Chapter 12
I wake up to my phone buzzing like it has a personal vendetta against me. Groaning, I drag it closer, already expecting an email from Miranda or some ridiculous office reminder. But no. It’s worse.
Julia sent me another headline.
Hockey Star Married? Fans Speculate Over Secret Bride.
I’m under speculation!
A picture of Cameron in his gear is plastered right below, followed by grainy shots of us leaving the apartment last night.
My hair is tied up in a lopsided bun, I’m wearing sweats, and somehow the internet has decided I look like a blushing bride.
Last night, Cameron had suddenly decided that he wanted Chinese takeout and said we should go get some.
Seeing this, makes me wonder if he’s somehow in on it too. Is he doing it on purpose now?
I did spend the entire weekend holed up in my room, forcing myself to get mentally ready for work.
The hours blurred together as I paced, scrolled, reread notes, and rehearsed conversations in my head.
Cameron is hardly ever home. He disappears early and comes back late, worn out but lighter somehow, like being back on the ice fixes something in him.
Since he’s rarely around, we haven’t argued, and the quiet that lingers in the apartment feels strange but relieving.
I take it as borrowed peace, because I know the moment I step into the office, that calm is going to shatter.
I stare at the photo again and the headline and I laugh. Actually laugh. Because honestly? It’s so absurd it circles right back to hilarious. This is insane. I throw the phone down beside me. Married? To him? I can practically hear Julia’s voice in my head already.
So I call her, instead of texting back.
She picks up on the second ring, her tone groggy. “Brie? I know I texted you, but it’s—do you even know what time it is?”
“Morning…or as the internet calls it, the day I became Mrs. Hockey.”
I hear a shuffle and an humph like she had fallen or something.
“Shit.” She curses, “I just fell off my bed, trying to reach for my lamp. You’re actually going through with it? What about––”
“Why not, right?” I say, already grinning as I pace the room, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“It’s like my dream life in parallel with whatever life I’m currently living.
I always wanted to be married by twenty-four.
And I’m twenty-five now, so it’s not far off.
To the world, I’m a married woman now. Forget vows, forget witnesses.
All it takes is living with a hockey player and walking outside in sweats oh and of course, going to the store together. ”
There’s a pause before Julia bursts out laughing. “Oh, my God. This is your dream life! Look at you go, Brie. Look at you go!”
“Okay, I’m not like celebrating like that. It’s just fake, so I get to play pretend for a moment,” I say, though I’m fighting a laugh too.
“You’re loving this,” she screams.
“Shh!” I mutter and then whisper, “Do you know how awkward it’s going to be if Cameron finds out that this is like my little fantasy?”
“Oh, now you’re having fantasies of being Mrs. Hockey, huh?” Julia teases, dragging out the word in that way she knows annoys me.
“Okay, you know what? Never mind. I shouldn’t have told you my secret.”
She laughs. “Oh, I am going to have a good laugh about this the whole of today. Who knows, the both of you will pretend this marriage is real and accidentally get knocked up—”
“Oh, hell no! I refuse to have little moody replicas of him. He’s so miserable.”
She laughs, and right now, I don’t appreciate it. “You are so infatuated with him. You’re in love!”
“Bye!”
“Bye, wifey!”
I hang up on her before she can say more, because no way am I entertaining her insane ideals before caffeine.
Getting ready for work is an ordeal in itself.
Not because of clothes—though, yes, I stand too long in front of my closet debating if “competent office professional” beats “effortlessly hot.” No.
It’s because Cameron’s presence lingers in the apartment.
My fake husband’s jacket is on the chair, his shoes are by the door, and the faint smell of his cologne clinging to the air.
He’s not even here, and somehow he’s everywhere.
I hate how aware of it I am.
By the time I get to the office, I’ve rehearsed every version of “I don’t care” in my head. Which lasts exactly five minutes.
Miranda Green spots me in the meeting room, her lips curved in that predatory little smirk. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Hockey.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. She read that headline. Okay.
“Good morning, Miranda.” My tone is neutral, polite. Always polite.
She doesn’t stop. “You know, some of us don’t need fake headlines to get attention at work. But good for you. Ride that wave while it lasts.”
I force a smile, but inside, I imagine tipping my hot coffee straight into her lap.
“Thank you, I sure will.” I smile sweetly at her as I walk past.
The day drags on as the first meeting of the day comes with awkward stares that I try to ignore.
I thought that I prepared well for thus, but it is quite obvious that that’s not the case.
The meeting lasts for a total of twenty minutes and as soon as we’re dismissed, I’m already on my feet and ready to run.
Mrs. Randolph, however, pulls me aside with a sickly sweet smile on her face. “Brie, I’d like you to take lead on the charity gala project. It’ll be good exposure for you.”
My stomach flips. Exposure. Responsibility. A chance. “Of course, Mrs. Randolph. Thank you.”
The second she’s gone, Miranda slinks to my desk, leaning against it like she has a lot to tell me. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. They’re just giving you a scrap project, so you don’t feel useless. Everyone knows you’ll mess it up like always.”
My grip tightens on the pen in my hand. “Thank you, Miranda. I really appreciate it.”
She smirks, then deliberately knocks my stationery holder onto the floor with her elbow. Pens scatter everywhere. She doesn’t bother picking them up. “Oops. Clumsy me.” And then she struts away.
I bend down, gathering the mess with trembling fingers, every muscle in my body buzzing with anger. One day, Miranda. One day.
The rest of my work is half-focused. My brain keeps spiraling back to the ridiculousness of this situation—fake marriage headlines, Cameron’s brooding silences, the strange way my chest tightens when I think about him. It’s absurd. Entirely absurd.
And yet what if it could be real?
The thought makes me dizzy. My future feels like a locked box right now—terrifying, yes, but in that thrilling way, like standing at the edge of a rollercoaster. Anticipation, adrenaline, fear. The good kind.
I’m mid-daydream when my phone buzzes.
Cameron: We need to talk. Now.
I stare at the screen. My pulse quickens. Typical Cameron. He’s commanding, impatient, never asking.
So I type back, fingers flying before I can second-guess it.
Brie: Use the magic word.
And I hit send.
Just as I’m on my way for lunch, I get an email notifying me of another meeting and at this point, I’m ready to fall in exhaustion. I eat the sandwich I had hurriedly made at home and try to mentally prepare myself for another grueling hour of awkward stares and whispers.
The conference room smells faintly of coffee and stress—the kind of smell that clings to Monday mornings.
I sit straighter in my chair, clutching my notepad, trying to look as poised as possible.
Mrs. Randolph sits at the head of the table, her perfectly arched brows sharp as knives.
A few other team members line the sides, but I can already feel Miranda’s eyes boring into me from across the table.
“Now,” Mrs. Randolph says briskly, flipping through her folder. “About the upcoming gala. Brie will take the lead.”
I hear the subtle shift in the room, the almost imperceptible inhale from Miranda before she smiles—a smile too sweet to mean anything good.
“That’s… interesting,” Miranda says, tilting her head with mock curiosity. “No offense, Brie, but have you ever handled something of this scale before? It would be awful if the event ended up being embarrassing for the company.”
My grip tightens on the pen. Everyone’s eyes flick between us, sensing blood in the water.
I force my voice to stay calm, controlled.
“I might not have handled this exact scale before, Miranda, but I’m more than capable.
And if I recall correctly, I’m not the one who nearly lost the Henderson account last quarter, and of course, I have been in all major projects this year, even though you’ve conveniently decided to forget that. ”
Her smile falters for half a second. Bullseye.
But she recovers quickly, her voice lilting with false innocence.
“First of all, that was a client with impossible demands. Not exactly comparable to organizing an entire gala with donors, press, and executives involved. I’m just saying, Mrs. Randolph, maybe it’s wiser to give this to someone more experienced. ”
The way she says experienced makes it sound like I’m an intern who wandered into the wrong room. Heat flares in my chest, but I meet her gaze head-on.
“Or maybe,” I say evenly, “it’s time someone fresh took the reins instead of recycling the same old tired ideas copied directly from Pinterest.”
A ripple moves through the room—half shock, half glee at the drama unfolding. Miranda’s nails tap the table, a sharp staccato.
Her voice hardens, “Fresh doesn’t mean competent. This gala is too important to risk on your learning curve.”
“And undermining your colleagues in front of management doesn’t exactly scream competence either,” I snap back before I can stop myself.
I can tell that most people do not expect me to clap back, but I guess being the “wife” to a famous hockey player gives me a sudden boost of confidence. I’m no longer someone to mess with.
“Excuse me?” Miranda leans forward, eyes flashing. “I’m trying to save the company from disaster. You should be thanking me.”
I lean in too, matching her energy, refusing to back down. “No, you’re trying to save your ego. Just admit that you can’t stand the idea of someone else succeeding where you’ve always been the safe, predictable choice. That must suck, doesn’t it?”
The silence after my words is so sharp I can hear the hum of the overhead lights. Miranda’s face goes red, but her voice comes out clipped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you think you can pull this off, you’re delusional. You’ll crumble under pressure like you always do.”
My heart spikes, but I won’t let her see it. I lift my chin. “We’ll see about that.”
“Enough.” Mrs. Randolph’s voice slices through the tension, calm but laced with steel. Both Miranda and I snap our heads toward her like guilty children. She sets her pen down slowly, her eyes sweeping the room before pinning Miranda in place.
“Miranda,” she says, her tone as precise as a blade. “Brie will be leading this project. And you will act like a lady and be gracious about it. Is that clear?”
Miranda swallows hard, the color draining slightly from her cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmurs, though the venom in her eyes doesn’t fade.
Then Mrs. Randolph turns to me. “Brie, you will comport yourself and refrain from making jabs at your colleagues,” what the hell?
, “and don’t let the noise distract you.
Show us what you can do and make sure you do a damn good job about it, because if you fail, then you’re not going to leave unscathed. ”
Something surges in me at her words—fear, yes, but also pride. I nod firmly. “I will.”
The meeting continues, but the air between Miranda and me practically crackles, an unspoken war declared. She might try to trip me up, but I’m not backing down. Not anymore.
As soon as we’re done, Miranda walks up to me and gets right into my face.
“You might think that you’ve won this round because you’re allegedly married to some famous guy, but I hope you know that you’re nothing compared to me.
I’m going to be here and I’m going to watch you fail, you know why?
Because I’m better than you and even if you were sleeping with a million famous people, you’d never beat me. ” She smiles and then walks away.
Somehow that hurt, but I don’t let it get to me completely. I’ll show her what exactly it is that I can do.