The camera lingered on Presley for another few seconds, then cut back to the match.
The damage was done. The cameraman kept cutting back to the VIP box every few minutes when the feed would cut away from the action to show Presley watching the game, her expression changing with every play.
Hastings' hand curled into a fist on the armrest.
"That cameraman is sacked," he said, his voice flat.
I raised an eyebrow. "You can't sack someone for doing their job."
"He's not doing his job. His job is to film the match, not harass our omega."
"Our omega?" I echoed, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
Hastings' jaw tightened. "She's our surrogate. She deserves privacy."
"Right. Privacy." I didn't bother hiding my grin. "That's why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You're about to snap the armrest off."
He looked down at his hand, then deliberately uncurled his fingers. "I'm concerned about the optics. If the media starts digging into herbackground—"
"They'll find a waitress from North Yorkshire who needs money. So what?"
"So she didn't sign up for public scrutiny."
"No, she signed up to carry our child. Which is going to be a lot more public than sitting in a VIP box."
Hastings didn't respond. He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving across the screen with quick, precise movements.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking the security feed."
"The stadium security feeds?"
"Of course. I own the stadium so I can look at the security feeds."
He pulled up an app, entered a password, and suddenly the screen showed a different angle of the VIP box. This one was from inside the room, looking out at the pitch.
Presley stood at the window, her hands still pressed to the glass. Behind her, Caron and the other wives chatted, their eyes occasionally flicking to Presley with expressions that ranged from curious to hostile.
But Presley didn't notice. She was too busy watching Etienne.
The camera caught the moment he scored. He broke through the defensive line, the ball tucked under his arm, and drove forward. The crowd erupted. He touched the ball down, then stood, scanning the VIP boxes.
When he found Presley, he pointed.
Right at her.
Presley's hand flew to her mouth. Even through the grainy security feed, I saw her smile. Wide and genuine and completely unguarded.
My chest tightened.
"She's beautiful," I said quietly.
Hastings said nothing, but his thumb moved across his bottom lip, a tell he probably didn't even realize he had.
