Chastity
I woke with a single, furious truth clawing at my chest. I'd liked him last night.
Not much. Not fully. Not in any way that mattered or meant something dangerous.
But enough. Enough that the realization landed like betrayal—of myself, of my judgment, of every rational instinct that should've kept me armored against whatever game he was playing.
I wasn't terrified anymore. That was the problem.
The progression felt inevitable in hindsight—fear dulling into wary tolerance, tolerance softening into something approaching comfort.
I'd laughed at his observations. Actually laughed, genuine amusement spilling out before I could stop it.
Let him drape his jacket over my shoulders without flinching.
Let myself lean into his solid warmth when the paparazzi surged forward with their invasive questions and relentless cameras.
Unacceptable.
All of it.
I stared at the ceiling, morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains in this guest room that felt less temporary with each passing day.
My chest felt tight with the kind of anger that came from disappointment in oneself.
I'd promised I wouldn't get comfortable.
Wouldn't let his calculated touches and surprising moments of protection blur the fundamental truth of this arrangement.
He was the villain. The architect of this humiliation. The man using me as leverage against my father in some old grudge I still didn't fully understand.
Today, I was fixing it. Recalibrating. Rebuilding the walls that had started crumbling somewhere between his jacket around my shoulders and his arm around my waist and that rough honesty when he'd said he didn't like seeing me cold.
I dressed with intention. Leggings. Oversized sweater that swallowed my frame. Hair yanked into a high ponytail tight enough to give me a headache. The uniform of someone determinedly neutral. Unfuckable. Completely, aggressively unavailable for whatever unspoken shift had been building between us.
The mirror reflected exactly what I wanted: a woman prepared for battle, not romance.
I walked downstairs rehearsing frost. Distance. The kind of polite coldness that would reset boundaries without explanation.
Then I saw him.
Joggers riding low on his hips. Fitted long-sleeve shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the architecture of muscle underneath.
Hair still damp from a shower, pushed back carelessly.
He stood at the kitchen counter scrolling through his phone, coffee steaming beside him, looking unfairly comfortable in his own skin.
My brain short-circuited. Just—stopped processing rational thought for one traitorous moment.
No. Why is it always the damned sweatpants?
I blinked hard. Forced my attention to the coffee maker instead of the way that shirt stretched across his shoulders. Focus. Ice. Distance. All the things I'd promised myself upstairs.
"Morning." The word came out clipped. Sharp enough to cut.
He glanced up. Those dark eyes swept over me once—comprehensive assessment in a single look—before his mouth curved slightly. "You look like you're going to war."
The observation landed too accurately. I glared, irritation sparking hot because of course he'd see through the armor I'd barely finished constructing. Not a great start to rebuilding my defenses.
He lifted his coffee mug with maddening leisure, took a slow sip, then watched me over the rim with something dangerously close to amusement dancing in his eyes. Like my entire existence entertained him. Like I was performing some comedy routine specifically for his benefit.
"You're avoiding looking at me."
I forced my gaze to meet his. Held it. "I'm not."
"You are."
The certainty in his voice grated. I hated being so readable, hated that he could track my thoughts and defenses like some predator cataloging prey patterns. My fingers found the hem of my oversized sweater, twisted the fabric.
"Look, last night was… intense. And—"
"You mean when you almost climbed into my lap because a camera clicked?"
Heat detonated across my face. Nuclear. Mortifying. "I did not—!"
"Relax." He set the mug down, that infuriating calm never wavering. "It was instinct."
Instinct.
The word slammed into me like a truck, carrying implications I absolutely didn't want to examine. Instinct meant unconscious. Meant my body reacting before my brain could intervene. Meant some part of me had started recognizing him as safe when he was anything but.
I crossed my arms, armor reconstructing frantically. "Well, that can't happen again."
Wyatt set down his mug completely. The casual amusement evaporated from his expression, replaced by something harder. More serious. The shift made my pulse jump.
"It has to happen again."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"We have something planned Thursday." He leaned back against the counter, all controlled power and unfair certainty. "Cameras on us the entire time. Investors watching. Your father's business partners evaluating whether this relationship is real enough to stabilize the merger."
Each word landed like stones, building weight in my chest.
"If you flinch every time I touch you," he continued, voice dropping lower, "or spend the entire night maintaining three feet of distance like you're radioactive, everyone will know this is bullshit."
I swallowed hard. "I can act natural."
His eyebrow lifted. "Can you?"
The challenge hung there, sharp and pointed. Because we both knew the answer. Last night I'd been natural without trying—leaning into him, laughing at his observations, letting his proximity feel normal instead of threatening.
Today I could barely look at him without my defenses screaming warnings.
"What do we have?" The question came out shakier than I wanted.
Wyatt straightened, all controlled energy shifting into something purposeful. "We have a charity skate tomorrow."
I blinked. "A what?"
"Kids' fundraiser. Media. Fans." His tone stayed maddeningly neutral, like he was discussing weather instead of my next public humiliation. "We'll be photographed together the entire time."
He stepped closer. Not touching—yet. But the distance evaporated enough that I felt the shift, that pull of proximity that shouldn't have registered but absolutely did. My fingers tightened on the sweater hem.
"If we look stiff when I put my arm around you—" Another inch disappeared between us.
My pulse kicked. "—or if you flinch when I touch your waist—" He stopped.
Close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that his presence filled my peripheral vision completely. "—everyone will know this is fake."
The words settled over me like verdict and challenge combined. My throat went dry. I wanted to step back, reclaim the safe distance I'd promised myself upstairs. But moving felt like admitting defeat, like proving his exact point about my inability to handle proximity without betraying discomfort.
So I stayed frozen. Caught between retreat and standing ground.
"Then…" I swallowed. "What do you expect me to do?"
His mouth curved. Slow. Deliberate. That infuriating expression that meant he'd already calculated this entire conversation three moves ahead while I scrambled to keep pace.
"Practice."
The single word landed with weight I didn't want to examine.
Practice meant touching. Meant proximity.
Meant deliberately dismantling whatever walls I'd tried rebuilding this morning until his hands on my waist or arm around my shoulders felt natural instead of staged.
Meant undoing all the careful distance I'd woken up determined to maintain.
My brain screamed warnings. Danger. Manipulation. Don't let him control this narrative.
But standing there with morning light streaming through windows and my oversized sweater doing absolutely nothing to protect me from his assessment, I knew he was right.
Tomorrow would expose every crack in my defenses if I didn't learn how to pretend comfort I didn't feel.
"Fine." The word came out clipped. "Practice."
His eyes glinted with something I couldn't name. Victory, maybe. Or something darker.
The living room swallowed sound—all dark wood and clean lines, masculine in that deliberate way that screamed control. Nothing soft. Nothing welcoming. Just space arranged with precision that probably mirrored how Wyatt organized every other aspect of his life.
He stood in the center, arms crossed over that chest I was determinedly not looking at. Waiting.
"Come here."
My whole body rebelled. Every instinct that had kept me alive through my ex's explosions, every self-preservation mechanism I'd carefully rebuilt, screamed warnings.
"No."
His jaw shifted. Not anger—something closer to impatience with a student refusing to learn necessary lessons. "You want this to work? Come here."
The challenge hung there, sharp and pointed. Because we both knew running wasn't an option. Not with cameras scheduled for tomorrow. Not with my father's merger balanced on whether I could convincingly play the role of Wyatt's girlfriend.
I forced my feet forward. Each step felt like trudging through concrete, resistance building with proximity until I stopped directly in front of him.
Too close.
His height overwhelmed—made worse by the breadth of his shoulders, the scars cutting across skin that told stories I didn't know. The sheer physical presence of him pressed against my awareness like pressure before a storm.
He lifted a hand.
I jolted back before conscious thought could intervene. Pure reflex. Body memory from different hands, different threats.
His eyebrow rose. Not surprised. Just confirming exactly what he'd already known. "Exactly why we're doing this."
Heat crawled up my neck—embarrassment mixing with frustration at my own transparency. I scowled, channeling mortification into anger because anger felt safer. "You're intimidating."
"Good."