I replayed the entire night in my head, over and over.The ignoring.The flash of jealousy.My pathetic attempt to provoke him.His ultimate, crushing dismissal.
My phone sat silent and dark in the passenger seat.He hadn’t texted.He wouldn’t.
I had gotten what I wanted.Proof that he felt something.But the victory was ashes in my mouth.Because the clearer it became that he felt, the clearer it became that he had no intention of acting on it.Not in any way that mattered to me.
He’d gotten what he wanted from me in the locker room.Now, he was back to being the owner.And I was just a player on his roster.One he was apparently done paying attention to.
The hollow feeling in my gut yawned wide open.I started the car and pulled out into the traffic, the bright lights of the city blurring into meaningless streaks.
This wasn’t a complication.This was heartache.
Chapter 8
The silence in my apartmentwas a physical presence.It pressed in on my eardrums, a stark contrast to the raucous noise of the steakhouse still echoing in my memory.I’d gone straight home after dinner, ignoring Shay’s texts about a last call, ignoring everything.
I replayed the entire night on a loop, each pass through the memory stripping away another layer of my pride.
Henry’s cool, impersonal gaze sliding over me.The tiny, almost imperceptible tightening of his knuckles around his wine glass.My own pathetic, hopeful lean into Shay’s touch.The final, dismissive exit without a single glance back.
I was a fool.A stupid, reckless fool who’d mistaken a billionaire’s momentary distraction for genuine interest.I’d been a convenient, exciting novelty.And now the novelty had worn off.
Frustrated, I grabbed my phone from the charger.Maybe Shay and Felix were still out.Maybe drowning my humiliation in a cheap beer was the answer.I swiped the screen open, and my thumb automatically tapped the icon for a social media app—a mindless habit, a desperate search for distraction.
The app loaded.And my world tilted on its axis.
It was a grainy, paparazzi-style photo, but the subjects were unmistakable.It was splashed across the feed of a popular gossip page I followed for stupid celebrity news.
HOCKEY’S HOTTEST BILLIONAIRE BACK ON THE MARKET?
The headline screamed in bold, clickbait font.Below it was a series of pictures.
Henry Emerson.And clinging to his arm, a vision of effortless, terrifying beauty, was Kira.I knew her name.Everyone did.Russian supermodel.A face that sold perfume on every billboard in the world.
The first photo showed them exiting a sleek, black town car—a different one than he’d sent for me.Henry was in a tuxedo, looking devastatingly sharp.Kira was in a slinky silver dress that left little to the imagination, her blonde hair a perfect cascade over one shoulder.She was smiling up at him, her expression intimate, familiar.
The second photo was the one that stopped the air in my lungs.They were standing close together under the awning of what looked like an exclusive, dimly lit club.Henry’s head was bent toward hers, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her.Her hand was resting on his chest.They looked...connected.A unit.Power and beauty, perfectly matched.
