind of man he truly was, dominates every corner of my attention.
My pen and notebook feel useless in my hands.
The story I am here to tell suddenly seem secondary to the storm raging inside me.
And deep down, I know that storm isn’t going anywhere tonight.
I take a deep breath and weave my way through the crowd, notebook in hand, pretending my pen and paper are my shield.
There he is again in my line of sight, Kai Morrison, effortlessly charming as always, and that redhead laughing too loudly at something he’s saying, her hand brushing his arm like she owns a piece of him.
My chest tightens, heat pooling low in my stomach, and I force my expression into professional neutrality.
“Excuse me,” I say smoothly, sliding between them. “I need a few quotes for the article if you have a moment.”
Kai’s eyes flick up, catching mine instantly. That smirk of his, the one that could disarm anyone, sharpens with amusement. “Ah, Ms. Winters,” he drawls, his gaze sweeping me from head to toe before settling on my face. “Problem?”
I clench my jaw subtly, willing the irritation and possessiveness out of my tone.
“Just doing my job,” I say, my voice clipped, though I can’t hide the underlying edge.
My fingers tighten around the notebook. Every instinct screams that this isn’t about getting quotes.
It’s about staking my claim, making it clear without saying it outright that he isn’t free game for anyone tonight.
The redhead’s laugh falters slightly as she notices the tension crackling around us.
I keep my posture straight, but inside I am a raging storm––jealous, aroused, frustrated.
I’m not supposed to feel territorial over a man that I’m still pretending to keep at arm’s length but seeing him with her or any other woman tonight makes something coil tight and dangerous in my chest.
Kai leans back slightly, his smirk widening. “Territorial much?” he teases, the amusement in his voice piercing like a knife. “Or is that just your professional veil?”
I force a tight-lipped smile, pretending his teasing doesn’t sting.
“Professional,” I reply smoothly. But my gaze doesn’t waver, and I let just enough heat slip through my expression to make him pause, to remind him I’m not oblivious to the effect he has on me or how I feel about him and how far I’d let myself go tonight.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tug-of-war, and glances toward the redhead. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You might be showing more investment than you intend to.”
I ignore the deliberate teasing and focus on my mission, which has nothing to do with covering the event, and everything to do with asserting the claim I’m not supposed to admit I even want.
“Now, if you could just answer a few questions…” I gesture at the notebook, voice calm, professional. But the unspoken message radiates, that this is my space, my right to approach you, and I’m not stepping back.
Kai’s smirk softens into something more deliberate, knowing and almost approving. I can see it in the way his eyes linger, the subtle nod that acknowledges my assertion. It drives me mad, the way he seems to see everything. My pretense, my jealousy, my desire, and still chooses to play along.
I take a final mental note of the redhead stepping aside, distracted by some other guest, and turn my attention fully to Kai, hiding the rapid thrum of my pulse.
The professional mask is intact, but underneath, I know the truth.
I am far more invested in him than I’d ever intended.
Far more tangled, far more vulnerable. And there is no undoing it tonight, or perhaps ever.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says with a glint in his eyes and something in his tone.
“Wh––” I begin and cut myself off. Where the hell is he going?
I watch as he walks away.