Chapter 7
Daphne
It was almost midnight, and I was still hunched over my laptop in pajama pants and a hoodie, pretending to work but mostly just stewing in a blend of caffeine, regret, and passive-aggressive Google searches.
PR relationships: legality.
Can MLS suspend for off-field behavior?
How to disappear and open a bakery in Iceland.
My phone buzzed against the counter, and I grabbed it without thinking, thumb already poised to scroll past whatever promotional nonsense I’d been too lazy to unsubscribe from.
Unknown number.
I opened it anyway.
Kieren asked me to reach out. I'm his agent. Contract stuff. Tonight at his place?
I stared at the screen for a beat.
Seriously?
He couldn’t even text me himself?
Of course not. That would involve acknowledging my existence in a direct and non-confrontational manner. God forbid Mr. “I Handle Emotions With My Fists” act like a human being.
I snorted and tossed the phone on the couch, rubbing my hands down my face.
He probably didn’t even want me to say yes. This was damage control, plain and simple. A PR stunt gone rogue. I was the necessary evil in a headline he didn’t want to be part of.
Still.
I picked up my phone again and texted Talia.
Just got invited to Kieren’s place. His agent wants to go over the fake dating contract.
She responded in .3 seconds flat.
Go. Read everything. Sign nothing until I review.
Not even if they offer a signing bonus in the form of bourbon and silence?
Especially if they offer bourbon. That means they’re trying to distract you. Stay sharp.
I sighed and stared down at my fuzzy socks.
This wasn’t how I thought the day would end. I’d figured on takeout, a rerun of something ridiculous, and maybe three solid hours of wondering why the hell I’d agreed to pretend to date Kieren Walker like some bootleg Taylor Swift PR tour.
Instead, I was going to his apartment.
Alone.
At night.
I was either about to make the smartest career move of my life… or the dumbest personal one.
Knowing me, probably both.
I grabbed my bag and swapped my hoodie for something that didn’t scream “I cried into a bag of popcorn an hour ago.” Black blazer. Fitted jeans. Neutral lipstick. Polished but unbothered.
Professional armor.
On the way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
My expression was tight. My ponytail was sharp enough to stab someone.
Good.
I didn’t know what Kieren wanted. Not really. But I knew this much: I was going in as Daphne Sommers—reporter, strategist, not some girl who flinched when he glared or blushed when he growled something borderline feral in her defense.
This was business.
Strictly business.
Even if my heart wouldn’t shut the hell up about it.
Kieren Walker lived exactly the way I imagined he would.
A high-rise downtown. Private elevator access. Minimalist to the point of emotional bankruptcy.
The condo looked like it had been staged by a moody interior designer who’d only ever seen Scandinavian furniture catalogs and noir films. Everything was gray—cool-toned, soulless.
Steel counters, concrete floors, matte black light fixtures.
A single plant wilted pitifully on the windowsill like it had once begged for sunlight and been denied on principle.
It was masculine. Cold. Controlled.
Just like him.
I barely had time to knock before the door opened. And there he was.
Barefoot. Wearing sweats. No shirt.
And not the “I forgot to get dressed” kind of shirtless. No, this was the “I know exactly what I look like and I’m not sorry” kind.
My mouth didn’t drop open. I was stronger than that. But I did take a breath I absolutely didn’t need to take.
His abs were rude. That was the only word for it. Uncalled for and deeply, deeply rude.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low and unimpressed.
“You didn’t specify a time,” I replied, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“I’m sure you think a lot of things are my problem.”
He didn’t answer, just lifted one eyebrow like he was trying to decide if I was worth the effort of arguing with. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to punch him or… something else.
Before either could happen, a voice from deeper in the condo cut in, “Good, you’re here.”
Kieren’s agent—Matt something—emerged from the kitchen, carrying a laptop and looking like he’d stepped off the cover of Forbes: Soul-Sucking Legal Edition. His suit was tailored, his expression unreadable, and his energy screamed I bill by the quarter-hour.
“Let’s keep this simple,” Matt said, moving past me to sit at the glass dining table.
“Low emotional risk, high visual return. Public appearances, no interviews. You control your own social media but must tag the team account in all relationship-adjacent posts. We approve captions. There will be a monthly calendar of agreed-upon appearances.”
I blinked. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’ve done worse,” he replied, dry as ash. “This is a walk in the park.”
Kieren padded across the room and dropped into one of the chairs, sprawling like he owned the world and was bored of it. I stayed standing.
Matt gestured for me to join them. “This is a contract built for optics, not complications. One fundraiser, two charity events, a few game-day PDA opportunities, and a holiday party. If you’re seen with anyone else romantically, we renegotiate. If either of you backs out, we spin it. Got it?”
“Crystal,” I muttered, sitting across from Kieren.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t stop looking at me either. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of storm he’d just invited into his fortress of solitude.
I didn’t break eye contact.
If this was going to be a game, I wasn’t planning to lose.
Even if part of me already suspected we were both in over our heads.
Matt set the laptop on the table like he was presenting legal terms for a hostile merger.
And honestly? That wasn’t far off.
“We’ll walk through the relationship parameters now,” he said, clicking something open.
Talia’s voice crackled through his phone speaker, sharp and clipped. “I’m here and recording. Don’t let Kieren charm her into signing anything dumb.”
I rolled my eyes. “He hasn’t said a word since his charming introduction.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s how they get you.”
Kieren just smirked, annoyingly shirtless and utterly unbothered.
Matt cleared his throat like he’d rather die than participate in this circus, but he pressed on. “To begin—here are the key terms for the ‘relationship agreement.’”
He actually used air quotes.
“Number one: A minimum of two public appearances per week. These include—but are not limited to—fundraisers, charity events, press mixers, and post-game functions.”
“Two a week?” I echoed. “That’s more than most actual relationships.”
Matt didn’t blink. “You’re not most relationships.”
“Not a relationship at all,” I muttered.
“Correct,” he said. “Number two: One coordinated paparazzi shot per month. Coffee runs, game night strolls, pre-game kisses by the players’ tunnel. Keep it natural, but noticeable.”
Kieren snorted. “There’s nothing natural about this.”
Matt ignored him. “Number three: Physical affection is encouraged. Hand-holding, cheek kisses, eye contact. No groping, but believable warmth.”
“Believable warmth,” I repeated, deadpan. “Sounds so romantic.”
“Number four: You are not obligated to form a real relationship,” Matt continued. “But if one develops, it is not prohibited. We simply advise discretion.”
My eyebrow shot up. “So sleeping together isn’t banned, just… optional.”
“Correct,” Matt said without missing a beat.
Talia groaned over the phone. “Don’t sleep with him.”
“Noted,” I said, too fast.
And then regretted it.
Kieren just tilted his head at me, gaze unreadable. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Jerk.
“And finally,” Matt said, adjusting his cufflinks like this was any other Tuesday, “the contract expires at the end of the season unless mutually extended.”
I leaned back. “And break-up clauses?”
Matt looked almost pleased by the question. “Keep it dramatic. Fans love a tragedy. Bonus points for cryptic Instagram captions.”
Talia sighed. “Welcome to dating in the age of branding.”
And just like that, I was fake dating Kieren Walker.
With terms.
And maybe the worst part?
It didn’t sound nearly as fake as I wanted it to.
“This is ridiculous,” Kieren muttered, all broody and barefoot at the edge of his pristine, overpriced kitchen.
I didn’t even bother responding. The contract was spread out on the table in front of me—black and white proof of just how far off the rails my week had gone. I flipped through it like it was a brunch menu, ignoring the way Kieren hovered like he wanted to snatch it back.
“You punched someone for me,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “We’re already halfway to an engagement.”
His jaw twitched.
I reached the signature page, uncapped the pen, and signed.
Just like that.
Kieren blinked. “You’re not even going to pretend to hesitate?”
“Nope.” I clicked the pen shut with a satisfying snap and slid the papers toward his agent. “I like chaos. And I really like proving you wrong.”
I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the weight of his stare. Like he was trying to figure me out again. Like he hadn’t already decided what box to shove me into.
Matt—Harvard-law calm as ever—collected the contract and began typing on his laptop like we hadn’t just signed our lives over to a PR stunt. “Congratulations. You’re now in a mutually beneficial public-facing arrangement. I’ll send digital copies to your reps.”
“Fantastic,” I said, standing up and brushing imaginary lint off my blazer. “Do I get a commemorative t-shirt?”
Kieren’s voice was dry. “Limited edition. I Survived Kieren Walker’s PR Strategy, and All I Got Was This Contractual Relationship.”
I glanced at him. “Wow. You’re funnier when you’re annoyed.”
He crossed his arms. “You said yes too fast.”
I arched a brow. “Afraid I’m taking this too lightly?”
“No. Afraid you’re not taking me seriously.”
That stopped me. Just for a second.
Then I smiled—tight-lipped and unreadable. “Relax, Walker. I take everything seriously. Especially revenge.”
Matt packed up his laptop like he couldn’t get out of the condo fast enough. “I’ll email the finalized version tonight,” he said, sliding the contract into his briefcase. Talia was still on speakerphone, sounding far too amused for someone making hourly legal fees.
“This is going to be so fun to watch,” she chirped before disconnecting.
And then it was just me and Kieren.
The air shifted the second the door clicked shut.
Quieter, heavier, like the walls had been waiting for this moment.
He moved first—of course he did—padding into the kitchen barefoot and pulling two glasses from a cabinet.
He didn’t ask if I wanted one. He just poured, slow and steady, the amber liquid catching the low light.
Bourbon. Strong. No ice.
He slid a glass across the counter to me. “So what now?”
I took it, wrapping my fingers around the cool glass. “Now we… what? Smile for the cameras?”
He smirked without humor. “Now we lie to the world.”
The way he said it—flat, resigned—made something in my chest tighten. This wasn’t his first time playing a part. Probably wasn’t even his tenth.
Silence stretched between us. Long enough for the bourbon’s smell to rise up and fill my head, warm and sharp. Long enough for me to realize we were standing closer than we should, with no one watching.
“You think I’m doing this to make you feel better?” I asked finally.
He tilted his head, eyes dark. “I think you like being a martyr.”
My laugh came out softer than I meant it to. “And you like being a grumpy coward.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “That’s new.”
“It’s true.”
He didn’t argue. Just sipped his drink and watched me over the rim of the glass. The weight of his gaze was annoying. Distracting. A little too warm.
It wasn’t flirting. Not exactly.
But it definitely wasn’t not flirting.
I lifted my glass and took a slow sip, keeping my eyes on his. Bourbon burned down my throat and settled like a dare in my stomach.
“You’re going to hate being fake in love with me,” I said finally.
He leaned against the counter, casual, cocky, everything he always was. “You’re going to hate how good I am at it.”
My glass paused halfway to my lips. I swallowed hard—at the bourbon, at the words, at the way his voice wrapped around them like a promise and a threat all at once.
I set the glass down carefully and smirked. “We’ll see.”
But inside, I already knew this was going to be a mess I couldn’t drink my way out of.
I stood, bourbon still warm in my chest, contract signed and sitting like a loaded weapon on the kitchen counter.
Kieren hadn’t said much since. Typical. He brooded like it was a full-time job with benefits.
I slipped my phone into my bag, adjusted the strap, and walked toward the door—heels echoing against polished floors that probably cost more than my entire apartment. His place was cold and sleek, like the inside of his head. Efficient. Uncluttered. No trace of a life beyond soccer.
I paused in the doorway. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve kept walking, let the silence hang, made a clean exit. But something made me glance back. Just once.
He was leaning against the island, arms crossed, gaze steady. Like he was trying to read something in me he didn’t have the right to read.
I met his eyes anyway. “I’m not your redemption arc, Walker. I’m just the girl who signed the deal.”
His expression didn’t change.
Didn’t soften.
Didn’t break.
He just watched me.
And maybe that was worse—because that look said everything he didn’t. It said I was already more dangerous than I had any right to be. That he didn’t know how to handle me. That he didn’t expect this to go the way it already was.
I turned and walked out before I could say anything else. Before I could ask what he thought he was signing up for. Before I could admit that for a fake relationship, this already felt a little too real in all the wrong places.
The hallway was quiet, the elevator colder than I remembered.
I pressed the button and stared at my reflection in the polished doors. Same face. Same lipstick. Same sharp jaw and sharper tongue.
But something was different.
Something had shifted.
And I didn’t know what.
The worst part?
I hadn’t lied.
I really didn’t hesitate.
And I had no idea why.