3. One Plate, Two Flames

Instantly, the room erupted into a commotion. The giant hockey players began to protest.

“What?! No way!”

“Chef Quinn, you're kidding, right?”

A few of them even laughed in disbelief, while others pushed their trays aside like the announcement had ruined their appetite.

CLANK!

The commotion died at the sharp clatter of a fork and knife hitting the floor.

The metallic echo cut through the room, sharp enough to make several players flinch. Conversations snapped shut mid-sentence as every head turned toward Marco, the source of the noise, just as he rose from his seat. The sound of his chair dragging across the floor made a few people wince.

His blue eyes gleamed cold as they locked onto mine. And then he walked straight toward me.

Why?

After two years of acting like I didn't exist, no, scratch that, like I was some disgusting stain he'd accidentally stepped on, though I know we agreed to keep our relationship a secret...

What exactly are you trying to pull now, Marco?

He stopped right in front of me, so close that the tips of our shoes touched.

His massive body was like a concrete wall that trapped my breath. Though I'd been breathless beneath him too many times, moaning in pleasure he'd forbidden me to voice, this was the first time we'd been this close in public.

I wanted to back away, but my feet stayed rooted, and my eyes were locked on his. My lower abdomen tightened, heat flickering to life where it absolutely shouldn't. It was a betrayal by my own body, a hunger I couldn't cook away every time I smelled his scent.

“Hey,” his voice echoed low in my chest.

I put on my best professional smile. “Yes, Mr Marten, how can I help you?”

“My plate,” His hot breath brushed my forehead. I held my breath, waiting for him to finish.

“There’s a crack. Replace it.”

“A crack?” I blinked.

I was sure I’d checked the plate multiple times though, and there wasn’t a crack before.

“I’ll replace it right away, Sir,” I said quickly.

“You should. And bring lunch to my room.”

I nodded. “Of course, we’ll do that. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

I exhaled, stepping back, only to choke on that breath again when he shifted and blocked my path.

“It’s not we,” his voice dropped until it scraped right against my ear. “It’s you. You’ll have to bring it.”

For a moment, the kitchen staff nearby pretended very hard not to listen, but I could feel their curiosity hanging in the air.

I nodded once, stiffly. When he finally moved, his shoulder brushed mine, just enough to leave that maddening scent clinging to my skin as he walked away.

How long does he think I'll always do what he says?

I turned to my sous-chef, asking him to bring Marco's lunch to his room.

..

…

….

Two weeks had passed since the night my little world shattered, and Marco had been abroad playing a match.

During those days, the names Marco Marten and Cassandra Sinclaire invaded my life like a plague. On the streets, on social media, and especially in every corner of the hockey club. I couldn't even walk through the locker corridor without overhearing their names whispered between players or staff.

My phone screen was flooded with photos of Marco and Cassandra on dates. At cafés, strolling along the beach, and shopping in luxury boutiques, all wearing matching sunglasses. Every time I accidentally refreshed my feed, another photo appeared like a slap to the face.

It was a real date.

The kind I had never once had.

When he saw me at least three times a week, it was always behind locked doors. In my cramped apartment or in a dimly lit hotel room. He spent his time with me only to drown himself between my legs.

Why was it that I was the only one who ended up as the dirty secret, while Cassandra got the light?

Many wondered when their relationship had begun.

No one had ever smelled their relationship before, and then suddenly they were engaged.

I asked the same question almost every day. Since when?

Marco was always busy with a crazy training schedule and away games. Yet, he still had the time and energy to date two women at once. Amazing, right?

I turned off my phone, squeezing the flat object until my hands were sweaty. For a moment, I almost opened our chat again out of habit, only to remember there was nothing new to see. It was safe to say I ended it well, right?

"Miss Hazel Quinn, please pick up your medication at counter two."

The call brought me back to earth. The white-uniformed attendant handed me a small paper bag containing a series of medications and reminded me to bring a printed ultrasound photo to my next visit. I just nodded numbly.

For a second, I considered swallowing the pills right there in the lobby, just to dull the noise in my head.

However, I stopped in my tracks. At the center of the lobby, I saw my mother, Mirabell Quinn, standing there. Panic seized me. Was she sick?

I half-ran over to her, my shoes tapping quickly against the polished floor. But my steps slowed when I saw who she was affectionately embracing.

Cassandra Sinclaire.

And next to them was Ashley Sinclaire, her mother.

Before I could turn around, someone noticed me.

"Haze?"

Cassandra ran over, clinging to my arm, coquettishly complaining about how much she missed me and how sad she was that I hadn't come to her engagement party. The scent of her jasmine perfume made my stomach churn.

My mom simply looked at me with a flat expression, her arms still loosely folded.

"Cassie misses you so much, Haze. Why don't you ever come over to visit anymore?" Ashley asked gently.

"Uhm..."

The situation quickly turned into a sick joke.

Ashley looked at me with hurt eyes, complaining at length that I addressed her as Ma'am. She demanded I call her 'Mom' like before, when she had raised me in her gilded cage for seventeen years.

Cassandra chimed in eagerly.

"That's right, Haze! Why are you still so stiff after all these years? I call your mother Mom, so call mine your Mom as well. After all, we're no different than sisters."

Sister. That word made me want to puke.

They spoke as if a medical test hadn't proven that Cassandra and I had been switched at birth. As if my name hadn’t been stripped from me that very day, when my life suddenly changed from Hazel Sinclaire to Hazel Quinn.

The baby-swap drama should have ended when I was returned to the Quinn family and Cassandra to the Sinclaires at 17. But my biological mother couldn't let Cassandra go so easily.

In the end, the two families created a ridiculous joint-parenting arrangement in the name of sisterhood, when all the love and attention is still centered on one person.

"I have to go now," I interrupted flatly, pulling my hand from Cassandra's grip.

"Wait, Haze!" Cassandra held me back again, her eyes sparkling brightly. "Come to dinner tonight. You have to! My fiancé, Marco, is coming today. I want to formally introduce him to you."