The caption screams:ANNABELLE HACKER HAVING COZY COFFEE WITH EX-FIANCÉ. SOURCES SAY THEY’VE BEEN TALKING AGAIN.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“No,” I whisper. “Come on.”
I scroll.
They always looked perfect together.
Omg they’re endgame I knew it.
So I guess the hockey guy was just a rebound lol.
I set my phone down because if I keep reading, I am going to either throw up or throw the phone.
I close my eyes.
Of course someone was filming. Of course they caught the split second where his hand was on mine and not the part where I ripped it away and verbally wrecked him.
I open my eyes and reach for my phone again, thumb hovering over Bryce’s name. I need to call him. I need to get ahead of this. Explain.
I don’t even get the chance.
My office door slams open so hard the frames on the wall rattle.
“Annabelle.”
My father strides in like a storm in an expensive suit. He is usually composed in that measured-executive way. Today his tie is slightly crooked and his eyes are murder.
This is not good.
“Do people knock anymore or…?” I start.
He shoves a tablet onto my desk. The screen is full of the same photo I just saw, plus a grainy video loop of Mark reaching for my hand.
“Are you trying to tank your father’s franchise?” he demands.
I blink. “Hi, Dad. Nice to see you too.”
He ignores that. “Do you understand how this looks? Bryce is our star. He is the face of the team right now with his own PR problems that you're supposed to fix. And you’re out having cozy coffee dates with your very famous, very messy ex.”
“It was not cozy,” I snap. “I was telling him to stop exploiting our breakup for clicks.”
“Sure,” Erwin says. “And I’m Santa Claus.”
I push back from my desk and stand. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think optics matter more than intentions,” he says. “Right now the internet thinks you’re running some love triangle between the guy who cheated on you and the guy we pay a lot of money to put pucks in nets.”
Guilt punches me in the stomach.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say. “He wrote a song about me without warning. He keeps giving interviews. I’m trying to shut it down.”
“Then shut it down faster,” Erwin says. “Because sponsors are calling. The league is watching. The last thing we need is a narrative that the owner’s daughter is playing games with the franchise player.”
“That’s not what this is,” I say, but my voice sounds smaller.
He scrubs a hand over his face. For a second, his irritation slips into something like concern. “You’re good at your job, Annabelle. Which is why this pisses me off. You’re letting your personal life bleed all over the ice.”
