ELIZABETH MARIE BENNET-CROSS. I just saw Twitter. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.
She looked at the jacket hanging over her arm. A month of pretending to date Liam D'Arcy. A month of lying to everyone except Jane. A month of maintaining professional coverage while the entire city watched for signs of bias.
What had she gotten herself into?
Her phone buzzed once more. A text from an unknown number:
This is Liam. Everything will be fine. We'll make this work.
She stared at the message, then at the jacket, then back at her phone. Tomorrow, she'd have to face the Herald newsroom, the hockey world, and her family, all while maintaining the fiction that she'd been secretly dating the man she'd been professionally analyzing.
But tonight, she poured herself a large glass of wine, wrapped herself in Liam's too-big jacket (purely for warmth, she told herself), and tried not to think about how his thumb had moved unconsciously on her arm, or how he'd immediately stepped in to protect her from multiple disasters, or how that barely-there smile had transformed his face when she'd called him a hockey robot.
A month.
What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Steel's media conference room looked different at 8 a.m.—clinical and intimidating without the usual crush of reporters. Libby sat in an ergonomic chair so perfectly calibrated to human comfort that it felt like being cradled by a cloud with a PhD in lumbar support, trying not to fidget as the PR team assembled an array of tablets, laptops, and presentation materials with the efficiency of a military operation.
"You look like you're waiting for a firing squad," Jane whispered, sliding into the chair beside her. "It's a PR strategy meeting, not an execution."
"Easy for you to say," Libby muttered. "Your career isn't about to become a punchline."
After a night of fitful sleep punctuated by anxiety dreams involving casino chips multiplying exponentially and her dress falling off during a press conference, Libby had arrived early, determined to approach this disaster with whatever professional dignity she could salvage. Reid had been surprisingly understanding during their late-night call—too understanding, actually, his barely suppressed amusement suggesting he sawthe viral situation as a circulation boost rather than an ethical quandary.
"You're getting unprecedented access to the organization during playoffs," he'd said. "Just maintain your journalistic standards and disclose the arrangement in your coverage. This could be career-making."
Or career-ending, Libby thought darkly as the conference room door opened.
Liam entered, his appearance so immaculate it was frankly offensive for this early hour. His charcoal suit fit perfectly, his tie precisely knotted, his expression neutral despite what had to be an equally sleepless night. The only evidence of last night's chaos was a slight tension in his jaw when their eyes met briefly.
He gave her a slight nod, as if they were merely colleagues at a routine meeting rather than co-conspirators in an absurd charade that had started with her hundred-thousand-dollar mistake.
"Good morning, everyone," Mariska said, taking control of the room with practiced ease. "Let's get right to it. The photo situation has evolved significantly overnight."
She tapped her tablet, and the wall screen displayed Kate's leaked photo.
"The image has been shared over 50,000 times," Mariska continued. "We're trending across all platforms. Major sports outlets are running with the story, and—" she swiped to a new screen "—Good Morning America has requested an interview."
"Absolutely not," Liam and Libby said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprised alignment.
"That's... actually helpful," Mariska said, making a note. "United front. We can work with that."
Chase, who had slipped in behind Liam, couldn't quite suppress his grin. "The team group chat has been particularly entertaining this morning."
"Wonderful," Liam said dryly.
Mariska proceeded to lay out the situation with brutal efficiency, backed by PowerPoint slides that might have been prepared for a corporate merger rather than a fake relationship strategy. There were actual pie charts analyzing public sentiment and bar graphs showing media coverage spikes.
"Our implementation strategy is ready," she concluded. "We've drafted the statement confirming your relationship, emphasizing that you kept it private while navigating professional boundaries. The photo release forced your hand, making discretion impossible."
She clicked to the next slide, which featured a timeline of planned appearances and social media strategy.
"The key is minimal but strategic visibility. We transform last night's potential scandal into a controlled narrative—you're professionals who fell for each other despite the complications. We request privacy during playoffs while giving just enough content to satisfy public curiosity."
Libby couldn't help noticing how Liam had fixed his gaze on the presentation with the same intensity she'd seen him study game footage. Even though they'd agreed to this last night, seeing it laid out so clinically made it feel more real—and more daunting.
