"Libby, darling!" An older woman with diamonds the size of quail eggs settled into the seat beside her. "I'm Vivian Lodge—call me Vivi—and I've been dying to meet you. My husband ownsthe Bruins, and we're all fascinated by your fresh perspective on hockey journalism."
As Vivi chattered, the cards were dealt. Libby tried to focus, but between the champagne, Vivi's overwhelming perfume, and Gray's increasingly tense energy as his phone continued buzzing, she could barely follow the game.
"Oh, just go all in, dear," Vivi advised. "It makes things so much more exciting!"
Libby looked at her cards—two queens, that seemed good?—and pushed her chips forward. "Sure, why not? It's for charity."
She won.
Then she won again.
And again.
Someone's wife—a beautiful redhead dripping in diamonds—had appeared and was running her fingers along Gray's shoulders while her husband remained oblivious at the roulette wheel. "Listen, Libby, now that you're rich, maybe you can pick up the tab on that dinner we discussed?" Gray joked, but there was a hard glint in his eyes as he watched her accumulating chips.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Steel's PR director appeared with a photographer. "Let's get a photo of our high-stakes heroes! All proceeds to the children's hospital, of course."
That's when Libby noticed the digital display behind their table showing the current pot value.
$100,000.
The room tilted slightly.
"Wait," she said faintly. "These chips... what denomination..."
"Smile!" the photographer commanded.
The flash went off as Libby stared in horror at the mountain of chips in front of her. She'd been playing with thousand-dollar chips, not the tens and twenties she'd assumed. The "fewhands for charity" had turned into a six-figure commitment she absolutely could not afford.
"Our newest philanthropist!" the PR director announced. "Ms. Bennet-Cross from the Herald, showing up Boston's elite with a $100,000 donation!"
The room erupted in applause. Libby's face felt frozen in what she hoped looked like a smile rather than a rictus of panic. More champagne appeared—everyone wanted to toast the "generous young journalist"—and she drank it because what else could she do?
"Such wonderful publicity for the Herald!" someone gushed.
"Your parents must be so proud!"
"We need you at our foundation dinner next month!"
Libby was calculating frantically. $100,000 was three years' salary. More than her parents' mortgage. More than she'd make in... oh God, she was going to have to flee the country. Could you claim bankruptcy over charity pledges? Was debtors' prison still a thing?
"Excuse me," she managed, standing abruptly. The room spun slightly. "I need to... powder room."
She fled, weaving slightly in her heels, desperately seeking air. The ballroom felt too hot, too bright, too full of people who thought she could casually drop $100,000 on charity. Behind her, she could hear the PR team organizing the presentation—there would be a giant check, photos, social media posts that her editor would definitely see.
She pushed through a side door, finding herself in a darkened gallery overlooking the venue's private ice rink. The cool air hit her heated face, and she gripped the railing, trying not to hyperventilate.
"That bad?"
Liam D'Arcy emerged from the shadows, because of course he did. Even in her champagne-hazed panic, her traitorous brainnoted how unfairly good he looked with his bow tie now slightly loosened.
"I just pledged my entire net worth to charity," she said faintly. "Actually, more than my net worth. I'd have to sell my organs."
"The D'Arcy Foundation will cover it."
Libby whipped around to stare at him, which was a mistake because the quick movement made everything spin. Liam's hands caught her arms, steadying her.
"What?"
