Then someone laughed—loud, surprised, a little stunned.
Boom. Mic drop.
The reporter’s smile twisted, but I was already steering Daphne forward, past the media and into the venue.
She glanced up at me, a smile as big as a pitch, but I could see the way her eyes narrowed slightly.
“That was… unnecessary,” she muttered, but her voice was tight, like she was trying not to smile.
I didn’t answer.
She knew why I said it.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate that I did.
We moved through the ballroom like we were born for it—her in that burgundy dress that made her eyes look like something out of a dream, me in a suit I barely noticed because all I could focus on was her. My hand stayed anchored at her waist, a quiet claim. Not that anyone else knew what we were really doing here.
We smiled, shook hands, nodded through polite conversation. Players. Executives. Donors. Politicians in tailored suits. Everyone here with a cause and a camera.
Cam had positioned us perfectly—just enough tension to sell the illusion, just enough allure to keep the press hungry. We were the headline, the storm within the Storm.
And God, I hated every second of it.
Daphne laughed at something a board member said, a soft, practiced sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I knew the difference now. I hated that I knew.
She was brilliant at this. Smoothing things over. Playing the game. Making people feel like they were the most important person in the room while she cataloged everything they said for later use. I watched her, studied her, and hated that I’d given her reasons to become so damn good at pretending.
I caught her gaze once across a champagne flute and a cluster of donors. Her smile flickered. Just for a second. Just for me.
I squeezed her waist. She didn’t lean in.
We made our way to the silent auction table, where a few players were laughing over a signed jersey from our rookie year.
My fingers stayed pressed to her lower back, always touching. Always tethered.
And it wasn’t enough.
Because this version of us wasn’t real. It was spotless. Painless. Scripted.
We weren’t kissing in parking lots or arguing about feelings or healing in half-shattered silences. We weren’t falling apart in stairwells or trying to piece it back together. We were just… poised. Glossy. Branded.
I played the part. Said the right things. Even smiled for the cameras when Cam passed by and gave a thumbs up.
But under it all?
I was seething.
Because this was the version of her I didn’t get to keep. And the version I did get—raw, messy, real?
I’d ruined that.
The second the fundraiser dinner hit its halfway point, I was done pretending.
Done smiling for cameras, done sipping champagne, done watching her work the room like I wasn’t even there.
Because I was.
I was right here, touching her, breathing her in, standing beside her like we were still us.
