Chapter 6 #3
"Too late," Liam said, seeing her expression. "She moved faster than I expected."
Her editor was calling. Text messages were starting to flood in.
In the photo, they looked like lovers caught in a private moment—Libby's face upturned toward his, her lips slightly parted, eyes heavy-lidded from champagne and proximity.
Liam was looking down at her with an expression no camera had ever caught before, something unguarded and intent.
His hands gripped the jacket where he held it closed, as though he were a second away from closing the distance between them.
The darkness of the gallery created a sense of secrecy, and the way their bodies angled toward each other suggested they'd been about to kiss—or just finished.
Liam's jacket around her shoulders looked exactly like what a woman would wear after. .. The implications were unmistakable.
"We pivot to reactive mode," the PR director said calmly. "Same story, but now we're 'confirming' rather than announcing. You've been dating quietly, the photo forced your hand, you're asking for privacy during the playoffs."
"I'll be pulled from the beat," Libby said, her phone continuing to vibrate with her editor's calls.
"Not if it's an established relationship that predates your assignment," Mariska countered. "We backdate it. Say you've been together since before you joined the Herald. Your editor can't fault you for a pre-existing relationship if you've maintained professional coverage."
"That's lying," Libby said.
"That's survival," Liam corrected. "A month, maybe six weeks at most. We date through the playoffs, then amicably part ways due to career demands. Your reputation stays intact, the team avoids distraction, and Kate's attempt at sabotage fails."
Jane squeezed Libby's hand. "It's not ideal, but it might be the only option that doesn't destroy your career."
Libby looked around the room—Liam watching her with that analytical expression, the PR team waiting for her decision, Jane's concerned face. Through the windows, Boston glittered below, unaware that her professional life was imploding because of a broken dress strap and a vindictive socialite.
Her phone rang again. Reid, her editor. She knew what he'd say—the appearance of impropriety was as damaging as actual impropriety. Without a reasonable explanation, she'd be pulled from the beat immediately.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I have conditions."
"What do you need?" Liam asked, his attention focused entirely on her.
"I maintain complete editorial independence. No interference with my coverage. No special access or restrictions. I report exactly as I would otherwise."
"Agreed," Liam said immediately.
"We minimize public appearances. Only what's absolutely necessary to sell this."
“Mariska?” Liam said without tearing his eyes from Libby.
"We can work with that," Mariska responded smoothly. "A few games where you're seen together, maybe one or two team events. Nothing excessive."
Libby felt hot all over. “And it ends the moment the playoffs do. Win or lose."
"Understood," Liam agreed. Then, to Mariska: "Make sure Ms. Bennet-Cross has everything she needs to maintain her professional standing. This situation isn't her fault."
"Of course. We'll ensure full support.” Mariska’s fingers flew across her tablet. "I'm sending the statement now. You two should post something personal on your social media—nothing elaborate, just acknowledging the relationship and asking for privacy. Do either of you have any photos together?"
"We haven't exactly been taking couple selfies," Libby said dryly.
Liam pulled out his phone, scrolling through it. "Actually..." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "At the skills session last week. You were analyzing the drill patterns. I took a photo."
"What? When?"
"Before the interview. You didn't notice.
" He showed her his phone. In the image, she was watching the ice intently, completely absorbed in the play analysis, a slight smile on her face.
It was actually a lovely photo—natural, unposed, showing her passion for the sport rather than anything romantic.
Something twisted in Libby's chest looking at it.
He'd been watching her when she wasn't performing, wasn't aware of being observed.
He'd found something worth capturing in that unguarded moment.
The implications of that—of Liam D'Arcy noticing her before any of this happened—made her stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with champagne.
Mariska looked at the image. "Perfect. It's candid, professional setting but personal moment. Post that, Liam. Libby, we'll send you one of the candids from tonight's photographer—there should be something from before the chaos, you two at the event looking natural."
Libby's phone rang again. Reid. She let it go to voicemail, knowing that conversation would require more energy than she had right now. The explanation, the assurances, the promises of maintained objectivity—all of that could wait until morning.
"I should get you home," Liam said. "We both need to decompress, and we should talk through the logistics without an audience."
"Jane—"
"I'll take her home," Chase said quickly from the doorway, then seemed to catch himself. "I mean, if that's alright with you, Jane."
Jane glanced at Libby, who gave a subtle nod. "That would be fine. Thank you, Chase."
"You two should be seen leaving together anyway," the PR director added. "It supports the narrative."
Libby was too exhausted to argue. The evening's chaos—the champagne, the $100,000, the dress disaster, the fake relationship—had drained her completely.
Outside the hotel, a few photographers were already waiting. Liam guided her to the waiting car, his hand at her back just proprietary enough to sell the relationship.
"Smile," he murmured. "Look tired but happy. We're a couple who just got outed and want privacy."
She managed it somehow, leaning into him slightly as they got into the car. The door closed, shutting out the chaos, and they were alone in the backseat.
"That was..." Libby trailed off, unable to find the right word.
"A disaster," Liam supplied. "Though a manageable one, thanks to your quick thinking."
"My quick thinking? I just agreed to lie to everyone I know."
"You agreed to a solution that protects your career and minimizes distraction during my playoff run." His expression was unreadable in the passing streetlights. "Most people would have panicked or made it worse."
"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. "
They rode in silence for a moment before Liam spoke again. "We should establish ground rules. For the... arrangement."
"Such as?"
"Communication protocols. Public appearance guidelines. How we handle questions from friends and family." He paused. "I assume Jane knows the truth?"
"She was there. She knows."
"Good. You'll need someone you can be honest with. This kind of performance can be... isolating."
Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"Not with fake relationships," he said. "But I've been performing for the public my entire life. The D'Arcy name comes with expectations."
The car pulled up to her building. Liam got out first, offering his hand to help her out—a gesture that would look gentlemanly to any watching eyes but felt surprisingly natural.
"I'll walk you up," he said. It wasn't a question.
"That's not necessary—"
"You've been drinking, Kate just threatened your career, and you're wearing my jacket which makes you a target for anyone looking to cause trouble." He paused. "I'm not leaving you vulnerable in a stairwell at midnight."
"I can take care of myself—"
"I know you can. But tonight's been enough of a disaster without taking unnecessary risks." His tone softened slightly. "Let me make sure you get inside safely. Please."
They walked up to her apartment in silence, Libby hyperaware of his presence beside her. At her door, she fumbled with her keys, the evening's events catching up with her.
"Thank you," she said. "For the jacket, the donation, the... solution. Even if it's insane."
"We're protecting each other's interests," Liam said pragmatically. "It's mutually beneficial."
As she opened her door, he added, "The PR team will send you talking points for tomorrow. Keep it simple. The less we say, the less we have to remember."
"Right. Simple." She laughed, slightly hysterical. "Pretending to date Boston's hockey prince. What could be simpler?"
That almost-smile appeared again. "Goodnight, Libby."
It was the first time he'd said her name. The way it sounded in his voice—careful, deliberate, like he was trying it out—made something flutter in her chest.
After he left, Libby closed the door and leaned against it, still wearing his tuxedo jacket. The apartment felt too quiet after the evening's chaos.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Clara:
ELIZABETH MARIE BENNET-CROSS. I just saw Twitter. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.
She looked at the jacket hanging over her arm. A month of pretending to date Liam D'Arcy. A month of lying to everyone except Jane. A month of maintaining professional coverage while the entire city watched for signs of bias.
What had she gotten herself into?
Her phone buzzed once more. A text from an unknown number:
This is Liam. Everything will be fine. We'll make this work.
She stared at the message, then at the jacket, then back at her phone. Tomorrow, she'd have to face the Herald newsroom, the hockey world, and her family, all while maintaining the fiction that she'd been secretly dating the man she'd been professionally analyzing.
But tonight, she poured herself a large glass of wine, wrapped herself in Liam's too-big jacket (purely for warmth, she told herself), and tried not to think about how his thumb had moved unconsciously on her arm, or how he'd immediately stepped in to protect her from multiple disasters, or how that barely-there smile had transformed his face when she'd called him a hockey robot.
A month.
What could possibly go wrong?