Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Ophelia
The driveway comes into view, familiar yet somehow different, like an old friend whose edges have changed just enough to make you pause. This place has always been Haydn’s, but today . . . today, it’s supposed to become ours. No more casual overnight bags tossed over my shoulder, no more borrowing his toothbrush and swapping out the head because I forgot mine. He actually bought me my own fancy electric toothbrush—purple, because he remembered it’s one of my favorite colors.
Today, my entire life is packed into boxes, crammed haphazardly into the back seat as we pull into the driveway. The rest of my belongings are with the movers, following us to this massive, stunning house that overlooks the lake. Soon, everything I own will be here, waiting to be unpacked and scattered across a space that’s no longer just his.
This house . . . it’s now ours.
Ours.
Mine and his.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
Haydn parks the car and cuts the engine, and in the sudden stillness, a tiny spark of panic ignites. It flares brighter with every passing second. I’m leaving behind my cramped little apartment in downtown Portland—the one-bedroom I could barely afford, where the floors creak and the only view is of cracked concrete and rusting fire escapes. Now, I’m about to walk into this sprawling mansion in Lake Oswego with my famous boyfriend, where every window offers a view so picturesque it looks like a scene from a movie.
It feels surreal. Unreal. Almost . . . too real.
The thing is, he’s not just Haydn, an ordinary guy. He’s Haydn Wesford, star goalie for the Orcas—the team Portland practically worships.
In a city that lives and breathes the Orcas, he’s more than just a man—he’s a legend. People stop him on the street for autographs, kids look at him like he’s a superhero, and half the city wears his jersey on game nights.
Confession time: I do too.
Dating Haydn is like dating royalty. Hockey royalty.
And now, here I am, about to slide into his life, his space, as though I belong in this world of vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, game tickets and VIP lounges, cameras flashing every time we step outside. Usually, I’m the person behind the camera—the one capturing the story, not the one in it.
I’m the one who frames the shot, edits the moments, and remains unseen.
Now, the lens feels reversed, and I’m the one who might be captured. It’s unnerving. Thrilling, maybe. Definitely terrifying.
It’s overwhelming, stepping into a life that feels so much bigger than anything I ever imagined for myself. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in it—the sprawling house, the carefully manicured lawns, the views of the lake, the quiet prestige that clings to every corner of Haydn’s world. People probably assume I’d be used to this, that Keane Stone and I lived a life of luxury and privilege too. They’d picture private jets, exotic vacations, the kind of romance that belongs on magazine covers.
But with Keane, it was nothing like this.
Yes, there was luxury—beautiful apartments, weekend getaways, dinners at restaurants I’d never be able to afford on my own. But everything was hidden, kept behind closed doors. He was strange in ways that nobody could understand. He hated the spotlight and avoided it whenever he could.
Even when we were about to get married, I was always behind the scenes. Tucked away, barely a whisper in his life. No one knew he even had a girlfriend, let alone a fiancée. And when we were together, it felt like I was hidden, like I existed in a secret world that only he could see.
His mother . . . well, she never approved of me. To her, I was nothing more than a gold digger, someone who’d latched onto her son for his family’s wealth and status. She’d look at me with this cold, scrutinizing gaze that made me feel small, unworthy. No matter what I did, no matter how much I loved him, I could feel her judgment hanging over me, like I was constantly being measured and found lacking.
And maybe that’s why there’s this little voice in my head now, whispering that I don’t belong here either—that I’m still just a visitor in someone else’s world. Haydn’s world is open, dazzling, filled with light, and I’m . . . I’m the girl from a small town who still can’t believe she’s standing here, the one who hasn’t broken through, who hasn’t quite made it.
A girl with big dreams and a lifetime of bad luck.
Someone who doesn’t know the first thing about being with someone like him—someone loved by an entire city, someone whose life seems touched by every kind of success.
I look at Haydn, at the easy way he moves through this world, like it’s as natural to him as breathing, and I wonder how I’m supposed to fit into this picture. How can I stand beside him, this man who’s adored by strangers, who’s built a life on a foundation of fame and admiration, and not feel like an outsider?
I want to tell myself it’s different with him, that Haydn has never made me feel like I have to prove myself or hide. But that voice—the one that keeps reminding me of all the ways I don’t measure up—is hard to ignore. It’s the same voice that whispered in my ear when Keane’s mother looked at me with disdain, the same voice that told me I was never quite enough, that I’d always be a stranger in someone else’s life.
I swallow, trying to push down the doubt, to silence that voice. But it lingers, a quiet ache, a reminder that maybe I’ll always be standing just on the edge of his world, wondering if I’m brave enough to step fully inside.
Haydn glances back at me, noticing my silence, and reaches over, his hand wrapping around mine with that quiet, calming warmth that’s so him. Just the feel of his fingers laced through mine is enough to steady me, to remind me to breathe.
“Hey,” he says softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze, his touch reassuring in a way that always makes me feel like I can face anything.
“It’s just a house,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if he can see every worry flickering through my mind. “Just walls and windows. It’s me wanting to share my world with you the same way you share yours with me.”
I hesitate, my gaze slipping from his, because we both know it’s not just a house. “But you didn’t want to move into my apartment with me,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light, though I know he can hear the hesitation underneath.
He chuckles, brushing his thumb over my knuckles in a slow, soothing rhythm. “Well, we can’t exactly fit a seventy-five-hundred-square-foot home into that tiny but undeniably charming place of yours,” he teases, his eyes warm and playful, easing some of the tension knotted inside me.
I try to smile, to let his words sink in and calm the nervous flutter in my chest. But it’s not that simple, and we both know it. This isn’t just about walls and windows—it’s about stepping into a whole new life. A life with him, with everything he brings along. Hockey. Fame. The constant spotlight that follows him everywhere, the world that seems to revolve around him.
And then there’s me. Every little piece of baggage I carry—not the boxes in the back seat, but the things I’ve brought with me that no one can see. My past, my scars, my invisible struggles. I try not to let them define me. I’m a survivor, a fighter, even if my battles are hidden from the outside world.
Living with a chronic illness that no one can see—one that drains my strength without warning, that makes me question my own body—is something I carry quietly. It’s a part of me that I’ve learned to live with, even if it never completely fades.
And yet here I am, stepping into Haydn’s world, a world I’m familiar with but never thought I’d see myself in again.
Haydn isn’t just any man. He’s a public figure, someone this city practically worships. People look up to him, celebrate him, even idolize him. He’s larger than life in a way that feels almost surreal, like a character from a story. And somehow, I’ve been drawn into his orbit, pulled into this glamorous world that feels both thrilling and completely foreign.
I glance up at him, at the easy confidence in his smile, the way he holds my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if letting go has never even crossed his mind. And I realize, with a pang of something close to fear, that he belongs here in a way I never could.
But me? I’m just . . . me. A girl with big dreams and quiet struggles, someone who’s used to staying in the background, surviving in small spaces, fighting battles that no one else can see. And now I’m standing on the edge of his life, wondering if there’s a place for me here, if I’ll ever truly belong in a world that feels so much bigger than I am.
It’s a strange feeling, loving someone who shines so brightly, while wondering if my own invisible burdens will hold me back, if there’s room in his life for someone like me—someone who’s spent so long just trying to stay grounded, just trying to make it through each day. But then he looks at me, his hand warm and firm in mine, and I feel a glimmer of hope that perhaps there’s a place for us both.
I try to silence the voice in my head that insists I’m out of my depth. That I’m just a visitor in his world, a girl with small dreams and a messy past, standing on the edge of something too big for me.
“Ophelia,” he says, his voice quiet, as if he knows exactly what I’m feeling. “It’s just you and me, okay? The house, the fame, all of it—it doesn’t matter. None of this means anything if you’re not part of it.”
His words settle into me, soothing the restless uncertainty that’s been clawing at my chest since we arrived. Maybe it’s okay that this feels overwhelming. Maybe that’s the point—that stepping into something new, something this big, with someone who makes your heart race and your fears fade all at once, is supposed to feel like this. Terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
I take a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around his, letting him ground me. “Okay,” I whisper, the word soft, like I’m testing it out, letting it find its place between us.
He turns to me, his gaze searching, studying my face as if he’s trying to see past the walls I sometimes forget I have. The softness in his eyes makes something ache deep inside me, but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of ache that reminds me I’m alive, that I’m here, that he’s here.
“Okay what, baby?” he asks, his voice low and insistent, laced with that gentle firmness that’s so uniquely him. “I need to know we’re on the same page. This isn’t about comfort or convenience. I didn’t bring you here because it’s easy. I brought you here because I want to build a life with you. A real one.”
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and deliberate, and my breath hitches as he leans in closer. “I’m talking pancakes with the kids on Sunday mornings, flour everywhere because you let them help. I’m talking about late evenings on the deck, watching the stars, maybe sharing a bottle of wine—or two—because we got lost in the conversation. Dancing in the kitchen because a song we love came on. Christmas mornings with stockings and messy wrapping paper everywhere, laughter resonating through the house.” He pauses, his gaze locking on mine, the intensity in his eyes sending a shiver down my spine. “That’s the life I want, Pia. With you. So tell me . . . what do you want?”
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears, but I don’t look away. His words are still lingering in the space between us, heavy with promise, and I can feel it—this pull, this electric charge that makes the air between us almost hum.
“I want you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words are clear, resolute. “Just you and me. Us. That’s all I need in life with everything messy and a family.”
His expression shifts, something raw and unguarded flashing across his face for a moment before his lips curve into the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for me. The kind of smile that makes me believe every word he just said, every promise he’s ever made.
Without a word, he leans in, pressing his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the space between us. His hands, still holding mine, squeeze gently, like he’s trying to tether me to him, to this moment.
“You and me,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He just looks at me, his gaze steady and intense, as if he’s committing my words to memory, letting them sink deep into the parts of himself he rarely shows. Then, slowly, a radiant smile spreads across his face, warm and genuine, and right now, it feels like the rest of the world simply fades away.
It’s just the two of us, standing on the edge of something vast and unknown, something equal parts terrifying and beautiful. And somehow, despite all my fears, he already feels like home.
Haydn’s expression softens. His hand reaches up, fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
“Ophelia. My Pia,” he murmurs, his voice low and tender. “I need you to always remember that you’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re everything. You’re the only one who sees me beyond all the noise, beyond the image everyone wants to see. The only one who makes me feel . . . real. Normal. Like I’m not some hero on a pedestal, just a man who loves you.”
His words seep into me, reaching places I didn’t even know were starved for reassurance, for belonging. Something inside me unravels, and I blink back the sting of tears, trying to keep my voice steady.
“But what if it’s too much?” I whisper, barely able to look at him. “What if . . .what if I can’t handle this? The house, the fame, the . . . pressure of it all? What if you can’t handle my bad days? The days when my illness takes over, when I can barely move, let alone keep up with your world?” I swallow, the words tumbling out, raw and vulnerable. “What if I become a burden, Haydn?”
He doesn’t hesitate for a second. His hand moves to cup my face, his thumb brushing softly across my cheek. “You’ll never be a burden, but when things are too much to handle . . . well, then we’ll take it one day at a time,” he says, his voice so full of conviction that it melts a part of my fear. “We don’t have to figure everything out today. I want all of it—the good days, the bad days, the hard days. Whatever you bring, whatever you need, I’m in. You’re my partner.”
He pauses, his eyes searching my face as if he’s trying to reach the parts of me that still hold back, the parts I keep hidden, too afraid to let anyone see—even him. “You take care of me, too, you know,” he says softly. “You’re there when I feel like the world’s closing in, when the pressure builds up and I can’t shake the memories of that concussion—the fear that one wrong hit could end everything. You see me when I’m overwhelmed, when I’m lying awake the night before a big game, unable to quiet my mind. You’re the one who brings me back, who reminds me that I don’t have to be ‘Haydn Wesford, hockey star’ every second of the day. With you, I get to just be . . . me.”
I draw in a shaky breath, his words sinking deeper than he might realize. The truth is, I’ve spent so long feeling like my illness is something I have to manage alone, like it’s this quiet, invisible battle I have to fight in silence. But here he is, standing by my side, asking to share in it, to shoulder some of the burden I’ve always carried on my own.
His gaze holds mine, deep and certain, filled with a tenderness that makes my heart ache. “You and me, we’re a team, Pia,” he says softly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my cheek. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m right here, always. And when the days are hard, when you feel like you can’t keep going, I’ll be here to remind you that you don’t have to do it by yourself. That I’ll carry you if I have to because I love you.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and he catches it with his thumb, his touch so gentle it almost breaks me. And in that moment, I feel something shift, a quiet acceptance settling in—a feeling that maybe I don’t have to be strong all the time. That maybe I can lean on him, let him see the parts of me I usually keep hidden. Because he’s here, willing to carry it all with me.
“I love you,” I whisper. He glances over, and a soft, radiant smile spreads across his face, so full of warmth that it feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“You’re my life now, Ophelia,” he murmurs, his voice low but unwavering. He reaches over, his thumb gently brushing along my cheek, and his touch makes my heart skip. “This house, this life . . . none of it means anything if you’re not in it with me.”
I close my eyes, breathing him in, letting his words steady the rhythm of my own heart. Maybe I don’t need all the answers right now. When I open my eyes and meet his gaze, I feel an irresistible pull. His hand lingers on my cheek, warm and reassuring, and before I can second-guess myself, I close the distance between us.
Our lips meet, soft and tentative at first, but then he deepens the kiss, pouring so much emotion into it that it feels like a promise—a silent vow that he’s here, and he’s all in.
And yet, there’s still that nagging fear twisting inside me . . . that if I let myself fall completely, everything will vanish like a dream.