Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SOPHIE
The hum of the engine is low and steady, the kind of sound that should lull me into calm. But I’m not calm. I’m perched on the butter-soft leather of the backseat of a chauffeured car, dress bunched around my thighs and heart kicking against my ribs as though it’s trying to escape.
Murphy sits beside me, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he hasn’t just walked us through a hall of crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, and half a dozen people with TV faces.
He looks good. Annoyingly good. His tux clings to him as though it was made for that body; broad-shouldered, casually sprawled, every bit the cocky professional athlete.
He’s fiddling with the ring on his pinky, like he always does when he’s thinking.
But his gaze is angled toward me, not the street.
“You okay, Soph?” he asks, soft.
I smile. “Sure. Just mentally practicing how to walk through treacle in heels. Because that’s what this whole thing is going to morph into.” It’s a lie.
Murphy lets out a low laugh. “I’d hold your hand. Very on brand.”
I shoot him a look. “Yeah, great. I can see the headlines now; ‘Raptors Star Player Catches Fake Girlfriend Before She Faceplants.’ Inspirational stuff.”
His grin flickers, but then he goes quiet. There’s a stretch of silence, and then he says, “You looked unreal tonight.”
It’s not the first time he’s said it. But this time, it lands differently. He’s not smirking. He’s not teasing. His eyes are dark and steady, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
“Thanks,” I murmur. I look down at my hands, fingers knotted in my lap. “You clean up alright too. For a walking headline.”
Murphy doesn’t take the bait. No cheeky comeback. Just that silence again, like he’s giving me space. Which should be sweet. It is sweet. But it also makes the air too heavy with things we haven’t said.
I shift slightly, eyes flicking to the window. The streetlights blur past like gold smudges on the damp glass. I try to swallow the knot in my throat, but it doesn’t budge.
“I felt like a fraud in there,” I say suddenly, my voice tighter than I expect.
Murphy straightens. “What?”
I bite my lip, hard. “At the dinner. I mean, Jesus, Murph. Your agent, the sponsors, the cameras. The bloody opera singer doing arias between courses. I sat there in a designer dress and heels trying not to knock over the centrepiece.”
He blinks. “You didn’t knock it over.”
“Well, no, but I thought about it. For chaos.”
That gets a small smile out of him, but it fades when he sees my face. My hands are clenched now. I didn’t notice until his warm fingers wrap gently around mine.
“Soph,”
“I’m not fishing for compliments,” I cut in. “I’m not asking you to make me feel better. I just…” I shrug, helpless. “I don’t belong in that world. Not really. Everyone in there looked like they’d stepped off a film set. You were in your element.”
Murphy frowns. “I wasn’t.”
“You were,” I say, softer now. “You were charming and funny and smooth and just… on. You made everyone fall in love with you. Even Layla looked as though she might propose.”
“She’s my agent. She wants me to land a great deal, not marry me.”
“You know what I mean.”
He doesn’t reply, and for once, the silence is a little bit awkward.
I sigh, twisting in my seat so I can really look at him. “This fake girlfriend thing was supposed to be easy. A couple of photos, a few flirty comments. But tonight felt bigger. Like I’d stepped into a role I was never meant to play.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I enjoyed that?”
“Didn’t you?”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Christ, no. I hate that shit. The posturing. The pretending. I didn’t even want to do the speech, but Layla said it was part of the deal.”
“Well, you nailed it. Even got a laugh with that joke about your mum still thinking you’re a plumber.”
He smiles faintly. “It’s not a joke. She tells people that at the bingo.”
I huff out something resembling a laugh, but the tension is still there, simmering just under my skin.
“I don’t like feeling as though I’m being paraded around,” I whisper. “I mean, I agreed to it, so I can’t be mad, right? But the photographers, the stares, the questions; it felt like I was being measured.”
Murphy’s hand is still wrapped around mine, thumb stroking the back of it as if it’s the only anchor he has. His voice is low when he says, “You’re not a prop, Sophie.”
I look at him, and his eyes are so goddamn earnest I want to scream. “You treat me like I’m not,” I admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact that tonight I felt like one.”
There’s a long pause. Then, he says, “You were the only real thing in that room.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m serious.” His gaze locks with mine. “Everyone else was playing some part. Agents, sponsors, PR. But you? You were the only one who didn’t pretend to care about any of it. You were yourself.”
“Which version is that? The one nervously inhaling a breadstick or the one clinging to your arm as though I was about to pass out?”
He leans in, close enough for me to smell his cologne, it’s dark, clean, and obviously expensive. “The version who kept me sane all night. Who whispered that filthy thing in my ear right before the group photo.”
I smirk despite myself. “You mean the thing about the wine bottle and the conference room table?”
“That’s the one.”
There’s a beat between us and then we’re laughing, and the crack in the dam has finally broken. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I just… tonight made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.”
“Like what?”
I swallow. “Like maybe this isn’t so fake anymore.”
It’s out before I can stop it.
Murphy goes very still. His eyes are darker now, searching my face like he’s trying to read what I haven’t said.
And for once, I let him.
“Maybe I care more than I should,” I add, my voice sounds raw and almost unrecognisable. “Maybe it stings when people treat me like just another PR stunt. Maybe I liked being on your arm a little too much.”
His thumb brushes my cheek. I hadn’t realised I was crying until he caught the tear.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t do that. Don’t cry, Soph.”
I laugh wetly. “It’s your fault. You made me wear five inches of mascara on top of these bloody fake lashes.”
Murphy shifts closer but he doesn’t kiss me. He just rests his forehead against mine, as if that’s all he can do without breaking the moment.
“This was never just fake to me,” he says in a low voice, it’s almost a whisper. “Not once.”
I close my eyes. “Then what is it?”
He exhales shakily. “Something I don’t want to lose.”
The car slows outside my flat and the world feels weirdly quiet. We don’t move for a moment. Finally, I whisper, “Come up?”
His smile is slow, and devastating. “I thought you’d never ask.”