I've hated Dante Cross for 1,095 days. Every. Single. One. Three years ago, Dante Cross got Harper Vaughn's father fired–ruining her family and shattering her trust in men forever. Now he's the Seattle Storm's golden captain, and she's the team psychologist forced to fix his messes. When Harper's ex launches a smear campaign to destroy her career, and Dante's own scandal explodes across every headline, he does the unthinkable. He asks her to be his fake girlfriend. She'll wear his jersey. Kiss him goodnight for the paparazzi. Share his bed when the team travels. All while remembering exactly why she swore to hate him forever. She should say no. She wants to say no. But desperation makes liars of them all. Because she's desperate. Because she needs this. Because for six months, she can pretend to love him... and make him pay for every second of it. ------------------------------ Harper's POV I can do this. I have been working for Seattle Storm for three months, successfully avoided that terrible, indescribable monster named Dante Cross. Until…today. Marcus Kane's voice still echoes in my head from twenty minutes ago: mandatory one-on-one psychological evaluations for all players, starting with the captain, starting today, starting in two hours. No exceptions. I tried to argue. Told Kane that Dante's performance metrics were excellent, his leadership scores off the charts, no red flags whatsoever. Kane just gave me that look, the one that says he knows exactly what I'm doing and he's not having it. "Everyone, Harper. No exceptions." So here I am, sitting in my office with the door open, tablet on my lap, trying to look professional instead of like a woman about to face the person who destroyed her family. The observation room above the practice rink has been my sanctuary these past three months. I can watch the team, @n@lyze their dynamics, A$$ess their mental states, all from behind glA$$ where no one notices me staring. Where I can deliberately not look at number 9 as he skates through drills with that same fluidity he had at eighteen. I've gotten good at not looking at him. I've gotten good at a lot of things since I took this job. Compartmentalizing. Maintaining professional distance. Pretending the past doesn't claw at my throat every time I walk into this building. My phone buzzes. I glance down; three missed calls from Mom's neurologist. My stomach twists. I silence it, make a mental note to call back after this session. After I survive sitting in a room with Dante Cross and pretending I'm a functional human being. The medication prior authorization was denied again last week. I already know what the neurologist is calling about. Another appeal, another fight with insurance, another month of watching my bank account drain while I pray nothing changes before the approval goes through. Fifty-four hundred dollars a month for the drvgs that keep my mother's MS from stealing her ability to walk. I have thirty-two hundred in my checking account and two thousand in savings that I'm not supposed to touch. I need this job. Need the salary, the benefits, the insurance that means my mother gets to keep her independence for a few more years. Which means I need to sit across from Dante Cross in approximately ten minutes and do my job without letting three years of rage show on my face. I can do this. I've done harder things. Except I haven't, not really. I've avoided harder things. Blocked his phone numbers, refused explanations, built walls so high that even thinking about that day makes my ch3st tight. The day I watched my father walk out of this building, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow. The day everything we had crumbled because Dante Cross decided his lies mattered more than the man who'd been a father to him when his own wouldn't. I close my eyes, force myself to breathe. Professional. Stay Professional Harper. I am Dr. Harper Vaughn, sports psychologist with a doctorate from Columbia, three years of clinical experience, published research on athlete mental health and performance optimization. I am qualified for this position. I earned this position. I catch my reflection in the darkened computer screen. Dark brown hair pulled back in my usual low ponytail, not a strand out of place. Hazel eyes that look more green than gold today, rimmed with my dark circles that no amount of concealer can fully hide. I bit my lips, tapping my heel against the wooden floor. The fact that my last name is Vaughn is irrelevant. The fact that my father used to coach here is irrelevant. The fact that the team captain destroyed my family is— Footsteps in the hallway. My spine straightens automatically. I open my tablet, pull up the blank evaluation form, arrange my face into som3thing neutral and professional. Yes, I know, I have repeated professional more than ten times. The footsteps stop outside my door. I don't look up. Not yet. Let him wait. Let him see that I'm busy, that this is just another appointment, that he doesn't matter. Except my hands are shaking slightly and I grip the tablet tighter to hide it. "Dr. Vaughn." His voice. Deeper than I remember, rougher. I haven't heard him say my name in three years. I look up. Dante Cross fills my doorway. Six-foot-three of lean muscle and arrogant certainty, dirty blond hair still damp from practice, ice-blue eyes that see too much. He's wearing Storm workout gear, muscular arms crossed over his ch3st, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the building. He probably does, in all the ways that matter. Our eyes meet. The air shifts, charges with som3thing I refuse to name. Three years of silence crashes between us. Three years of blocked numbers and avoided hallways and careful scheduling to never be in the same room. All of it, shattered. I force my voice steady. "Mr. Cross. Please, come in." He doesn't move immediately. Just stands there, studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve. Like he has any right to look at me that way after what he did. "It's Dante," he says finally, pushing off the doorframe. "This is a professional evaluation, Mr. Cross." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Please sit." He steps inside. Closes the door behind him. The click of the latch feels too loud. It made the room shrink. My office is small, just a desk, two chairs, a bookshelf, and a window overlooking the parking lot. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Dante sits. Sprawls, really, all casual confidence and controlled power. He's always moved like this, like the world rearranges itself around him instead of the other way around. I hate that I remember that. I hate that I notice. I tap open the evaluation form, focus on the screen instead of his face. "This is a standard psychological check-in. All responses are confidential unless you indicate intent to harm yourself or others. Do you understand?" "I understand that you're pretending you don't hate me." My jaw tightens. I keep my eyes on the tablet. "My personal feelings are irrelevant to this evaluation." "Liar." The word hits like a physical blow. I look up, meet his eyes. Mistake. He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin Pr1ckle. Not angry, not smug, just... som3thing. Som3thing that feels too much like the boy who used to bring me hot chocolate and Te@se me about my terrible taste in music. That boy doesn't exist anymore. I k1lled him the same day Dante k1lled my father's career and ruined our lives. "Mr. Cross," I say, voice ice, "if you're not going to take this seriously—" "I'm taking it very seriously." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm just wondering how long you're going to keep up the professional act before you admit you'd rather be anywhere else right now." "This is my job." "That's not an answer." Heat crawls up my neck. "The question was whether you're taking this evaluation seriously, not whether I enjoy conducting it." "So you admit you don't enjoy it." I want to throw the tablet at his head. Wanting to Scre@m at him, three years of rage finally unleashed. Want to demand why he did it, why he destroyed everything, why he never even tried to explain. Instead, I set the tablet down carefully. Fold my hands on my desk. "Let's e@blish some ground rules," I say. "You will answer my questions honestly. You will not deflect with personal attacks. And you will address me as Dr. Vaughn, not Harper, because we are not friends and we are not anything else. Are we clear?" His eyes didn't change, he kept on staring at me with the same look he always had but a smirk appeared on his lips. "Crystal," he says. Silence stretches between us. Outside my window, cars pull out of the parking lot. Practice ended ten minutes ago. The building is emptying. Soon it'll just be us, alone in this suffocating office. I pick up the tablet again. "First question: How would you rate your current stress level on a scale of—" "Why did you take this job?" I freeze. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." He tilts his head, studying me. "Why did you take a job with the team whose captain destroyed your father? Doesn't exactly seem like a healthy choice, Dr. Vaughn." My fingers dig into the tablet edge. "That's not…this isn't about me." "Isn't it?" He leans back, arms crossed. "You've been here three months. Haven't spoken to me once. Scheduled your office hours to avoid mine. And now Kane forces you into this room with me and you're acting like it's just another evaluation." His eyes bore into mine. "So I'll ask again: why are you really here?" Because I need the salary and the insurance and the career I built outside my father's shadow. Because I earned this position and I refuse to let you drive me away from it. Because proving I belong here is the only power I have left. I don't say any of that. Instead, I meet his stare, let him see exactly how much I don't want to be here, how much his presence makes my skin crawl and my heart race and my hands shake with rage. "This session is over," I say quietly. Dante doesn't move. Just watches me with those blue eyes that see too much. "Thought so," he murmurs. He stands. Walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the handle. Turns back. "For what it's worth," he says, voice lower now, almost gentle, "I'm sorry you're stuck doing this. I know you'd rather pretend I don't exist." My throat tightens. I force myself to stay silent. He opens the door. Steps into the hallway. Looks back one more time. "But I'm not sorry I'll see you again next week." .............................................................................. I sit frozen in my chair, staring at the space Dante just occupied, trying to process what happened. My hands are still shaking. I press them flat against the desk, but it doesn't help. The careful armor I built this morning feels like it's cracking at the seams. He was here. In my office. 1095 days. That's how long I've hated Dante Cross. And in less than an hour, all of it crumbled. I had to sit across from him and pretend I was professional while every cell in my body Scre@med to run. My hands were still shaking. I set the tablet down before I drop it, press my palms flat against the desk. Breathe. Just breathe. "I'm not sorry I'll see you again next week." His words echo in my head. I Gr0@ned. “Get out of my head, you Vile SNAKE!” I ran a hand through my hair biting my lower lip. Next week. Another session. Another hour trapped in this suffocating room with him, pretending the past doesn't exist, pretending I don't feel the hatred burning through my ch3st every time I look at his annoyingly handsome face. I can't do this for six months of weekly sessions. I'll break. Or worse, I'll say som3thing I can't take back, som3thing that'll get me fired and prove I never should've taken this job in the first place. My phone buzzes on the desk. Dr. Sullivan. Again. I grab it, step out of my office into the hallway. I need air, space, anything that doesn't smell like cedar and arrogance. I lean against the wall, one hand pressed to my stomach like I can physically hold myself together. My ponytail has come loose—a few strands falling around my face. I don't bother fixing them I answer the call. "Dr. Sullivan, I know. I'm working on the appeal, I promise—" "Harper, stop." His voice is tight, "This isn't about the appeal." My stomach drops. "What do you mean?" "Your mother's condition is declining faster than we anticipated. The vision problems we discussed last month are worsening. She's experiencing increased fatigue, mobility issues. We can't wait six to eight weeks for the insurance company to process the appeal." I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy. "But the medication—" "Costs fifty-four hundred dollars a month without coverage. I know. But Harper, we need to start treatment now, not in two months. Every week we wait increases the risk of permanent damage." I close my eyes. Do the math I've been avoiding. Two months. Ten thousand eight hundred dollars. I have thirty-two hundred in checking, two thousand in savings I swore I wouldn't touch. I'm eight thousand six hundred dollars short. "I don't have that much, I am nine thousand dollars short," I whisper. "I know." Dr. Sullivan's voice softens. He's known my family since I was a kid, watched my father's career implode, saw what it did to all of us. "Harper, I'm sorry. But there's som3thing else." "What?" "Have you checked your social media today?" I frown. "I don't use social media. You know that." "You need to check. Now. Because your name is all over it, and if what people are saying affects your position at the Storm..." He trails off, but I hear the unspoken threat. If I lose this job, I lose the insurance. If I lose the insurance, my mother loses access to the best healthcare coverage in the state. "What are people saying?" "Just check, Harper. And call me back." The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, dread pooling in my stomach. I deleted all my social media accounts two years ago, after my ex-boyfriend, Blake Morrison, Vancouver Thunder's star center, couldn't stand that I had a life outside of him. Couldn't stand that I didn't post about him constantly, didn't tag him in every photo, didn't perform our relationship for his 2 million followers. So I deleted everything. Blocked his number when we broke up two months ago. But I still have the apps buried in a folder somewhere. I found Twitter. Open it. My hands shake as I type my name into the search bar. The results load. My name is trending. Me…of all people…was trending on…Twitter??? I scroll through the posts, each one worse than the last, my fingers shook more than when I was in the same room with Dante. ScreenShóts of text messages I never sent. Timestamps on messages that were altered. Conversations fabricated. Blake's name at the top of every thread. "Harper Vaughn fed me Storm strategies all season. Conflict of interest. She's been sabotaging her own team, that's one of the reasons we won the last match." The post has fifty thousand retweets. The comments underneath are vicious. "She slept her way into that job." "Daddy's girl couldn't handle being fired so she became a mole." "Storm needs to terminate her immediately." No. No no no. I scroll faster, desperate to find someone defending me, someone who sees this is fake, fabricated, impossible. But there's nothing. Just post after post tearing me apart, calling me a traitor, a liar, a fraud. My vision blurs. I blink hard, refuse to cry in this hallway where anyone could walk by. I didn't send those messages. I never gave Blake inside information. I would never betray this team, no matter how much I hate Dante, no matter what happened with my father. But nobody cares about the truth. They care about the story. And Blake just gave them a perfect one: the fired coach's daughter seeks revenge by sabotaging the team from the inside. My phone rings in my hand. Marcus Kane. I answer, voice shaking. "Marcus—" "My office. Now." The line goes dead. I stand in the hallway, phone clutched in my trembling hand, Blake's lies trending on every screen in America, my mother's medication slipping further out of reach with every second I stand here frozen. This can't be happening. I force my legs to move, walk toward Marcus's office like I'm walking toward my own execution. The hallway feels too long, too bright. Other staff members glance at me as I pA$$. Do they know? Have they seen the posts? Do they believe I'm a traitor? Oh God. I bit my lips, running a hand through my hair as I took a deep breath, but it did nothing. I reach Marcus's door. Raise my hand to knock. It swings open before I can. Marcus stands there, face grim. "Come in." I step inside. And freeze. Dante is already sitting in one of the chairs across from Marcus's desk. He looks up. Our eyes meet. For one second, I see som3thing flash across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or concern. Then it's gone, replaced by that same unreadable mask he wore in my office. "Sit," Marcus says. I don't move. "What is he doing here?" "Sit down, Harper." I sit in the chair farthest from Dante, spine rigid, hands clenched in my lap. Marcus closes the door. Walks around his desk. Doesn't sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, looking between the two of us like we're problems he has to solve simultaneously. "I'm going to make this very simple," he says. "Both of you are in serious trouble. Harper, the board has been calling me all morning about Blake Morrison's accusations. They want you suspended pending investigation." My throat tightens. "Marcus, those texts are fake. I never—" He holds up a hand. "I believe you. But the board doesn't care what I believe. They care about optics. And right now, the optics are terrible." He turns to Dante. Pulls out his phone. Shows him the screen. I can't see what's on it from here, but I watch Dante's jaw clench, watch his hands tighten on the armrests. "Your fiancée," Marcus says flatly, "was photographed last n1ght with Ryan Morrison. Blake Morrison Brother. Thunder's right wing. The photos are everywhere." Isabella. Dante's perfect, polished fiancée. The senator's daughter he's supposed to marry in three months. Cheating on him. With a player from our rival team. I should feel vindicated. Should feel satisfied that Dante's perfect life is crumbling just like mine. But all I feel is numb. Marcus sets his phone down. "So here's where we are. Harper's being accused of corporate espionage. Dante's public image just took a mA$$ive hit. The board is questioning both of your positions with this organization. And I have forty-eight hours to convince them not to fire both of you. After last month loss, they are pissed." Silence. Then Dante speaks, voice cold. "Leave us alone." .............................................................................. Marcus's eyebrows rise. "Excuse me?" "Give us ten minutes. We'll figure it out." Marcus looks between us. "You two can b@rely stand to be in the same room." "Ten minutes," Dante repeats. Marcus studies us for a long moment. Then sighs. "Fine. Ten minutes. Fix this mess or you're both gone." He walks out. Closes the door behind him. Leaving me alone with Dante Cross for the second time today. The silence is suffocating. I keep my eyes on the wall behind Marcus's desk, refuse to look at Dante, refuse to acknowledge the tension crackling between us. "Now I understand," Dante says quietly. I can't help it. I look at him. "Understand what?" "Why you really took this job." My hands clench. "What's that supposed to mean?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees, those blue eyes boring into mine. "Revenge. You wanted inside access to the Storm. Used Blake Morrison to feed him strategies, tank our season. The first time Vancouver be@t us this year, you'd been working here exactly two months." The accusation hits like a slap. I stand up so fast my chair sc@pes against the floor. "Are you F*cking serious right now?" "Am I wrong?" "Yes!" My voice cracks, rage and exhaustion finally breaking through. "You think I wanted to work here? To see your face every single day and remember what you did to my family? I took this job because I earned it. Because I have a doctorate from Columbia. Because I need the salary and insurance for my mother's medical bills. Not because I give a single Sh1t about hurting you or this team!" Dante goes still. I'm shaking now, three years of held-back words finally spilling out. "Those texts are fake. I never sent them. I would never betray the Storm, no matter how much I hate you. Because unlike you, I have integrity." The words hang between us, sharp and cutting. Dante stands slowly. Walks toward me. I back up until I hit Marcus's desk. He stops a foot away. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "I know," he says quietly. I blink. "What?" "I know you didn't send those texts. I know you wouldn't betray this team." His voice drops lower. "You have too much integrity for that just like you– even if you hate me." I don't know what to say. Don't know how to process Dante Cross defending me when he should be my enemy. "Then why—" "Because I needed to hear you say it." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair. "I needed to know you didn't take this job to destroy me." "Why would you care?" He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with som3thing I can't name. The silence stretches. Then Dante says, "What if we gave them a different story?" I frown. "What are you talking about?" "You're being accused of feeding information to your ex-boyfriend on a rival team. My fiancée just cheated on me with a player from that same rival team and your ex brother. What if..." He pauses. "What if we were together?" I stare at him. "Are you insane?" "Think about it. If you and I are dating, you'd never betray the Storm to Blake. You're loyal to me, to this team. And I'm not some heartbroken mess whose fiancée cheated, I knew about her cheating and I've moved on. I'm @ble, focused, in a committed relationship with the team's psychologist." "This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard." "You have a better idea?" I open my mouth. Close it. Because I don't. I don't have any idea how to fix this. Dante moves closer again. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat coming off him. "Six months," he says. "Public appearances. Staged relationship. We fix both our reputations, save both our jobs. Then we walk away clean." "I don't need your help." "Yes, you do." His voice is gentle, and somehow that's worse than if he'd been cruel. "I heard you on the phone earlier. In the hallway. Ten thousand eight hundred dollars for your mother's medication." My face goes hot. "You were eavesdropping?" "I wasn't trying to. But I heard." He holds my gaze. "Let me help." "I don't want your charity, Dante." "It's not charity. It's a business transaction." He leans against Marcus's desk, arms crossed. "You help me fix my reputation. I help you keep your job and your mother's insurance. We both get what we need." "And when it's over?" "We go back to hating each other." I should say no. Should tell him to go to H3ll, that I'd rather lose everything than owe him a single thing. But I think about my mother. Her vision problems and mobility issues. The medication she needs now, not in two months. I think about Blake's lies destroying everything I worked for. I think about how much I need this job, this insurance, this one chance to prove I belong here. "Six months," I hear myself say. "We fix this. Then we're done. And you don't get to hold the money over me. Ever." "You got yourself a deal." .............................................................................. This is a terrible idea. I knew it the second Marcus walked back into the office with his hands in his pockets. He stops behind his desk. Doesn't sit. Just looks between us with the expression of a man who's already calculating how badly this could blow up in his face. "Well," he says finally. "I'm glad you both didn't k1ll each other." I keep my spine straight, hands folded in my lap like I'm in a job interview instead of pitching the most insane solution either of us could've conceived. Dante leans back in his chair, casual, like we discussed the weather. "We have a proposal." Marcus's eyebrows rise. "I'm listening." I force myself to speak before I lose my nerve. "What if the board had a different narrative? Instead of two separate scandals that make us both look compromised..." "We give them a love story," Dante finishes. Silence. Marcus stares at us. "A love story." "We're dating," Dante says, voice steady and sure like he's stating a fact instead of constructing a lie. "Have been for a few weeks. Quietly, because of the history with Harper's father. We wanted to keep it private." "You two." Marcus points between us. "Dating." "We knew each other as kids," I add, hating how rehearsed this sounds even though we never rehearsed it. "When my father coached here. Dante and I were... friends." The word tastes like ash. Marcus crosses his arms. "Friends." "We reconnected when Harper started working here," Dante continues. "Realized the connection was still there. Started seeing each other privately." "And Blake Morrison's accusations?" Marcus's voice is sharp now, skeptical. "Fabricated revenge," I say. "We broke up two months ago. He couldn't handle it. Blake knew about my past with the Storm, my father's history here. He's trying to destroy my credibility because I rejected him." "And your fiancée?" Marcus turns to Dante. "Was never really my fiancée." Dante's jaw tightens. "My father arranged it. Business merger, political connections. Isabella and I were going through the motions. When I told her about Harper, she didn't take it well. Besides, I knew she was cheating all along." “Besides, we had to act like we hate each other so our coworkers doesn't know. It's like…Workplace…romance?” I spoke, skeptical about what I am saying as I look at Dante whose eyes were fixed on Marcus. Marcus is quiet for a long moment. Then he walks around his desk, sits down heavily in his chair, studies us both with those sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. "You two are dating." "We—" "Stop. Just stop. Harper, three months ago you requested office hours specifically to avoid him. Now you're telling me you've been secretly F*cking him for weeks?” My face goes red. "We haven't—it's not—" "We've been seeing each other. Privately. It's new. We just said that.” Marcus squinted his eyes. "And I'm supposed to believe this? That the woman who blocked your number three years ago suddenly decided to give you another chance? Or did you forget I am very much aware what happened between the two of you?” He chuckled mockingly. "You expect me to believe," he says slowly, "that you two—who haven't spoken in three years, who I've watched carefully schedule around each other for three months—are suddenly in…love?" "Not love," Dante corrects. "Not yet. But dating. Seeing where it goes." "Harper." Marcus looks directly at me. "Three months ago you specifically requested your office hours not overlap with team practice. You asked to review player files alphabetically so Dante's wouldn't come first. You've avoided him like he carries a contagious disease." Heat crawls up my neck. "I wasn't ready to face what happened between us. The history with my father made everything complicated." "And now?" I meet his eyes. "Now I don't have a choice. Blake forced my hand by going public. And I realized... holding onto anger for three years hasn't helped anyone. Maybe it's time to let go and show our…sides." The lie slides out smoother than I expected. Maybe because part of it isn't a lie, I am tired of carrying this hatred. Just not tired enough to actually forgive him. Marcus leans back, fingers steepled under his chin. "The board will never buy this." "They will if we sell it right," Dante says. "And how exactly do you plan to sell a relationship between the team psychologist and the captain whose report got her father fired?" "Childhood sweethearts." Dante's voice is calm, measured. "Separated by cirCûmstance, reunited by fate. People love a second-chance story." "People also love exposing liars." Marcus's voice hardens. "If this falls apart, if anyone discovers you're faking this, it'll be worse than the original scandals. You'll both be finished. Everyone would know you are liars. Not just with the Storm, with your entire careers." My stomach twists. He's right. If this blows up, I'll never work in sports psychology again. Dante will lose his captaincy, maybe his place in the league entirely. But what choice do I have? "It won't fall apart," Dante says. "You sure about that?" Marcus looks at me. "Harper, can you really spend months pretending to care about the man who destroyed your family?" Yes hovers on my tongue. Professional. Automatic. But Dante answers first. "She won't have to pretend." His eyes meet mine, som3thing unreadable flickering there. "I told you we are in love.” Marcus sighs, long and heavy. Picks up his phone. Sets it down. Stands. Paces to the window overlooking the practice rink. "If I agree to this," he says without turning around, "there are conditions." Relief and dread flood through me simultaneously. "You sell this one hundred percent, because I for one do not believe it," Marcus continues. "There shall be no slip-ups. No public fighting. No one can suspect this is anything other than real." "Understood," Dante says. "You'll need to be seen together. Often. Team events, public appearances, social media." My stomach churns with nervousness. "I'll handle the board," Marcus says. "Spin this as a positive, team psychologist and captain supporting each other through difficvlt cirCûmstances. But you two need to give me som3thing to work with. Tomorrow afternoon, there's a charity event at Seattle Children's Hospital. Storm players are volunteering. You'll both be there. Together." Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to look like a couple instead of two people who despise each other. "Done," Dante says. Marcus finally turns around. Looks at me. "Harper? You're awfully quiet." Because I'm trying not to throw up. This is insane. I just agreed to let Dante Cross pay my mother's medical bills and pretend to date him and lie to everyone I know, why won't I be quiet. "I'm in," I say. Marcus studies us both for another long moment. Then nods once, sharp and final. "Fine. But if this blows up, don't say I didn't warn you." He sits back down, opens his laptop. "Now get out of my office. I have a board meeting in an hour and I need to figure out how to sell them on the team's psychologist dating the captain without sounding completely insane." I stand. Dante stands. We walk to the door together. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him. Marcus's voice stops us before we leave. "And Dante? Harper?" We turn. "If I find out this is fake, that you are playing all of us," he says quietly, "you're both gone. No second chances. Understood?" "Understood," we say in unison. We step into the hallway. The door closes behind us. And I realize, standing there with Dante Cross beside me in the empty corridor, that I just lied to one of the few people at the Storm who actually believed in me and made sure I had this job. The weight of it settles on my ch3st like concrete. Dante looks at me. "Tomorrow, three PM. I'll pick you up." "I can drive myself." "We're dating now, Harper. Boyfriends pick up their girlfriends." The word boyfriend coming out of his mouth in reference to himself makes my skin crawl. "Fine. But you're not coming inside my apartment." "Wouldn't dream of it." He starts walking away, then pauses and looks back. "For what it's worth... thank you." I don't know what he's thanking me for. Agreeing to this insanity? Saving his reputation? I don't ask. Just watch him walk away down the hallway, broad shoulders and confident stride, like he didn't just upend both our lives. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Gabriella: Girl, CALL ME. Your name is all over Twitter and I'm freaking out. I stare at the message. Tomorrow I'll have to lie to my best friend. Tell her I'm dating Dante. Convince her it's real. Tomorrow I'll have to stand next to him at a children's hospital and smile like I don't hate him. But ton1ght, alone in this hallway with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and my heart hammering in my ch3st, I let myself feel the full weight of what I just agreed to. Six months of Dante Cross. Six months of lying. I close my eyes. Breathe. Remember Harper, it's all for the best. .............................................................................. Dante's POV I did it. Of all the ideas I could've thought of, I chose the worst one. I sit in my car in the parking garage, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel. Harper Vaughn. I just agreed to fake date Harper Vaughn for six months. She's hated me for three years. I got her father fired. And three years ago, when she was 21 and I was 23, I kissed her, too stupid then to know it would haunt me forever. I should feel relieved. The plan makes sense strategically. Her scandal, my scandal, one solution. Marcus didn't but it, but I didn't care. I knew she had been avoiding me and wanted to use this to taunt her. But in all honesty, I missed her. So F*cking bad even though I know I desevere her hate. Imagine after kissing the girl who I had a crush on, then three weeks later, her whole life got upended because of me. I mean, I would hate me too. She looked at me with pure hatred in Marcus's office. When I proposed the arrangement and when I offered to help with her mother's medical bills. I can cover that amount without blinking. It's nothing to me. But it's everything to her. And now she's agreed to six months of pretending to care about me just to keep her job, to save her mother. This is a terrible idea. She's going to make me pay for this every single day. But I owe her this. I owe her family everything. Because it's my fault. It's always...my fault. I start the engine. Drive out of the garage into Seattle traffic, heading toward my penthouse in the city. The drive takes twenty minutes. I park in the building's underground garage, take the elevator to the top floor. The penthouse is too big, too empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Elliott Bay and the city lights below. Minimalist furniture, expensive art I don't care about, a kitchen I rarely use. I pour two fingers of whiskey. Don't drink it. Just hold the glA$$ and stare out at the water. Tomorrow afternoon, I pick up Harper at three PM. We go to Seattle Children's Hospital for the charity event. Smile for cameras. Pretend we're falling in love. I ran a hand through my hair, setting down the glA$$ and walked to the window. My eyes stared out into nothing, all I could see was her face. Her delicate face with those soft luscious lips. The memory slowly creeps in before I can stop it. **** Three years ago. Late n1ght at the rink. I was twenty three, last season as a Storm rookie, b@rely keeping my head above water trying to prove I belonged in the NHL. Coach Vaughn had called an overtime practice. Pushed us through drills until my legs burned and my lungs Scre@med for air. Harper sat in the stands doing homework. Her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing her father's old Storm hoodie that was three sizes too big. She looked cute sitting there, her face all scrunched up. I chuckled to myself, she does that thing with her nose whenever she is upset. My eyes moved to her lips which have parted slowly too. Those pink luscious lips. I quickly looked away, blinking away the view of her but that image didn't leave my head. I cleared my throat, grabbing two hot chocolates from the vending machine after practice. Climbed the bleachers and sat beside her. "You're still here," I said. "Dad's my ride." She didn't look up from her textbook. "And I'm failing this clA$$." "Need help?" "You're a hockey player. What do you know about chemistry?" I grinned. "More than you'd think." She finally looked at me. Smiled. That smile did som3thing to my ch3st I didn't understand. “I doubt it Dante. But then again knowing that you are the perfect Cross boy then maybe you might be good at Chemistry. But then again, what do I know.” I chuckled. “You know nothing Harper Vaughn.” We talked for an hour. She Te@sed me about missing an easy Shót during practice, mimicked my reaction with exaggerated dramatics until I laughed so hard I nearly Ch0ked on hot chocolate. The arena emptied around us. Just us and the overhead lights and the cold smell of ice. The moment shifted. She looked at me differently. Not like Coach Vaughn's annoying daughter looking at her dad's player. Like Harper looking at Dante. I didn't know what came over me then. I kissed her. My hands moving to her waist, pulling her close to me, my lips connecting deeply with hers. Her textbook slid off her lap. Her hands fisted in my practice jersey. She kissed me back, but her lips were unsure. That told me this was her first kiss, told me I was taking som3thing I had no right to claim. I pulled away instantly. @nic flooding through me. "We can't," I said, voice rough. "Your dad would k1ll me. I'm sorry." Harper's face flushed red. She grabbed her textbook, wouldn't meet my eyes. "It's fine. Forget it." "Harper—" "I said it's fine, Dante. Just forget it happened." We never talked about it again. Three weeks later, I did what I did. Coach Vaughn was fired with multiple lawsuits. People thought that it was just a spoilt brat who now had the t1tle of captaincy and wanted things to chance and I took the name of an arrogant rich who made one of the best coaches of Storm to be left with nothing. I tried to call Harper. Left voicemails trying to explain. She blocked my number. Refused to see me. Her father lost his job. Their family lost everything. And I was the reason. She hated me. And I'd kissed her three weeks before destroying her world. ----------------------- Due to the word limit, it can only be updated here! 👉👉Open the app and continue reading the rest of the story.👉(It will automatically jump to the book when you open the app.)
