Chapter 8 - Declan
DECLAN
Nothing to Her
Istand in the ballroom of the Grandeur Hotel, the hand of a woman who is dead inside resting lightly on my arm.
Here, I'm surrounded by politicians, socialites, and people who smile with their mouths but not their eyes. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over marble floors, and a string quartet plays a classical tune that's meant to make everyone feel cultured.
Gregory orchestrated this perfectly.
The woman standing beside me is breathtaking in an objective, clinical way. Platinum blonde hair styled in an elegant updo. Soft, blue eyes. Model-thin frame wrapped in an exquisite silver gown. A senator's daughter, Evangeline Ashford. Every inch of her screams old money and political dynasty.
But she looks frozen. I can probably thaw ice in winter faster than her.
"Smile," she murmurs without moving her lips, her practiced socialite expression never faltering. "Your agent is watching from near the bar."
I paste on a smile that feels like broken glass.
"How long do we have to keep this up?"
"Until our respective jailers decide we've performed adequately." Her fingers tighten lightly on my arm. "We're both prisoners to your agent and my father. The only difference is your cage has better lighting."
I glance down at her, really looking this time. There's exhaustion behind the perfect makeup and designer dress.
"Evangeline..."
"No need to be kind," she cuts me off gently. "It only makes this harder."
A photographer approaches, and we both shift seamlessly into our roles. She leans into me, laughing at something I haven't said. I place my hand on the small of her back, playing the attentive date. The camera flashes, capturing what will become tomorrow's gossip fodder.
NHL Hockey Star and Senator's Daughter: New Power Couple?
The headline practically writes itself.
Gregory will be thrilled. Senator Ashford will approve.
And I'll hate every second of it.
The photographer moves on. Evangeline steps back immediately, putting careful distance between us.
"I need a drink," she says.
"Make it two."
She walks toward the bar.
I scan the crowd, looking for an escape route or someone who won't bore me to tears with discussion about market trends and political campaigns.
That's when I see her.
Ivy.
She's standing near the far wall, talking to an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of a former athlete.
The woman must be Maya O'Connell, Ivy's former research supervisor.
She's tall with dark brown eyes that assess everything with sharp intelligence.
There's an intensity to her presence, the kind of confidence that comes from years of commanding respect in male-dominated spaces.
Yet I barely register Dr. O'Connell because Ivy is wearing emerald green. The dress is modest by gala standards; sleeves to her elbows, hem to her knees.
But it fits.
Actually fits, instead of drowning her petite frame like those oversized cardigans she hides in. The color lightens up her brown eyes, and her straight black hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of being pulled back in a practical ponytail.
She looks radiant and confident. Like she belongs in this room full of accomplished people.
Like she's completely forgotten about me.
Dr. O'Connell says something, and Ivy laughs. It makes her whole face lighten up. It's the kind of laughter I haven't heard from her. A hot, possessive feeling twists in my chest.
Jealousy.
Raw, irrational consuming jealousy.
It seems she's moved past how we were tangled together in that assessment room. We kissed once, and she told me to forget it happened.
Except I can't stop thinking about how she tasted, how she gasped against my mouth, how her fingers fisted in my shirt like she was drowning and I was air.
I need to make her remember what it felt like.
"You're staring," Evangeline says, pressing a glass of champagne into my hand. "It's obvious."
Her eyes follow my gaze. "Who is the brunette in the green dress?"
"No one."
"I'm a senator's daughter. I've been reading people since before I could read books."
But she doesn't press any further. We make small talk until she finally glides away, leaving me standing there with champagne I don't want and thoughts I can't control.
Ivy laughs again. Dr. O'Connell's hand rests briefly on her shoulder in what looks like maternal encouragement. Ivy whispers something in O'Connell's ear and walks to the balcony, still laughing. She looks comfortable and free.
And I'm here in a monkey suit playing pretend with a woman I don't want for an agent who is stealing from me, while the only person I'm interested in thinks I'm a playboy who means nothing.
Screw this.
I abandon the champagne on the nearest table and cross the ballroom, weaving through clusters of guests. The air grows cooler as I approach the balcony doors.
The balcony offers views of the city skyline. Ivy stands at the railing, her back to me, arms wrapped around herself despite the warm evening.
"Running away from the party?" I ask.
She spins around, eyes widening. "Declan, what are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I needed air." She straightens, gesturing at the ballroom. "There are too many people and too much small talk. Shouldn't you be with your date?"
"She's not my date."
"Then what is she?"
I ignore the question and deflect. "Is that jealousy I hear, Dr. Chandler?"
"It's an observation, Hawthorne." But her voice wavers slightly. "You should go inside. People will notice."
"Let them notice."
I close the distance between us, backing her against the railing. The night air carries the scent of her floral perfume. My eyes rest on the base of her neck. What will the consequences be if I bury my face in her neck?
"Have you thought about it?"
"Thought about what?"
"Don't play dumb. You're brilliant, remember?" My voice drops lower.
"About kissing me again. Have you thought about it?"
Her throat works as she swallows. She bites her lip.
"No."
Desire flares inside me as my eyes devour those sweet, small lips.
"Why do you keep lying to me, Doc?"
"I'm not..."
"You bite your lips when you're lying." I reach out, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "Like you're doing right now."
She jerks back. "This is inappropriate."
“It’s only inappropriate if you don’t want me to.”
She presses back against the railing. Her hand lands on my chest, then slides slowly up—to my throat, my jaw.
“I already told you. Kissing again would be a mistake. It was a mistake then. And it would be a mistake now.”
“Are you sure about that?” I lean in, caging her against the railing, my arms braced on either side of her. “Because I’ve replayed our kiss about a thousand times—and it felt pretty damn right to me.”
"Declan..."
Her voice is husky, needy. Her hand touches my lips, I grab the opportunity and suck a finger. Her breathing quickens as she pulls her hand away.
"You need to stop."
"Why? Because your brother said so or because you're scared?"
"I'm not scared."
"Then what are you?"
“Confused!” The word bursts out of her. “You confuse me. One second you’re kissing me, the next you’re mocking my research, then you look at me like—”
She stops, shaking her head.
"Like what?" I ask.
"I don't know who you are."
"Yes, you do."
"I don't. You're a playboy who has kissed dozens of women with this mouth. You're standing here with me while your gorgeous date is inside waiting for you." Her voice breaks slightly. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not interested.
"That woman inside is just..." I can't bring myself to call Evangeline my friend, so I change the words instead. "...she's not my date."
"Then why bring her?"
"Does that matter?" I ask, frustration bleeding into my voice. "I'm choosing to be here with you right now."
"Well, I'm not choosing you."
The words fill me with pain.
"Ivy…"
"Declan." Evangeline's voice cuts through the tension.
I turn abruptly in annoyance.
She is standing in the balcony doorway, backlit by the ballroom's golden glow. Her expression is perfectly pleasant, but her eyes hold a warning.
"There you are. The photographer wants a few more shots before we leave, and Father wants us to make an appearance at the after-party."
She's giving me an out. Or maybe she's protecting herself by making sure the carefully constructed narrative doesn't crumble.
I step back from Ivy reluctantly. "I'll be right there."
Evangeline's eyes assess Ivy. "Dr. Chandler, isn't it? I heard about your research earlier."
"Thank you," Ivy says in a steady voice. All traces of our argument have vanished behind her professional mask.
"Declan, darling."
Evangeline holds out her hand, the endearment dripping with false affection. The cameras flash from inside the ballroom, catching the three of us. I play my part and leave, Evangeline's arm through mine.
The photos hit gossip sites before midnight.
“Declan Hawthorne and Evangeline Ashford spotted at charity gala. Sources say the chemistry was undeniable.”
There's a picture of Evangeline laughing at something I said. My hand is on her back and my eyes are trained on her, like she's the only thing that matters in my world.
It's complete bullshit.
But buried in the third paragraph of one article, there's a little line that warms my blood:
However, photographers also captured what appeared to be a heated conversation between Hawthorne and Dr. Ivy Chandler on the hotel balcony. The nature of their relationship remains unclear.
My phone rings a few minutes later.
It's Gregory.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asks in an icy tone. "I arrange the perfect setup, and you jeopardize it by cornering Marcus's Chandler's sister on a balcony?"
"It wasn't..."
"I don't care what it was. Do you know what favors I had to trade and threats I had to make to ensure the photos don't leak? Stay away from her."
"You don't control my personal life."
His voice drops dangerously low. "I control your career, endorsements, and public image. You're under contract, Declan. You agreed to maintain a certain standard of behavior. That includes not screwing around with your teammate's sister at a public event."
"She's a colleague. We were talking about her research."
"The photos suggest otherwise." There are several notification sounds. "The Evangeline arrangement is working. Don't sabotage it because you can't keep it in your pants."
Rage floods through me. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what? You'll fire me?" His sharp and cold laugh comes through the phone. "We both know you won't. You need me, Declan. You always have."
The line goes dead.
Several beeping sounds come from my phone. They're messages of photos sent by Gregory.
I sit in my penthouse, staring at them. In one, Evangeline is looking perfect. The other photographs show a happy, celebrity couple.
What a lie!
Then I see the shots of Ivy and me on the balcony.
She's almost invisible in the first photo, except for her legs showing under my spread-apart legs.
The damning picture makes it look like we were kissing.
I didn't even get to suck those lips. In another, I've shifted slightly to the side and her face is tilted up toward mine.
I should text Ivy and explain or apologize. Instead, I text her as King.
King:
Hello, Ivy. You still up?
The response comes quickly.
Ivy:
Unfortunately. Can't sleep.
King:
Bad day?
Ivy:
Annoying day. Went to a charity gala and saw some people I didn't want to see.
My chest tightens.
King:
Anyone in particular?
There's a long pause. The typing indicator appears and disappears several times.
Ivy:
Just someone from work.
But I want to know how she sees Declan, not King. I send the picture of just me and her, where she's clearly visible.
King:
A journalist friend of mine sent this to me, saying that's your picture with a man. Who is he?
I’m fishing, testing. Trying to understand what she’s thinking without revealing myself.
Nothing.
The typing bubble doesn’t appear. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and loud.
I shouldn’t push. I know that. I push anyway.
King:
Does he matter to you?
The second I send it, I grimace. I sound unhinged. Jealous. Like some possessive asshole she has zero reason to reassure.
But the truth is simpler—and more dangerous.
If she won’t admit anything to me, maybe she’ll admit it to King. Maybe she’ll say something she doesn’t realize matters. Maybe she’ll trust the version of me she thinks is safe.
The minutes tick by. I set the phone down. Pick it up again.
Then it buzzes.
Ivy:
Why would he matter to me?
King:
Just asking.
Ivy:
He’s just a hockey player from work. The man in those photos means nothing to me.
Weighty disappointment crushes my ribs.
I mean nothing to her. She’s dismissing the way she looked at me on that balcony like I was both her destruction and salvation.
Another text appears on my screen.
Ivy:
You matter to me, King.
It only makes things worse.
She trusts King, opens up to King, feels safe with King. But she runs from Declan, denying her sizzling attraction to him and thinking he's just another playboy who doesn't care.
I’ve built a trap of my own making.
One where I want Ivy as two different versions of myself
And I have no idea how to escape it without losing her.