Chapter 6 #2
The room erupted in applause. Libby's face felt frozen in what she hoped looked like a smile rather than a rictus of panic. More champagne appeared—everyone wanted to toast the "generous young journalist"—and she drank it because what else could she do?
"Such wonderful publicity for the Herald!" someone gushed.
"Your parents must be so proud!"
"We need you at our foundation dinner next month!"
Libby was calculating frantically. $100,000 was three years' salary. More than her parents' mortgage. More than she'd make in... oh God, she was going to have to flee the country. Could you claim bankruptcy over charity pledges? Was debtors' prison still a thing?
"Excuse me," she managed, standing abruptly. The room spun slightly. "I need to... powder room."
She fled, weaving slightly in her heels, desperately seeking air.
The ballroom felt too hot, too bright, too full of people who thought she could casually drop $100,000 on charity.
Behind her, she could hear the PR team organizing the presentation—there would be a giant check, photos, social media posts that her editor would definitely see.
She pushed through a side door, finding herself in a darkened gallery overlooking the venue's private ice rink. The cool air hit her heated face, and she gripped the railing, trying not to hyperventilate.
"That bad?"
Liam D'Arcy emerged from the shadows, because of course he did. Even in her champagne-hazed panic, her traitorous brain noted how unfairly good he looked with his bow tie now slightly loosened.
"I just pledged my entire net worth to charity," she said faintly. "Actually, more than my net worth. I'd have to sell my organs."
"The D'Arcy Foundation will cover it."
Libby whipped around to stare at him, which was a mistake because the quick movement made everything spin. Liam's hands caught her arms, steadying her.
"What?"
"The D'Arcy Foundation will make the donation in your name," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than a six-figure sum. "You were clearly confused about the chip denominations, and taking advantage of inebriated guests defeats the charitable purpose."
"I'm not that drunk," she protested, even as she swayed slightly. “I made the bet. It’s my responsibility to understand the rules of the game.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his hands still on her arms. "But you're drunk enough to have accidentally become the event's largest donor, which suggests some impairment of judgment."
"This is humiliating," she muttered. "I can't let you pay that much money for my mistake."
"It's not my money, it's the foundation's. And it was always going to the hospital anyway." His thumbs moved on her arms—nothing like Wickham's deliberate touches. He seemed completely unaware he was doing it. "Consider it handled."
Libby frowned. “I don’t need anyone to ‘handle’ me, D’Arcy. Especially not you.”
His eyes went dark. “Your actions would suggest otherwise.”
They stared at each other, and Libby felt a current jump between them. Finally, Liam looked away with a sigh, and when he met her gaze again, the tension had left him. “Please, Libby. Allow the foundation to cover this, and we’ll chalk it up to ignorance. A one-time thing, I’m sure.”
"Why are you being nice to me?" The champagne had apparently dissolved her filter. "You don't even like me."
Something shifted in his expression. "What makes you think I don't like you?"
"You're all... distant and proper and—" She gestured vaguely at him. "Hockey robot."
"Hockey robot?" His mouth quirked slightly.
"Very expensive hockey robot," she amended. "With excellent programming."
He was definitely smiling now, just barely. "You're going to be mortified about this conversation tomorrow."
"I'm mortified now," she admitted. "But also grateful. Even if I don't understand why you're helping."
"Perhaps I respect journalists who actually understand zone entries," he said dryly. "Even when they're accidentally philanthropic."
She laughed and turned too quickly, her heel catching the too-long hem. She felt herself pitching forward and tried to catch herself, but the sudden movement was too much for the delicate dress. The left strap snapped with an audible pop, the bodice immediately beginning to sag dramatically.
"Oh no," she breathed, clutching at the fabric desperately. "Oh no, no, no—"
"What's wrong?"
"The strap! I stepped on the hem and—" She was trying to hold the dress up while maintaining any dignity, which was impossible. The dress was betraying her completely, the broken strap causing the whole bodice to gap dangerously.
Without hesitation, Liam shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and draped it around her shoulders, pulling it closed in front.
The jacket was still warm from his body, the silk lining sliding against her bare arms. The sleeves hung past her hands by what seemed like a foot.
The intimacy of wearing something of his made her brain short-circuit even more than the champagne.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They were standing very close now, his hands still holding the jacket closed around her. In her heels, she only had to tilt her head slightly to meet his eyes. This close, she could feel his breath warm against her temple, catch the faint scent of mint beneath the champagne.
"Liam! There you are!"
They sprang apart as Kate appeared in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene—Libby in Liam's jacket, the intimate positioning, the darkened gallery.
"Oh my," Kate said, her voice carrying perfectly pitched surprise. "I seem to be interrupting something. How... unexpected."
She held up her phone, and Libby realized with horror that she'd already taken a photo. In the image, they looked completely compromising—Libby disheveled in Liam's jacket, him standing intimately close, both of them flushed.
"Kate," Liam said warningly.
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to do anything rash," Kate said sweetly.
"Though Anne will be so disappointed when she arrives from Paris next week.
She's been looking forward to reconnecting with you, Liam.
Still, I suppose these things happen." She examined the photo on her screen.
"Of course, if this got out, the Herald would have to pull their reporter for ethical violations, wouldn't they?
Such a shame when careers end over... misunderstandings. "
She sailed back into the party, leaving them in tense silence.
"I need to call my PR director," Liam said immediately, already pulling out his phone.
"Wait, maybe she won't—"
"She will." His fingers were already flying across his screen. "Kate doesn't make threats she doesn't intend to follow through on. We have maybe thirty minutes before she posts it strategically—probably through a third party for deniability."
"You don't know that—"
"I've known Kate my entire life.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Mariska? We have a situation. Meet us at the team suite at the Mandarin Oriental in fifteen minutes." He ended the call and turned to Libby. "We need to leave. Now."
"I can't just leave—I need Jane," Libby said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "I need my sister."
"I'll handle it." He was already texting rapidly. "But we need to get you out of here before anyone else sees you in my jacket and draws conclusions."
He guided her through a service corridor she hadn't known existed, his hand light on her back. They emerged in a loading dock where a black town car was somehow already waiting.
"How did—"
"I always have an exit strategy at these events." He opened the door for her. "Get in."
The ride to the Mandarin Oriental was silent except for both their phones buzzing constantly.
Libby ignored hers, still processing how quickly everything had spiraled.
The Steel's corporate suite was exactly what she'd expected—sleek, minimal, expensive—with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The team kept it for visiting VIPs and, apparently, crisis management.
Within minutes, Mariska Keane, the Steel’s PR director, arrived with two members of the communications team, all still in their gala attire. Jane burst through the door moments later, Chase hovering behind her.
"Libby, what happened? Chase said there was an emergency—"
"Thanks for bringing her," Liam said to Chase, who nodded and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
"Kate Davenport has a compromising photo," Liam said without preamble. "She'll release it within the hour."
"I stepped on my hem and the strap broke," Libby explained quickly. "Liam lent me his jacket. That's all."
The PR director was already pulling up her tablet. "Show me the angles, where you were standing."
They recreated the positioning as best they could remember while Mariska assessed with professional calculation.
"We need to get ahead of this," she said. "If we announce it ourselves first—say you've been quietly dating, keeping it professional, planning to go public after the playoffs—then it's a love story. If Kate leaks it, it's an ethics scandal."
"That's insane," Libby protested.
"It's practical," Liam said. "The alternative is your career becoming collateral damage."
"But what do you get out of it? Your career isn't threatened by this."
"No," he agreed. "But Kate would use this to create maximum chaos during the most important games of the season.
She'd feed stories to the media, create distractions, turn it into a circus.
" He paused. "And despite what you might think, I don't believe you should lose your career because Kate has decided you're in Anne's way. "
The PR director was already typing. "I can have a statement ready in five minutes—"
Libby's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
Her stomach dropped as she looked at the screen. The photo was already spreading—posted thirty seconds ago by an anonymous gossip account with enough followers to ensure it would go viral within minutes.