17. ZARA
ZARA
Armor
The woman in the mirror looks like someone else entirely.
I smooth my hands down the lilac fabric clinging to my curves, the dress Simone messengered over this morning with a note that reads:
For tonight. You'll need armor.
She isn't wrong. The gown fits like it has been sewn directly onto my body—structured bodice, plunging neckline that stops just short of scandalous, and a slit up the left leg that makes walking feel like a performance.
I've never worn anything this expensive. The tag is still burned into my memory: four figures. For a dress I'd wear once.
"You look like a princess," Lily announced from my doorway twenty minutes ago, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "A lilac princess."
Mrs. Henriksen ushers her away, but the compliment lingers.
So does the knowledge that somewhere downstairs, Jaxon is waiting—and that out there, people are already digging into the credibility of our relationship.
My phone buzzes against the vanity.
Danny:
You've got this. Call me after.
I type back a quick heart emoji, then set the phone down.
My brother's worry has been a constant hum in my ear since the scandal broke, but tonight I cannot afford distraction. Tonight, I have to be seamless.
I check my reflection one final time.
My hair is pinned up, soft strands escaping to frame my face.
Makeup that somehow makes me look both natural and polished—a trick I learned from a YouTube tutorial at two in the morning when sleep refused to come.
The silver heart pendant from Danny rests at my throat. Not too casual. Not something I’d ever leave behind.
One deep breath. Then another.
You've handled worse than rich people and champagne, I tell myself. You've handled five-year-old twins with the stomach flu. You've handled rich employers who timed your bathroom breaks.
This is just another kind of performance.
I descend the stairs, my borrowed heels clicking against the hardwood with each step.
Jaxon stands in the foyer, adjusting his cufflinks, and when he looks up—
He goes still.
Not the polite stillness of someone waiting. The kind that looks like he’s forgotten how to move.
Or is he just acting?
Heat creeps up my neck, and I try to hide my confusion.
His reaction says I’m the sexiest woman he’s ever seen—but what does he actually think?
I’ll admit, I do feel beautiful in this dress.
But I remind myself this is all fake. The dress. The gala. The way he’s looking at me like I’ve knocked the breath clean out of him.
Then I really look at him—and my mouth goes dry.
The tux fits him like it was made for him, emphasizing broad shoulders and the lean strength underneath. His hair is styled for once, not pushed back with impatient fingers, and he’s shaved, revealing the sharp line of his jaw.
He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine.
When he catches my wrist, something flutters low in my stomach.
But Lily’s voice cuts through the moment, and just like that, we’re moving again—slipping into the waiting car that will take us to the gala.
The Grand Meridian Hotel blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the dark sky. Town cars line the curved driveway, disgorging couples in designer gowns and tailored suits.
Camera flashes explode like fireworks as photographers jockey for position behind velvet ropes.
"Remember," Jaxon murmurs as our car approaches the drop-off point, "Simone will intercept anyone too aggressive. Stay close to me. If someone asks about the wedding, we're planning a small, private ceremony."
"Got it." My hands are steady in my lap, but my stomach churns. "Smile, deflect, don't mention the custody case."
"And if someone brings up Rachel—"
"I've never met her. I have nothing but respect for Lily's mother. Next question."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "You've been practicing."
"Simone sent me a media prep document. Fourteen pages."
I've memorized every talking point, every pivot phrase, every way to redirect an uncomfortable question. "She's thorough."
"That's one word for it."
The car door opens. Sound rushes in—crowd noise, shouted questions, the click-whir-click of cameras.
Jaxon steps out first, then turns to offer me his hand.
I take it.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
"Coach Halberg! Over here!"
"Zara! Zara, look this way!"
"Is it true you were his daughter's nanny before the engagement?"
I keep my smile fixed as we walk the gauntlet.
Jaxon's arm wraps around my waist, anchoring me to his side.
Each step feels like walking through honey—slow, deliberate, aware of every eye tracking our progress.
Simone appears at the entrance, sleek in black with an earpiece barely visible beneath her hair. "Looking good, you two. Press line's hot tonight. I've already shut down three questions about the Garrison-Walsh thing."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it.
"Don't thank me yet. The donor crowd inside makes these photographers look friendly."
She checks her phone, frowning. "Heads up—Brantley from Sports Daily is circling. He's the one who published the rumors about a contract marriage. Keep your distance."
We push through the gilded doors and into a ballroom that looks like it has been designed by someone with an unlimited budget and a vendetta against subtlety.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling. Flower arrangements the size of small cars anchor every corner. Wait staff circulate with champagne flutes that probably cost more than my old apartment's monthly rent.
"You okay?" Jaxon's breath is warm against my ear.
"I'm fine." Overwhelmed, but fine. "Just taking it in."
"The charity supports youth hockey programs in underserved neighborhoods," he says, guiding me deeper into the crowd. "Sixty percent of every dollar raised tonight goes directly to equipment and ice time for kids who couldn't otherwise afford it."
Something softens in my chest. Of course he knows the exact percentage. Of course this is about kids who need help.
"That's why you agreed to come?"
"That's why I always come." His hand presses more firmly against my back. "Everything else is just... noise."
The next two hours are a masterclass in high-society navigation.
Jaxon introduces me to team owners and corporate sponsors, to retired players and their impeccably dressed wives.
I smile until my cheeks ache, laugh at jokes that are not funny, and answer the same questions a dozen different ways.
Somewhere around the third circuit of the room, I find myself standing with Talia Morrison while Jaxon confers with Jake about something team-related.
"You're doing great," Talia says, handing me a fresh champagne flute. "First gala?"
"That obvious?"
"You haven't tried to murder anyone yet, so actually, you're ahead of the curve."
I laugh.
The interruption comes fast.
"Zara! Hey, Zara!"
A man with a camera shoves forward.
"Quick question—how much is Halberg paying you to play wife? Is there a bonus if you win the custody case?"
Silence.
Then Jaxon steps in front of me.
“Don’t talk to my fiancée like that,” he says, his voice low and controlled, but edged with steel. “If you have a question, you address me. Respectfully. Or you don’t ask it at all.”
The silence that follows Jaxon’s words is sharp. Cutting.
The reporter hesitates—just for a second—clearly not expecting to be shut down that fast, that clean.
Then Simone is suddenly there, smooth and efficient, stepping between us like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “That’s enough,” she says, her tone pleasant but firm. “Enjoy the evening, gentlemen.”
She steers the reporter away before he can recover, her hand light on his arm but completely unyielding.
Jaxon doesn’t move.
His body is still in front of mine, solid, unshakable. A barrier.
My pulse stutters.
“Hey,” I say softly, touching his arm. “I’m okay.”
He turns then, his eyes finding mine immediately.
There’s something dark in them. Controlled, but barely.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says.
“It’s part of the deal, right?” I try for lightness, but it comes out quieter than I intended. “Media attention and scrutiny.”
His jaw tightens. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
For a second, we just look at each other.
Then someone calls his name from across the room, and the moment snaps.
He exhales slowly, nodding once. “We’re leaving.”
“What? I thought—”
“We’ve done enough,” he says, already reaching for my hand. “Simone can handle the rest.”
There’s no argument in me.
Not when he looks at me like that.
So I nod. “Okay.”
Soon we’re inside the car, the door shutting behind us, the noise falling away.
I glance at Jaxon out of the corner of my eye and catch him exhaling—long, rough—as he leans back, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus.”
A faint smile tugs at my lips, but it fades the second he takes my hand.
My breath catches.
This again. That dangerous, quiet shift between us.
“Jaxon—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, but his voice isn’t sharp. It’s low. Rougher than before. “I don’t want to hear it right now, Zara.”
My pulse stumbles.
“There’s something between us,” he goes on, his voice tight with restraint. “You feel it. I know you do. Because I do.”
I swallow.
“It makes no sense pretending we don’t,” he continues. “Talking about boundaries like that’s going to fix anything. This—whatever this is—it’s already there.”
His grip on my hand tightens, his knuckles white against the leather of the seat.
“You’re supposed to be my future wife,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. “So tell me why I’m supposed to keep my hands off you. Why I’m supposed to pretend I don’t want…” He breaks off, his jaw flexing as he stares through the window.
“Why you shouldn’t want what, Jaxon?”
He turns, his gaze heavy and dark. “Why I shouldn't want everything. Because right now? All I can think about is kissing you until you’re breathless, and then going down on you right here in this car. I’m telling you because you need to know exactly what’s happening in my head.”
The air in the cabin feels like it’s been sucked out. I swallow hard, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
“Okay,” I manage, the word barely a whisper.
He freezes, his eyes searching mine for any hint of a joke. “Okay, what?”
“Okay,” I repeat, finding my voice. “You can kiss me. And you can do... that.”
A low, guttural sound escapes his throat—half-growl, half-starved relief.
He doesn’t wait another second.