Page 118 of Broken Blades

"He's different when he's not here. When he's not being watched." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "He's… softer."

My father shifted beside me, tension radiating off him in waves. "Chastity⁠—"

"You talk like he's a threat, or a liability. But he's been more honest with me in two weeks than most people have been my whole life."

The words landed hard, reverberating in the silence that followed.

Barbara stared at me, champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips. Stunned. Actually stunned.

My father looked worried—not the polished, controlled concern he wore for investors. Real worry. The kind that creased his forehead and tightened his jaw.

And I realized, pulse hammering in my ears, that I wasn't lying. I wasn't defending an arrangement. Wasn't protecting optics or merger stability or public image. I was defending Wyatt. The man who'd covered me with blankets and left water by my side. Who'd told me I didn't have to earn anything from him. Who'd looked at me like I mattered—not as Thomas Harrington's daughter, not as a strategic asset, but as me.

The man. Not the role.

That realization hit like ice water, shocking and clarifying and terrifying all at once.

Barbara recovered first, setting down her glass with deliberate precision. "You've only known him two weeks."

"I know." My voice came out quieter now, steadier. "But I know what honesty feels like. And what performance looks like." I glanced at my father. "I've been watching people perform my entire life."

Dad's expression shuttered, walls slamming into place. He didn't respond. Didn't argue. Just stood there with that tight, practiced smile beginning to crack at the edges.

Barbara studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she turned toward the window, gaze dropping to the ice below where players were starting to emerge for warm-ups.

"Well," she said finally, voice cool and clipped. "This should be an interesting game."

I followed her gaze, scanning the players until I found him.

Number 44. Dark jersey. Broad shoulders. Moving across the ice with that controlled power that made my breath catch.

Wyatt.

And despite everything—despite the arrangement, the lies, the performance we were selling—my heart beat faster just watching him skate.

I moved to the front row of the suite, claiming a seat as far from Barbara and my father as possible. The glass was cold against my palm when I pressed my hand to it, grounding myself.

The rink lights dimmed.

Music thundered through the arena, bass vibrating through the floor, through my chest, through everything. The crowd roared as players took the ice for opening skate, a wall of sound that should've drowned out my thoughts.

It didn't.

My pulse thudded. The realization settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and permanent. I'd stood there in front of Barbara—in front of my father—and argued for Wyatt's character. His honesty. His decency. Things I had no business knowing after two weeks. Things I shouldn't have felt so certain about. Things that terrified me because they were true.

My breath fogged the glass as number 44 glided past, powerful and controlled and completely unaware that something fundamental had just shifted.

And I had no idea what that meant.

Or what would happen when Wyatt realized it.

Chapter 22

Wyatt

The puck dropped. Everything else fell away. The crowd. The cameras. The arrangement with Chastity that twisted tighter around my chest every day. The revenge plan that had started to taste like ash in my mouth.

None of it mattered.