Chapter 16 #2
She’s seeing me like this for the first time. Not the guy in the rink or the truck or the players’ box. The one in the suit with a diamond-wrapped woman on his arm.
Beside me, Beatrice tracks my line of sight. Of course she does.
“Oh,” she says, her voice dipping into something sharp. “Her.”
My jaw locks. “Drop it.”
“The coach’s daughter,” she goes on, ignoring me. There’s amusement in her voice now. Cruel. “Your father mentioned her. Said Addison dragged her along for sympathy points.”
Rage spikes, sharp and clean. “She’s not a prop.”
“Of course she is. Everyone here is.” Beatrice swirls the champagne in her glass, watching the bubbles dance. “Your father said she’s… a complication. That you’re easily distracted. And that it would be a shame if Coach Addison couldn’t focus on the program while he’s negotiating his contract.”
The implication lands like a body check.
Talia. Me. My father. Addison. Jobs. Contracts. Leverage.
“Don’t,” I say quietly. The word is almost a growl. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a bargaining chip.”
She smiles, all teeth. “Everything in this room is a bargaining chip, darling. That’s what money is for.” She glances at Talia again, her expression dismissive. “Just don’t let the hired help’s baggage cost your father a contract. We have a timeline, Declan.”
The word hits harder than I expect.
Baggage.
I want to tell her that Talia is more rooted than anyone here. That she’s the only one who doesn’t float from conversation to conversation trading favors. That she’s the only person I’ve seen in months who doesn’t want anything from me but quiet.
The photographer appears again, hovering. “Can I grab one more of the happy couple?” he asks, his voice booming over the jazz quartet. “The board loves these engagement shots. We want to run the announcement next week.”
Engagement shots.
Announcement.
The words ring out like a gavel strike.
Across the room, I see Talia flinch. Her hand comes up, fingers pressing to her throat like she’s checking for a pulse—or choking.
She didn't know.
Why would she? We never talked about it. We talked about silence and noise and safety. I never told her I was sold before I was born.
“Of course,” Beatrice says immediately. She turns to me. “Don’t scowl. It wrinkles.”
I don’t move.
“Come on,” she murmurs under her breath, stepping closer, sliding a hand up the back of my neck as if we’re something intimate. “Your father is watching. This is the soft launch, Declan. Do not ruin it.”
He is watching. I can feel him. Allistair Reid, across the room by the high-top tables, giving me that cool, measuring look. The one that weighs my usefulness against his bottom line.
I’m pinned. Again.
My molars grind. I force myself to angle toward the camera, every muscle tight with resistance.
Flash. White.
The photographer lowers the camera. “One more? Closer this time. Look like you’re celebrating.”
Beatrice doesn’t wait for my answer.
She rises on her toes, turns my face with the hand on my neck, and kisses me.
Full on the mouth.
Her lips are soft and cold and taste like a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne. There’s nothing in it but possession. Her fingers dig into my jaw, holding me there for the camera, for the board, for my father, for whoever is watching.
From the outside, it probably looks perfect.
From the inside, I feel nothing but shock and a white, roaring fury.
My body goes rigid. I don't kiss back. I don’t lean in. I don’t move. I let it happen because if I jerk away in the middle of this room, I don’t just embarrass myself. I give my father ammunition. I give him a reason to call me ungrateful, unstable, out of control.
Flash.
The moment freezes. Her mouth on mine. Her hand on my face. My eyes open—because I can’t make myself close them for this—and in that split second, over her shoulder, I see Talia.
She’s still by the terrace doors. Still in that blue dress. Still beside her father.
Her expression is empty.
Not shocked. Not hurt. Not outraged. Just… still. Like she’s turned whatever she’s feeling into ice and slammed it down under her ribs before it can reach the surface.
Her gaze flicks once from Beatrice’s hand on my face to my eyes.
Then she looks away.
She says something short to Addison, then turns and walks out through the terrace doors into the night.
Gone.
Beatrice pulls back, satisfied. A perfect, practiced smile curves her mouth. “See?” she murmurs. “Not so hard.”
My skin crawls.
Across the room, my father lifts his glass a fraction of an inch in my direction.
A nod. Approval. Transaction complete.
Something in me cracks.
I take a step back, out of Beatrice’s reach.
“Declan—” she starts.
“Don’t touch me again,” I say, low and lethal.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before the amusement snaps back into place. “Careful,” she says lightly, brushing a thumb over the corner of my mouth, wiping away a smear of her lipstick. “Your father pays for composure. Not dramatics.”
“He doesn’t pay for me,” I bite out. “He rents the jersey.”
“Then be a good investment,” she says. “And stop glaring. People are starting to notice.”
I don’t care who’s noticing.
I turn and walk away before I put my taped fist through a wall someone else paid for.
The cold outside hits like a slap I’ve been waiting for all night.
The air tastes clean. Real. No perfume, no recycled heat, no fake laughter. Just exhaust, damp stone, and the faint scent of wet leaves.
I rip the tie from my throat the second the doors close behind me. The silk slides free, and I yank at the top button of my shirt until the fabric gives and the collar gapes.
I suck in a breath like I’ve been underwater for an hour.
Voices spill from the entrance, muffled as the door shuts behind another couple. Laughter. Glass. The jazz band’s music bleeding faintly through the walls. It all blurs together into noise I want to outrun and can’t.
I lean a shoulder against one of the stone columns, fists pressed to my thighs, and let the anger burn through the thin restraint I’ve been clinging to.
Last night: Talia’s hand curved around the back of my neck. Her mouth opening under mine, honest and hungry. Her body relaxing, inch by inch, because I gave her my control and she chose to trust it.
Tonight: Beatrice’s hand on my jaw, nails digging in. Her mouth on mine without asking. My father’s nod.
Talia saw that version of me.
The one in the cage.
I push off the column and head for the valet stand, needing distance, motion, anything. The kid scrambles when he sees me, checking his tickets.
“Ticket, sir?”
“Black truck,” I rasp. “Just get it.”
“It’ll be a few minutes, sir, we’re backed up—”
“I don’t care,” I snap, the violence I kept leashed inside finally bleeding out. “Get it now.”
The kid flinches and runs.
I stand there, vibrating with adrenaline, staring at the empty driveway. Every second feels like an hour. I pace the concrete, hands shaking, fighting the urge to walk into traffic just to feel something hit me.
Waiting. Impotent. Trapped.
Finally, the truck rounds the corner.
I take the keys without a word. The cab smells like leather, coffee, and the faint ghost of her from last night. Peppermint and nerves and something softer.
My hands shake when I slot the key into the ignition.
Engine growl. Headlights flare on automatically, cutting twin beams across the parking lot.
And there she is.
Talia is halfway down the row, head down, arms wrapped around herself, thin coat bunched tight at her chest over that blue dress. No Addison. No escort. Just her.
She must have slipped out the terrace doors, looped around, avoided the front entrance on purpose. Smart. Less crowd. Less chance of donors cornering her.
She walks fast but not running. A survivor’s pace again. Get to the car. Get home. Get safe.
The headlights wash over her.
She flinches, shoulders jumping. Her head snaps up, eyes catching mine through the windshield for one split second. Even at this distance, I can see her chest rise in a sharp inhale. Her hand goes to her throat, right where her pulse would be.
She turns her face away. Her steps get faster.
Instinct screams: Go to her. Get out of the truck. Tell her it’s not what it looked like. Tell her about the contract, the money, the leash. Tell her last night was real. That you didn’t kiss back.
But what would that sound like from where she’s standing?
I’m engaged, but it doesn’t mean anything.
I let another woman kiss me in front of my father and a camera, but it didn’t mean anything.
I am part of this machine, but trust me, I’m different.
Bullshit.
The truth is worse than the lie. The truth is that I’ve let myself get boxed into this life so neatly that a girl I care about had to watch me stand there and take it.
I grip the wheel tighter. The tape on my knuckles pulls, biting skin.
She disappears behind a row of cars. I could follow in the truck, idle alongside her, roll down the window and try to explain. I could park, catch up on foot, call her name.
Talia.
I see the way she went still when Beatrice kissed me. How fast she looked for an exit.
If I go after her now, in this state, it’s not protection. It’s pressure. I am the thing she needs to be protected from.
So I sit there. Hands locked. Heart pounding. Watching the empty space where she just was.
The engine idles, rattling under my feet. The headlights glare at nothing.
For once in my life, I stay exactly where I am and let the good thing walk away.
Because I don’t know how to tell her that I’m both things at once—the guy who held himself together with her back under his hands, and the one who choked on silence while another woman kissed him in front of a room full of people who own pieces of his future.
I put the truck in gear and pull out of the lot, leaving the chandeliers and the cameras and the place where she saw the worst version of me behind.
The rink is on the opposite side of town.
I drive toward it like there’s any chance cold air and dark ice can scrub tonight out of both our heads.