9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
~JESSICA~
The atelier smells like fresh fabric, new beginnings, and the faint, traitorous memory of Dominic.
Bolts of fabric tower around me: silks, satins, lace bundles tied in neat PR-company bows.
A month ago, I was hand-washing thrifted fabric in my bathtub. Today, brands are shipping me thousands of dollars’ worth of materials all because I’m “dating” Dominic Moreal. Even thinking his name feels like an electric current running through me.
I tear open another box, letting the fabric spill out in a shimmering cascade. My hands shake from excitement, but they’re also shaking for another reason entirely. Every time my brain goes quiet, even for half a second, I’m back in his kitchen last night.
With his hot tongue on the corner of my lips.
I drop the fabric I’m holding because the memory hits so hard my knees wobble.
“Get a grip,” I mutter.
He didn’t even look at me during dinner afterward. He just sat there, calm as a glacier, like he hadn’t turned me into a puddle of hormones. He acted like it never happened. Meanwhile, I barely tasted my food.
How can a man kiss a woman without kissing her, pin her without pinning her, ruin her without touching her…
I take a sip of my second coffee. I didn’t sleep last night. Not a single restful second. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again—that hot swipe of his tongue at the corner of my mouth.
I can still feel it ghosting there. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still feel the pressure of his body, the dark heat of his breath against my cheek.
I press my fingertips to my lips. No matter how hard he pretends he hates me, Captain Stone-Cold lost control because of me. Giddiness bubbles up my throat until I’m smiling like an idiot at a pile of fabric.
My phone buzzes, jolting me.
Melody: WAGs are going out tonight. Tell me you’re coming!
By the time I turn onto Dom’s long driveway, my Corolla sounds like it’s having an asthma attack.
The mansions around me look like they’d tow me on sight.
Dom’s driveway is already clogged with his terrifying lineup of machines: a Bugatti, a Maserati, a matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon.
No, I’m not about to wedge my Corolla between them.
So I park up the road, far enough that I don’t ruin the lineup in front of his house. Far enough that I can calm down before I face him again.
I’m embarrassingly excited to see him. I didn’t get to at breakfast—he’d already left for practice by the time I woke up—but he left breakfast, the keys to his house, and a note that said, Eat .
From where I’m parked high up the street, I get a view of Dom’s front door. All the air in my chest is replaced with crushing boulders the moment my eyes focus.
A woman steps out: long glossy hair, a tight white dress, and matching heels. She turns back toward the doorway, and my stomach drops.
Dom has one arm casually braced on the doorframe as if this is how most of his days go. The woman laughs at something he says, leans in, and kisses his cheek goodbye.
I grip the steering wheel, nails digging into the leather.
She gives him a knowing smile—the kind that lingers—before crossing the driveway. A click of her keyfob, and her S-Class blinks to life.
The realization hits sharp and sudden, slicing through my chest.
Dom had sex with her. While I was at my atelier replaying his tongue on my lips like some lovesick idiot. And he was sleeping with someone else.
My throat closes and hot tears burn behind my eyes. This is what it’s going to be like living with him. This is the reality: women—beautiful, perfect women—leaving his house while I… what? Cry in my Corolla?
That’s what I get for inviting myself to live here. I can’t tell him what to do in his own house. He’s not really my boyfriend. He’s not my anything.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I wipe it quickly, furious at myself.
God, I’m ridiculous.
I take a deep breath, then another, and wait until her car disappears. My vision blurs as more tears spill. For one stupid, brief moment I thought he was softening.
I wipe my face and start the car again. My chest is too tight, and the idea of walking into his house after watching another woman leave it smiling? I physically can’t.
I throw the car into reverse, get one last glimpse of his front door, and blink through the blur as I speed away.
The farther I get, the harder the tears fall. Ugly, hot, humiliating tears. I hate myself for caring. Hate that my stupid heart reacted like he’d cheated when he owes me nothing. We’re a business arrangement.
And he’s a hot, six-foot-seven Stanley Cup champion. What did I think would happen? That he’d hold himself to celibacy because his fake girlfriend demanded it?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, tears slipping down my cheeks despite how hard I try to choke them back.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into my old apartment complex. It’s still mine until the end of the month—half-empty, box-filled—and park crooked because my hands are shaking too much to care. I sit there for a long moment. The sobs have softened into something bitter.
If he wants to act like nothing happened in his kitchen, fine. So can I.
I still have most of my clothes here. If Dominic thinks he’s the only one who gets to behave like rules don’t apply, he’s about to learn otherwise.
I unlock my phone and reply to Melody.
Me: I’d love to come !
I yank open my closet, hunting for a dress. My eyes land on something I made but never got to wear: the shortest, tightest thing I’ve ever sewn. Deep emerald silk, thin straps, a neckline that goes to my sternum.
I pull it out and drape it over the bed just as my phone buzzes.
Melody: Yay! I’ll grab a cab and pick you up at 10!
The bass vibrates deep in my chest. Lights strobe across the dark room, slicing through perfume, sweat, and fog-machine vapor. On our way back from the washrooms, Melody tugs my hand through the packed crowd, her energy infectious and loud.
The moment we slip into the private section, someone whistles.
“I’ll never get over that dress,” Clarissa, Matt’s girlfriend, yells over the music with a smile.
I smile back and pick up my drink .
I only met these women thirty minutes ago and I already feel like part of the family. They’re sweet and have made me feel like I belong.
“Another shot?” Melody slings an arm around me.
“Absolutely.” I smile because the alternative is letting the pain swallow me whole.
The music builds and we move together, a ring of women dancing under the club lights. For a moment, I almost forget.
Then my phone buzzes with the same pattern I’ve felt all. damn. night.
I look down at the incoming call from Dominic. My stomach knots again. This isn’t the first call. Or the third. Or the fifth. He’s been calling all evening.
I wait for the line to go dead. The screen lights up with missed calls and unread texts. I scroll through notifications while the girls dance.
7:21PM Dom: Jessica.
8:53PM Dom: Where are you?
9:34PM Dom: Pick up.
10:22PM Dom: Jessica, pick up the damn phone.
10:36PM Dom: If you’re doing this on purpose, fucking stop.
My heart kicks painfully as I keep scrolling.
10:45PM Dom: Where the fuck are you.
And the last one, seconds ago:
11:19PM Dom: Pick. Up.
I swallow hard. Hurt and rage coil inside me. He had a woman leaving his house this morning, but now he wants to know where I am? No. I lock my phone and drop it into my clutch on the table.
I lift my chin, straighten my shoulders, and smile toward Melody and the girls.
“So, shots?” I say, even though my heart is breaking in slow motion.
Melody cheers and pulls me to the bar.
I force myself to dance, to move, to laugh.
The music pounds, shaking the ache loose, turning it into something sharper.
I let men stare. Let the alcohol loosen the fist around my lungs.
I refuse to let Dominic own my mood. He can call, he can text, he can rage—let him go insane and see if he feels half of what I felt today.
Time slips weirdly when you’re drunk. The club is hotter and blurrier. My drink is empty in my hand, my legs pleasantly numb as the girls scream-sing a song I only half know.
A man’s been watching me all night. His gaze drifts down my bare legs, over the edge of my hemline, and lingers a little too long.
I feel it.
I just don’t care.
Let him look.
I’m half-laughing at something Clarissa said when Melody turns to me, her face flushed from dancing, but concern has crept in.
“Hey… Jess.” Her voice fights through the music. “Does Dom know you’re with us? ”
My heart trips at the tone. A tone someone uses when they already know the answer. I swallow and force the most effortless shrug I can manage.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I told him earlier. He probably forgot.”
Melody stares at me, then turns her phone around. My eyes try to focus; when they do, I see a wall of texts from her brother.
Dom: Are you with Jessica?
Dom: Melody answer me.
Dom: Jace said you're at the club.
Dom: Melody pick up your phone.
Dom: Is Jessica with you?
He’s been asking, demanding answers.
Melody locks her phone and looks at me. “I didn’t hear my notifications,” she shouts over the music. “I saw those texts when I went to the bathroom.”
I try to come up with an excuse. “He probably just… forgot. I told him I’m going out.” My voice cracks. “I’ll text him to let him know we’re okay. ”
Melody doesn’t believe me. She’s seconds away from probing deeper when someone screams our names. A new round of shots appears like magic and the girls pull Melody and me back into the circle.
My head feels warm, chest heavy, music pounding under my skull like a second heartbeat. I lean on the bar, trying not to think about Dom’s texts, the woman from this morning, or the way my chest still hurts.