Liam couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "Point taken."
As Chase returned to his game notes, Liam found his thoughts returning to Libby Bennet-Cross. Her direct questions. Her perceptive analysis. The challenge in her eyes when she'd asked which was the real Liam D'Arcy.
It was a question he sometimes asked himself, the line between public persona and private self increasingly blurred after years of media training and protective distance. The charity event would put them in the same social space, away from the formal structure of press conferences and locker room interviews.
Perhaps Chase was right. Perhaps it was time to show a different side—not to charm the media, but simply to correct a false narrative before it solidified. If Wickham was feeding her lies, she deserved the opportunity to hear another perspective.
Not that it mattered what one temporary reporter thought of him. Liam had faced media scrutiny his entire career without letting it affect his performance. Libby Bennet-Cross's opinion was professionally irrelevant.
So why did it bother him so much?
Liam pushed the question aside, focusing again on the game footage. The playoffs demanded complete concentration. Media perceptions were a distraction he couldn't afford.
Even if those perceptions came from the most perceptive brown eyes he'd encountered in years.
CHAPTER SIX
Libby tugged at the hem of her dress, feeling like an imposter as she entered the Grand Pavilion. The charity casino night venue was exactly as pretentious as its name suggested—all marble columns, crystal chandeliers, and waitstaff carrying trays of champagne that probably cost more per glass than her daily Herald rate.
"Stop fidgeting," Jane whispered beside her. "You look amazing."
"I look like someone playing dress-up," Libby muttered, eyeing her sister's elegant emerald gown with unconcealed envy. Jane moved through the space with natural grace, while Libby felt like she might knock over a priceless vase with every step.
The dress—midnight blue with a subtle shimmer that Jane had insisted "made her skin glow"—was undeniably beautiful. But Libby couldn't shake the feeling that everyone could tell it wasn't hers, that she was just a small-town reporter playing at belonging in this world of Boston elite. Worse, even in her tallest heels it was still a little too long.
"There's Chase," Jane said, her voice maintaining professional composure though Libby didn't miss how her sister's posture straightened slightly.
Across the glittering room, Chase Bingley looked surprisingly at ease in his tuxedo, his usual coaching intensity transformed into relaxed charm as he chatted with a group of donors. When he spotted Jane, his conversation faltered mid-sentence.
"He's got hearts in his eyes like a cartoon character," Libby said.
"Hush," Jane replied, though she didn't deny it. "I'm going to say hello. Will you be alright?"
"I'll observe," Libby said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing server. "Professional distance and all that."
Jane squeezed her hand before crossing the room, immediately getting absorbed into Chase's circle. Libby downed her champagne faster than intended—nerves—and grabbed another when the waiter circled back. The bubbles went straight to her head, but at least it made the overwhelming opulence feel slightly less intimidating.
She was looking for a good vantage point near the entrance when she saw him.
Liam D'Arcy walked into the ballroom and Libby's brain suffered a complete system failure.
The man was devastating in formal wear. His tuxedo fit as if it had been painted onto his athletic frame by an artist with a very specific fantasy about broad shoulders and narrow hips. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, emphasizing the sharp architecture of his face—all angles and shadows and those startlingly intense eyes that were currently scanning the room with cool assessment.
Libby took another sip of champagne and promptly walked into a waiter.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry—" she began, watching in horror as his tray tilted.
Strong hands caught the tray before it could crash, steadying it with the same precise control he showed on ice. Liam wassuddenly right there, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, which absolutely should not have made her stomach flip.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross," he said, releasing the tray once the waiter had control. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," she managed, her voice embarrassingly breathless. "Just... not used to these heels. I'm not drunk."
His eyes dropped briefly to the empty champagne flute in her hand, and she could have sworn she saw amusement flicker across his features. "The champagne here is stronger than most expect."
He signaled to a passing waiter and a moment later pressed a crystal glass of water into her hands.
All she could do was stare at him.
