21. Chastity #2
Her smile sharpened. "And you think you do? After two weeks?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Because she was right.
I barely knew him at all.
My father stepped forward, nodding at Barbara with that smooth, practiced expression he wore like armor. "She's right. This whole thing—this arrangement—has been helpful for the merger."
I went completely still.
Helpful.
Arrangement.
The words slammed into me, sharp and cold. My fingers tightened around my purse strap until the leather bit into my palm.
"You mean… you're glad people believe Wyatt and I are together."
My voice came out flat. Hollow. Nothing like the steady confidence I'd been taught to project.
Dad's expression didn't shift. "Image is everything, Chastity.
You know that. The scandal could have derailed months of work.
Instead, it stabilized investor confidence.
Showed continuity. Maturity." He gestured vaguely toward the ice below.
"Wyatt playing nice, you supporting him publicly—it sends the right message. "
Barbara sipped her champagne, watching me over the rim with something that looked almost like pity.
My stomach turned over, nausea rising in a hot, bitter wave.
Not because of the lie we were selling. Not even because I was part of the performance.
But because they were using him too. Using Wyatt's reputation, his history, his pain—packaging it all into something marketable.
Something that served their narrative. Their merger. Their bottom line.
He wasn't a person to them. He was a tool. Just like me.
The realization hit hard enough I had to lock my knees to stay upright. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow and quick. Heat crawled up my neck, anger and shame tangling together until I couldn't separate them.
"You handed me to him," I whispered, the words scraping past my throat. "You made me move into his house. You said it was temporary—that it was to fix a mistake."
Dad's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. Controlled. "It is temporary. And it did fix the mistake. The arrangement works for everyone involved."
Arrangement.
That word again. Clinical. Transactional. Empty. Except when Wyatt had pulled me close during practice, when he'd steadied my waist and told me to breathe—that hadn't felt like an arrangement.
My throat closed.
Barbara set down her glass, expression unreadable.
"Welcome to the business, darling. Everything's a transaction.
Even relationships." She took another sip, eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of her glass.
"He's unpredictable, but he's magnetic. I suppose that's why this works.
" A pause. Her gaze sharpened, voice dropping to something colder.
"But he's never shown this much restraint with a woman. It's… surprising."
I heard the edge beneath the words. Jealousy. Possessiveness. The bitter residue of something unfinished.
I didn't expect that.
And something inside me snapped.
I stepped forward—not aggressive, but steady. Clear. My voice came out calm, armed with conviction I didn't know I possessed until that exact moment. "Wyatt isn't performing. He's trying. Trying to be decent. Trying to rebuild. Trying to make this believable for everyone."
Barbara lifted her chin, mouth curving in something almost pitying. "Exactly. Believable."
I shook my head, heat flooding my chest. "No. You're not listening."
The room went quiet. Even the ambient noise from the arena felt distant, muffled.
"He's different when he's not here. When he's not being watched." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "He's… softer."
My father shifted beside me, tension radiating off him in waves. "Chastity—"
"You talk like he's a threat, or a liability. But he's been more honest with me in two weeks than most people have been my whole life."
The words landed hard, reverberating in the silence that followed.
Barbara stared at me, champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips. Stunned. Actually stunned.
My father looked worried—not the polished, controlled concern he wore for investors. Real worry. The kind that creased his forehead and tightened his jaw.
And I realized, pulse hammering in my ears, that I wasn't lying.
I wasn't defending an arrangement. Wasn't protecting optics or merger stability or public image.
I was defending Wyatt. The man who'd covered me with blankets and left water by my side.
Who'd told me I didn't have to earn anything from him.
Who'd looked at me like I mattered—not as Thomas Harrington's daughter, not as a strategic asset, but as me.
The man. Not the role.
That realization hit like ice water, shocking and clarifying and terrifying all at once.
Barbara recovered first, setting down her glass with deliberate precision. "You've only known him two weeks."
"I know." My voice came out quieter now, steadier. "But I know what honesty feels like. And what performance looks like." I glanced at my father. "I've been watching people perform my entire life."
Dad's expression shuttered, walls slamming into place. He didn't respond. Didn't argue. Just stood there with that tight, practiced smile beginning to crack at the edges.
Barbara studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she turned toward the window, gaze dropping to the ice below where players were starting to emerge for warm-ups.
"Well," she said finally, voice cool and clipped. "This should be an interesting game."
I followed her gaze, scanning the players until I found him.
Number 44. Dark jersey. Broad shoulders. Moving across the ice with that controlled power that made my breath catch.
Wyatt.
And despite everything—despite the arrangement, the lies, the performance we were selling—my heart beat faster just watching him skate.
I moved to the front row of the suite, claiming a seat as far from Barbara and my father as possible. The glass was cold against my palm when I pressed my hand to it, grounding myself.
The rink lights dimmed.
Music thundered through the arena, bass vibrating through the floor, through my chest, through everything. The crowd roared as players took the ice for opening skate, a wall of sound that should've drowned out my thoughts.
It didn't.
My pulse thudded. The realization settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and permanent.
I'd stood there in front of Barbara—in front of my father—and argued for Wyatt's character.
His honesty. His decency. Things I had no business knowing after two weeks.
Things I shouldn't have felt so certain about.
Things that terrified me because they were true.
My breath fogged the glass as number 44 glided past, powerful and controlled and completely unaware that something fundamental had just shifted.
And I had no idea what that meant.
Or what would happen when Wyatt realized it.