“Maya—what’s—” But I can’t get a word in as she drags me toward the staff door at the back of the reception hall.
She pushes through the doors and finally turns to face me. “Chloe Dawson, you tell me the truth this time. Are you in a fake relationship with Brody Kane?”
My stomach drops, and all the air leaves my lungs. I open my mouth to deny it, but looking at Maya’s face—not angry, just concerned—breaks something in me.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
All at once, my sister’s hard exterior, that Wonder Woman shell, evaporates. Her expression softens, and suddenly I’m in her arms, wrapped in a tight hug. It’s unfamiliar territory for us. “Oh, hun,” she whispers. “Tell me what’s going on.”
And so I spend the next ten minutes telling her everything. About our kiss in Barcelona and running into him at Ironclad—how we hadn’t been dating at all when the viral photo was taken—and finally the contract. But I don’t stop there. The words are pouring from me like I’m parched for the truth. I tell her about our date—the real one—and the late-night calls, and falling asleep on the couch together, and about the looming breakup that I can’t seem to find a way out of.
“Chloe, you don’t have to do this.” Her grip on my arm tightens. “Forget the contract. Forget the penalties. I’ll help you—Mom and Dad will help you pay whatever you owe?—”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not? You’re my sister. You think I’m going to stand here and watch you destroy your own happiness because of some stupid contract you signed when you were desperate?”
“It’s not just about me,” I say quietly. “If I don’t follow through, Brody loses everything too. His contract renewal. His career. Everything he’s worked for.” I grab her hands. “I can’t do that to him. Not when I—” I can’t finish. Can’t sayNot when I love himout loud.
“So you’re sacrificing yourself to save his career?” Her voice rises slightly, and she immediately lowers it, glancing around to make sure no one heard. “After he got you into this mess in the first place?”
“It’s not like that. It’s more complicated than the article made it seem. We both agreed to this. We both signed.” I squeeze her hands. “Maya, please. You’ve got to trust me on this. Just…don’t tell anyone. I mean it.” I fix my eyes on hers. “Nobody can know the contract is real. Please.”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes shining with tears. Then she nods, pulls me into a hug.
“I hate this,” she whispers. “I hate that you’re hurting and I can’t fix it.”
“You’re helping by letting me do my job. By trusting me.” I pull back, swipe at my eyes. “Now go. Your guests are waiting. And your day is perfect. Let’s keep it that way.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. But, Chloe, if you change your mind, if you need help, you come find me. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of my first dance. You’re more important than any of this.”
She walks away before I can respond, and I’m left standing there, trying not to cry and ruin my makeup.
The ballroom is perfect. Months of planning came together—white and gold everything, centerpieces with winter flowers, pops of Valentine’s red, subtle but sweet, candles, and elegant drapery creating a canopy overhead. The sweetheart table is centered on the massive windows, the ceremony arch now set up to frame the table behind them, the cake on display, the dance floor open and waiting.
Guests are filing in for dinner. And I’m seated at table three, beside Brody.
Table three includes Conrad Kingston and a woman I recognize from photos I’ve seen online—Penny Pepper, the true-crime podcaster. She’s pretty. Dark hair, brown eyes, and the way Conrad’s hand rests on her back suggests they’re definitely together.
“Nice to finally meet you, Chloe,” Penny says, shaking my hand with genuine warmth. “I’ve heard so much about you…well, about you and Brody. From what I hear, you’ve really brought out a different side of him.”
I try my best to chuckle. Ignore the churning in my stomach.
The other guests at our table—more of Derek’s hockey friends and their dates—are chatting cheerfully, oblivious to the tension.
Dinner is served. Some kind of chicken with roasted vegetables, all the standard wedding food, and I spend the duration of the meal pushing it around on my plate. Brody does the same.
Neither of us is eating.
Neither of us is talking.
Under the table, his knee brushes mine. I don’t move away.
“You two all right?” Conrad asks quietly. He’s watching us with the kind of attention that suggests he knows something’s wrong.
“Fine,” Brody says.
“Great,” I add.
