"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."
"Marcus hates me."
"Marcus hates any man who gets close to me." I stare out the window, watching my reflection ghost across the glass. "It's not personal. It's pathological."
His face darkens.
"Don't worry, he'll come around once he's convinced your intentions are good."
We sit in silence for a while, but my mother’s warning about secrets keeps ringing in my head.
Pair that with Declan’s reputation, and my brain does what it does best—constructing elaborate worst-case scenarios out of thin air.
What if I’m not special at all?
What if I’m just like all the other women who thought they were? I know there were plenty before me. There’s history. A lot of it. History I know nothing about. Was there ever someone serious?
Damn it—I should have researched this. Like I research everything else.
I picture the headlines I’d find:
“NHL Star’s Surprise Vegas Wedding”
“Declan Hawthorne’s Orgy History Exposed”
“Hawthorne’s Paternity Test Drama—Triplets Confirmed”
My thoughts get more ridiculous by the second. I know that. Still, my stomach tightens.
I’m already picturing three green-eyed toddlers and a woman I’ve never met who has every right to hate me.
I tell myself to stop. That I’m being insane. That this is what happens when things start to matter and I don’t know how to protect myself.
But the spiral doesn’t care about logic.
What if he’s just… really good at compartmentalizing? What if this version of Declan—the attentive one, the steady one—isn’t the whole truth?
“What do you think about orgies?” It bursts out of me.
Okay. Not the smoothest entry point. But now it’s out there, and I brace myself for the answer.
He blinks. “That’s… not where I thought this conversation was going.”
I wince. “I know. I’m sorry. My brain took a very sharp left turn.”
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “They’re not really my thing. I know you probably want to explore a lot—try everything right away. I get that. But maybe we start slower. Dirty talk, maybe. Or some role play?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Oh. No—God, no,” I say quickly, heat rushing to my cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
He stills. “It’s not?”
“No.” I shake my head, a little mortified. “I just… you don’t happen to have any… children? Somewhere? That you don’t know about?”
This time, he looks genuinely taken aback.
“Ivy.”
