24. Theo
THEO
The house feels unnaturally quiet after the chaos outside. Azaria disappeared upstairs the moment we walked through the door, her heels clicking against the hardwood in rapid staccato before her bedroom door closed with a soft but definitive click.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and settle into the leather chair in my study, laptop balanced on my knee. The screen glows in the dim room as I navigate to the first news site.
The footage is already live.
Hockey Star Theo Tate Defends Scandal-Plagued Model in Heated Confrontation
The headline makes my jaw tighten, but I click play anyway. The video quality is surprisingly clear—someone with professional equipment captured the entire exchange. I watch myself materialize between Azaria and that reporter like I'm seeing a stranger.
The moment when he grabs her wrist is crystal clear. Her slight stumble backward. The flash of genuine alarm that crosses her face before her media training kicks in.
Then me, stepping forward with an expression that looks downright murderous.
"Back off. Now."
Even through laptop speakers, my voice carries enough menace to make me understand why the reporter backed down so quickly.
The comments section is already exploding. I scroll through them against my better judgment.
Tate's not playing around. That reporter fucked around and found out
The way he immediately checked her wrist though
This is what protection looks like
I close the first tab and open another news site. Same footage, different angle. This one caught Azaria's face more clearly—the moment when her composure cracked slightly, the way she looked at me when I positioned myself between her and the cameras.
Another site frames it differently: NHL Captain Risks Career to Protect Controversial Model
My phone vibrates against the table. James's name flashes on the screen.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. Consider it seriously.
Instead, I answer on the fourth ring.
"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" James's voice comes through tight with barely controlled fury. "Any idea at all?"
"Good evening to you too, James."
"Don't. Just—don't with the sarcasm right now, Theo. I'm looking at footage of you going full caveman on a reporter, and I need you to explain to me how this happened when I specifically—specifically—asked you not to attend any more public events with her."
I take a sip of whiskey, letting the burn ground me. "He grabbed her."
"I don't care if he—" James stops mid-sentence. "Is she okay?"
"I don’t know."
The silence stretches long enough that I check to see if the call dropped.
"Okay," James says finally, his tone shifting slightly. "Theo, the optics?—"
"The optics are that I protected someone who was being assaulted."
"The optics are that you're now completely inseparable from her narrative. Every story about Azaria Emerson will include you. Every story about you will include her. You understand that, right?"
I open a third news tab. Same footage, same story, different spin: Love Growing Stronger in the Time of Scandal: Are Theo Tate and Azaria Emerson Hockey's New Power Couple?
"I understand."
"Do you? You are now her knight in shining armor, and the internet is writing fan fiction about your relationship."
"James—"
"I'm not finished. The Gladstone endorsement deal? Dead. They called twenty minutes ago. The athletic wear campaign? On hold indefinitely. I am fielding calls from reporters asking about wedding plans, Theo. Wedding plans."
Through the window, I can see photographers still stationed across the street, their long lenses pointed at my house like weapons.
"Are you listening to me?" James presses. "This isn't damage control anymore. This is your career."
"My career will survive."
"I've got three different sports blogs running pieces about whether the team should reconsider your captaincy. Apparently, some fans think you're too distracted to lead effectively."
The whiskey burns less on the second sip. "What do you want me to do, James? Throw her out? Issue a statement denying any relationship?"
"Yes. Exactly that. Distance yourself publicly, clearly, and immediately."
"No."
"Theo—"
"No." I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the photographers. "I'm not abandoning her to deal with this alone."
"She's not your responsibility."
"She is now."
"Since when? Since you decided to play hero for the cameras?"
"Since some asshole put his hands on her and I realized I'd rather lose every endorsement deal than watch her get hurt."
James doesn't respond immediately, which means he's recalibrating his approach.
"Theo," he says carefully, "I need you to think about what you're saying. Really think about it."
"I am thinking about it."
"Are you in love with her?"
The question hits like a slap shot to the chest. Direct. Unavoidable.
"James—"
"Because if you are, we need to plan for that. If this is real, we handle it differently than if you're just being protective."
I don't answer. Can't answer, because the truth is too large and complicated to fit into James's damage-control equations.
"The silence is an answer, you know," he says quietly.
"I'm hanging up now."
"Theo, wait?—"
I set the phone face-down on the coffee table. The house settles around me, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional camera flash from outside.
Upstairs, I can hear water running. Azaria, probably washing off the night, trying to scrub away the feeling of that reporter's hands on her skin.
I finish my whiskey and open the laptop again.
The story is spreading faster than I anticipated.
My phone lights up again before I can close the laptop. Logan's name flashes on the screen.
I answer immediately. "Tell me you have something."
"I have something. But it's not what either of us expected."
I brace myself. "Go ahead."
"Massimo Lombardi isn't working alone. The guest list you gave me? I cross-referenced it with some financial databases I have access to, and there's a pattern."
"What kind of pattern?"
"It involves very quiet federal investigations." Papers rustle on his end. "At least six of the high-value guests from that Paris party are currently under scrutiny for financial crimes. Money laundering, art fraud, tax evasion—the whole luxury crime buffet."
I set my whiskey down. "Connected to Massimo?"
"More than connected. They're a network. These aren't random wealthy assholes who happened to be at the same party their asshole friend funded. They've been moving money together for years through art acquisitions, fashion investments, luxury real estate."
"And Azaria walked into the middle of it."
"Azaria was placed in the middle of it." Logan's voice sharpens. "They were always going to rob that place. They are criminals. It was just a fun bonus for them to also get revenge on Azaria.”
I stand and walk to the window again, processing. The photographers are still there, patient as vultures.
"How big are we talking?"
"Federal investigation big. The kind where people disappear into witness protection or end up in tragic accidents." Logan pauses. "These aren't just rich men protecting their reputations anymore. They're protecting themselves from prison sentences."
"So this is still revenge against Azaria."
"Oh, absolutely. But now Massimo's got backup with serious resources and serious motivation to make sure she goes down for this. If the feds are closing in on their network, having a high-profile scapegoat becomes invaluable."
The water stops running upstairs. I listen for Azaria's footsteps but hear nothing.
"What's the timeline?"
"Unknown. Federal investigations move slowly until they don't. Could be months, could be tomorrow." Logan's keyboard clicks in the background. "But Theo, the people involved here—they don't just ruin careers. They eliminate problems."
"Are you saying she's in physical danger?"
"I'm saying that when men with this much money and power feel cornered, they don't limit themselves to character assassination."
"Logan, thank you. I owe you."
"Just keep her safe, Theo. These people don't mess around."
I end the call and stare at the phone for a long moment, processing everything he just told me. Federal investigations. Money laundering networks. Men who eliminate problems.
I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse quickening with each step. The hallway stretches before me, dim except for the light seeping from beneath Azaria's door.
I knock twice, sharp and purposeful.
"Come in."
She's sitting cross-legged on the bed, an enormous ceramic mug cradled between her hands.
Steam rises from whatever's inside, and she's dressed in an oversized gray t-shirt that swallows her frame.
Her hair is wrapped in a black satin bonnet, and her face is completely scrubbed clean—no makeup, just skin that glows even in the soft lamplight.
James's question echoes in my head without permission: Are you in love with her?
Looking at her like this—unguarded, comfortable in my space, wearing clothes that probably belong to me—the answer feels dangerously close to the surface.
"Why are you drinking coffee at eleven-thirty at night?"
She waves her free hand dismissively, like the question isn't worth addressing. "What are you doing in my room this late?"
I close the door behind me and study her face. She looks tired beneath the defiance, shadows under her eyes that makeup usually hides.
"Logan called."
"Your investigator friend?" She sets the mug on the nightstand, giving me her full attention. "What did he find?"
"Massimo isn't working alone." I push off from the door and move closer, needing to see her reaction clearly. "Some men at that party—at least six of them are under federal investigation for financial crimes. Money laundering, art fraud, tax evasion."
Her expression doesn't change, but her shoulders tense slightly.
"They're a network," I continue. "They've been moving money together for years through art acquisitions, fashion investments, luxury real estate.
This isn't just about revenge anymore, Azaria.
You walked into the middle of a federal investigation.
They were always going to rob that place—they're criminals.
But having you there as a scapegoat was just a bonus. "
She stares at me, processing. Her hands rest motionless in her lap, but I can see her mind working behind those dark eyes.