PLAYING THE PART

Sierra's POV

The dress Vance's team sends my way may very well costs more than my semester's tuition.

Midnight-blue silk. A slit up the left thigh that should be illegal. A back so low I'm kind of concerned it's some sort of structural hazard.

I stare at myself in the water-spotted mirror of my cramped bathroom. I don't look like a third-year law student running on caffeine and spite. I look like exactly what I'm being paid to be tonight: the polished, devoted girlfriend of a future NHL draft pick.

A loud knock rattles my door.

I grab my clutch, breathe, and open it.

Julio Hayes fills my doorway in a black tuxedo that should be a crime on those shoulders. Tie slightly loose. Hair styled in that deliberate, messy way that probably took a professional twenty minutes. He's scrolling his phone. Then he looks up, and the smirk dies.

His gaze drops. The dress. The slit. The heels. Slowly, torturously, back up.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

"It's a charity dinner, Rosso," he says, his voice a shade lower than before. "Not the Oscars."

"Your agent picked the wardrobe. Take your complaints to Vance."

"I don't have complaints." He looks away and mutters, "None I can say out loud."

I pretend I didn't hear that.

I lock up and step past him. His scent hits me in the narrow hallway. Cedar, clean soap, something warmer underneath. It short-circuits my brain for one full second.

I make it stop.

The ride to the Grand Hall is silent. His black Audi has tinted windows, and the streetlights barely reach inside, turning the car into a dark, intimate capsule. Every time he shifts gears, his forearm brushes the edge of my silk dress. Every time, I feel it in places I refuse to acknowledge.

"Ground rules," I say, as we roll toward the valet line. Paparazzi flashes already flicker beyond the velvet ropes. "We smile. We talk about your season. If anyone asks how long we've been dating, the answer is three months. And we do not discuss Ketz."

"I know how to handle the press."

"You punched a man on camera forty-eight hours ago. Forgive me if I don't trust your instincts."

He cuts the engine and turns in his seat, close enough that I can see the gold in his hazel eyes. "If we're going to sell this to the sharks, you need to stop looking at me like you want to subpoena me."

Before I can answer, he steps out and circles the car to open my door.

The moment my heel hits the pavement, the cameras detonate. Blinding white light. Shouted questions. A storm.

Julio steps into my space and shields me from the crush. His big, warm hand settles on my waist, fingers pressing against the bare skin of my lower back.

A shiver rips up my spine.

"Relax," he murmurs, lips grazing my ear. To the cameras, it looks like an intimate whisper. His tone is pure strategy. "Just keep walking. I've got you."

I smile, bright and effortless. I lean into his side exactly enough. His body is solid and radiating heat through the tuxedo, and it's very, very hard to remember I hate him.

"Contractually mandated affection," he whispers, flashing the cameras a dazzling smile. "Clause three, section B. We're supposed to look hopelessly devoted."

I adjust his lapel and dig my thumb into his shoulder. Hard. "Keep your hands above my waistline, Hayes, or clause seven kicks in and I break your thumb."

He laughs. A real one, low and rough, so out of place among the fake laughter in this room that a woman near us turns to stare.

"Feisty. The press will eat you alive if you keep looking like you're calculating my cause of death."

"I'm calculating your net worth against your legal liabilities," I say through my teeth, smile locked in place as three photographers snap our picture. "Turn slightly left. The sports editor from the Daily Sentinel is watching."

"You don't drop the act for one second, do you? It's an open bar and half the donor network. You look like you're preparing for the bar exam."

"Some of us work for a living, Julio. We don't all get custom tuxedos for sliding a piece of rubber into a net."

He leans in. The smirk fades into something sharper. Something dangerous. "It's called a puck, sweetheart. And if it were easy, everyone in this room would be doing it instead of paying ten grand a table to watch me."

"Pet names. Clause nine. That's a violation."

"Then write me up, Rosso."

I open my mouth to cut him down.

The words die in my throat.

Across the ballroom, near the raised VIP lounge, stands a man in an immaculate navy suit, swirling a glass of scotch and laughing with the university's athletic director.

Marcus Stirling.

My heart drops through the floor.

But it isn't Stirling who turns my blood to ice. It's the man standing two paces behind him in a dark coat. Heavy shoulders. A thick scar running along his jaw.

I know that scar.

As if he can feel me staring, the man turns his head. His pale eyes sweep the crowd and stop on mine. He doesn't look away. He lifts his glass in a slow, silent toast.

My fingers clamp around Julio's sleeve, nails biting into the fine fabric. The air in my lungs goes razor-thin.

Then Stirling turns, too.

His gaze finds me across the room. And his glass stops halfway to his mouth.

And it isn't the look of a man spotting an enemy. It's something worse. Something I can't name.

He looks at me like he's seen a ghost.

"Sierra." Julio's teasing edge is gone. His voice is low and steady, and his hand tightens on my waist as he follows my stare across the room. "Who is that?"

"No one," I lie.

His eyes flick from Stirling to me, and back again.

"Funny that no one looks at you like that, Sierra," he says quietly. And then his voice drops an octave, "I ask again. Who is that, Sierra. An old lover?"