Wyatt #2
I didn't like that. Didn't like how her trust felt heavier than her fear would have. Didn't like that some part of me—small, buried, suffocated under years of calculated cruelty—wanted to be worth that trust.
I kept my face flat. Unreadable. Gave nothing away.
Our fingers brushed.
She looked up at me.
Those dark-shadowed eyes. Still tired. Still wary. But something else flickered there now. Something I couldn't name. Didn't want to.
The barista called out the order. I moved to grab the cups.
"Wonder if I can get a turn after she gets tired of fucking an old man."
My entire body went cold. The kind that settled in my chest before I made someone regret opening their mouth. The kind that preceded broken noses and penalty boxes and PR nightmares I didn't bother apologizing for.
I turned my head slowly. Located the source. Mid-twenties. Expensive jacket. Phone in hand like he'd been filming us. Smug expression that said he thought he was clever. Thought he was funny.
For a split second—just a flicker—the darkness I kept buried rose up like smoke. The part of me that had survived locker rooms and betrayals and burning buildings. The part that didn't forgive. Didn't forget. Didn't let disrespect slide.
I stepped slightly in front of her. Not thinking. Not planning. Blocking her. Shielding her from the angle. From his gaze. From whatever filth he was about to add to whatever clip he'd already captured.
My voice dropped. Low. Controlled. The kind of quiet that made grown men in full gear take a step back on the ice. "Say that again."
The man's face drained of color. His phone hand dropped to his side. Eyes widened. Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "N-nothing, man. Just—"
"Just what?"
He stammered. Backpedaled. Literal steps backward like I'd physically shoved him. "Nothing. Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You did."
My jaw ticked once. Muscle jumping beneath the skin. I didn't move closer. Didn't need to. The air between us had already shifted. Everyone in the immediate vicinity had gone quiet. Phones lowered. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
They were watching.
Good.
Let them.
Let them see exactly what happened when someone crossed a line with her.
With my—
No.
Not mine.
Harrington's daughter.
The arrangement.
The leverage.
Nothing more.
But my body hadn't gotten the memo. My shoulders had widened. My stance had shifted. Protective. Possessive. Territorial in a way that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with instinct I didn't want to examine.
A hand touched my arm. Light. Delicate. Barely there. "Wyatt." Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "Let's go."
I didn't look at her. Kept my eyes locked on the man who was now backing toward the door like I'd pulled a weapon.
"Wyatt. Please."
Her fingers pressed slightly firmer against my forearm. Grounding. Anchoring me to something that wasn't rage.
I exhaled slowly through my nose. Forced my shoulders to relax. Let the ice recede back into the dark where it lived most days.
The man scrambled out the door.
I turned back to the counter. Grabbed both cups. Handed hers over without meeting her eyes.
She took it carefully. Studying my face like I was a puzzle she couldn't solve. "You didn't have to do that."
I kept my voice flat. Neutral. Exactly as controlled as it should have been from the beginning. "Part of the act."
Boyfriends defended their girlfriends. Protective displays sold authenticity. The cameras outside had probably caught the whole thing. Perfect optics. Exactly what we needed.
But her expression didn't shift. Didn't buy it. Those dark-shadowed eyes searched mine for something I refused to let her find. "Was it?"
Two words. Quiet. Careful. Like she already knew the answer and was giving me a chance to tell the truth.
I didn't take it. "Yes."
I gestured toward the door with my coffee cup. "Let's go."
She hesitated. Just a beat. Then followed.
But as we stepped back into the cold morning air, cameras flashing, voices shouting, I slipped my other arm around her waist. Casual. Practiced. Like I'd done it a thousand times before.
The cameras erupted. Flashes strobed across her face, catching the surprise in her expression before she could hide it.
She looked up at me. Eyes wide. Unguarded.
Like she'd forgotten where we were. Forgotten what this was.
Forgotten that she was supposed to hate me.
Her expression softened. Something open and unprotected flickering across her features before she caught herself.
But it was too late.
The cameras had already captured it.
That single, unguarded moment would trend within the hour. I could already see the headline forming: Wyatt Cole Caught Looking at Harrington's Daughter Like THIS.
They'd spin it. Romanticize it. Turn it into proof that this was real. That we were real.
They'd be wrong.
I wasn't looking at her with affection. Wasn't feeling anything remotely resembling tenderness or warmth or whatever emotion they'd project onto that frozen frame.
I was looking at her the way a man looked at a complication he didn't plan for. A variable that refused to stay predictable. A problem wrapped in cream cashmere and dark-shadowed eyes.
We walked back to the car in silence. She stayed close—not because I'd told her to, but because the crowd made her nervous. The phones. The voices. The attention she'd never asked for.
I adjusted my pace without thinking. Slowed half a step to match her shorter stride. A small thing. Instinct. I hated it immediately.
She's not mine to protect. She's a piece in a strategy. A tool. A consequence. Nothing more.
But when her fingers brushed against mine—tentative, searching—my hand closed around hers before my brain could intervene. Not hard. Not staged. Natural. Too natural.
She glanced up at me, surprised by the contact.
I looked away. Jaw tight. Focused on the car ahead like it required my full attention.
We reached the passenger side. I opened her door. She slipped inside without a word, and I shut it carefully behind her before rounding the hood.
Once we were both inside, the privacy of the car settled around us like a shield. The engine purred to life beneath my hands.
She exhaled. Shaky. Defeated. "That was awful."
I shifted into drive, eyes on the road ahead. "It'll get worse."
She turned toward the window, shoulders curling inward. Small. Tired. Like she'd used up whatever reserves she'd pulled from this morning and had nothing left.
I should have felt satisfied. This was working.
The photos would circulate. The narrative would solidify.
Her father would see them and know exactly what I was doing—claiming his daughter in the public eye while he stood helpless to stop it.
Perfect execution. Strategic dominance. Everything going exactly according to plan.
But instead, something tugged. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
Annoyance? No.
Sympathy? Absolutely not.
Recognition.
That was what it was.
She wasn't built for this world. Not like her father with his polished lies and strategic handshakes. Not like my ex-wife with her calculated cruelty and perfect public face. Not like me with years of armor and scar tissue.
And yet she'd stood there, anyway. Held her ground. Held my arm. Made it look believable. Made it look like she was mine.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Knuckles going white against the leather.
She's already going to be a problem.
Not for the plan.
For me.