002

The Proposal

{Nadia's POV}

He leaned in closer, so close that his warmth cocooned me, and oh god, his cologne was going to make me do something embarrassing like squeal out loud.

"I haven't seen your face around here before." His dark eyes scanned mine, lazy but curious. "What's your name? Are you an upcoming star or something?"

"I...uh, well, I'm..."

My brain had completely short-circuited. He was getting closer, and my spine was pressed flat against the pillar.

There was nowhere left to lean back.

A flash went off somewhere to my left.

A phone camera. I barely registered it.

"Hey." Raxon's brow furrowed slightly. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine. I'm..." I swallowed. "This is just... a lot."

He smiled. Not the smirk from the magazines. Something softer. "First time at one of these things?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully." He leaned a shoulder against the pillar, relaxed, like we were old friends. "You've got that deer-in-headlights look. Very subtle."

I laughed. Actually laughed. Raxon Boyd was teasing me against a pillar, and I was laughing, and it was the most surreal moment of my entire life....

"Not a talker, huh?" He leaned his head, studying me. "Refreshing. Most people at these things won't shut up about themselves. You should try it sometime. Very popular strategy."

"I'll keep that in mind," I managed.

"You do that." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "So are you going to tell me your name, or do I have to guess?"

I opened my mouth....

"Hey!" A man's voice cut through the music. "Leave the poor girl alone!"

Raxon straightened, confusion flashing across his face. "What?"

"I saw you cornering her!" The man was pointing now, his voice loud enough to draw stares. A few heads turned. Then a few more. "Not everyone wants your attention, Boyd. Isn't it enough that you've already been accused of this before?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Phones came out. Someone behind me whispered, "Didn't something like this happen at the charity gala last year?"

"I saw it too," another voice chimed in. "He was all over her."

"That's not...." I started, but my voice got swallowed by the growing noise.

Raxon's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I wasn't....."

"Save it." The first man stepped forward, chest puffed out, performing for the cameras.

"We all know what you were doing."

The crowd pressed closer. More phones raised. More voices overlapping. A woman near the front was already recording, her screen glowing in the dim light.

Someone else muttered, "I knew he was trouble."

Raxon looked around...at the cameras, at the accusing faces, at me....and I watched something snap behind his eyes.

He pounced.

"Wait! Stop!" I grabbed for his arm, but three massive security guards were already there, pulling him back before I could touch him, dragging him toward a side exit while he cursed and struggled against their grip.

And then he was gone.

The space where he'd been standing felt impossibly empty.

My hand was still outstretched, reaching for an arm that wasn't there anymore.

The crowd's eyes turned to me. Judging. Whispering. I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't need to.

The woman with her phone was still recording.

I stared into the lens for a moment, frozen, before I turned and pushed my way through the crowd toward the bathroom.

---

I locked myself in a stall and pressed my forehead against the cold door.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He'd been teasing me. Teasing me. And now the internet was going to think....

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands. The first articles were already up. Blurry photos of Raxon being dragged away.

A screenshot of my face, wide-eyed and guilty. The headline: 'Raxon Boyd Accused of Harassment at Exclusive Gala—Witnesses Claim Pattern of Behavior.'

Pattern of behavior. Like he'd done this before. Like I was just the latest in a long line.

Anne found me ten minutes later, her face pale. "We need to go. Now."

I didn't argue.

---

The ride back was silent.

Anne passed out against the window, her head bouncing gently with every bump in the road. I stared out at the passing streets, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white.

My mind spun too fast to grab onto any single thought.

When the car pulled up to Anne's place, she blinked awake, mumbled something that might have been text me, and stumbled inside.

The car pulled away.

Then it was just me in the back seat, staring at my reflection in the glass.

Everything had happened so fast.

One minute I was living my impossible dream....Raxon Boyd leaning against a pillar, teasing me like we'd known each other for years...and the next, he was being dragged away by security while a stranger filmed my face for the internet.

My chest tightened. I forced myself to breathe.

It was just a misunderstanding. Tomorrow, everyone would forget. No real damage done.

Right?

---

The next morning, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

My head pounded.

A glance at the clock told me I was already late for work, but I couldn't sit up.

I couldn't move.

I reached blindly for my phone and squinted at the screen through blurry vision.

The headline hit me like a punch to the throat.

"Raxon Boyd Caught Cornering Woman at Exclusive Gala—Sources Claim This Isn't the First Time."

"Oh no." I sat up so fast the room spun. "No, no, no..."

I scrolled. It kept getting worse.

Photos of Raxon being dragged away by security. Photos of me looking shell-shocked against the pillar. Headline after headline, each one worse than the last.

"Boyd's History of Misconduct."

"Sponsors Question Captain's Future."

"Mystery Woman Too Traumatized to Speak."

Victim. They were calling me a victim.

I hadn't even said anything.

The article comments were worse. I knew I shouldn't read them, but I couldn't stop.

'Always knew he was trash. Cancel him.'

'Poor girl. Hope she gets justice.'

'She's probably faking it for attention. Look at her dress—she's not some innocent bystander.'

'Another athlete who thinks he's above consequences.'

'Why was she even there? That's an exclusive event. She doesn't belong.'

My hands were shaking by the time I set the phone down.

None of this would have happened if I'd stayed home. If I hadn't let Anne talk me into that stupid party with a fake ID.

If I'd just been reasonable for once in my life, Raxon Boyd's career wouldn't be crumbling, and strangers on the internet wouldn't be calling me a victim or a liar or both.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

---

By the time I dragged myself into the restaurant, the news had exploded even further. The kitchen radio was tuned to a station dissecting Raxon's PR disaster.

Every customer with a phone seemed to be reading about it.

I moved through my shift like a ghost—dropping plates, forgetting orders, flinching every time someone said his name.

During my five-minute break, I hid in the back hallway and scrolled through his latest post. The comments were a war zone.

Thousands of them.

People who'd never met him, never met me, picking sides like it was a sport.

I'd followed him for years. I'd watched every game, studied every play, defended him in arguments with strangers online.

I knew his stats by heart.

I knew the name of his childhood coach, his pre-game rituals, the way he tapped his stick twice before every faceoff.

I knew him better than any of those commenters did.

And because of one misunderstanding at a party I shouldn't have been at, they were going to destroy him.

My screen went black. A private number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Nadia Owen?" The voice was warm, collected.

Not a police officer. Not a reporter.

"Y-yes?" My heart launched into my throat. "Look, please don't arrest me. I shouldn't have been there. It was all a misunderstanding, I can explain...."

The woman laughed softly. Not cruel. Almost... fond.

"Calm down, Nadia. Nobody is arresting you. I only want to meet with you. It will be very brief."

"Who..."

"I'll text you the address."

The line went dead. A second later, my phone chimed.

I stared at the address for a long moment.

Then I ran back into the kitchen, begged one of my coworkers to cover the rest of my shift, and sprinted out the back door.

---

The hotel was the kind of place I'd only ever seen in magazines. Glass floors. Crystal chandeliers. A front desk staff that looked at me....in my flour-dusted work shoes and wrinkled uniform....and somehow still smiled like I belonged there.

They led me to a private elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse.

The doors slid open onto a room that took my breath away.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

Fresh flowers on every surface.

A beautiful middle-aged woman sitting gracefully on a deep red couch, her legs crossed at the ankle, her pose effortless.

She smiled when she saw me. Warm. Genuine.

"Nadia. Come in, sit down." She gave a sign to the chair across from her. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you." I stayed on my feet. I couldn't sit. I couldn't breathe properly. "Please....why am I here? If this is about last night, I swear I didn't mean for any of it to happen. I never should have been there, I know, and I'm so sorry..."

She picked up a tablet from the glass table and turned it toward me.

The video was already playing. Raxon being dragged away by security. Me standing there, frozen, looking guilty of something I hadn't done.

"No, you don't understand." I shook my head, the words tumbling out too fast. "It wasn't his fault. He wasn't forcing himself on me. He was just talking to me....he was teasing me, actually, and I was nervous because I've never been to anything like that, but someone must have misunderstood. He didn't do anything wrong...."

"It's okay." She interrupted gently, her expression softening. "You don't need to apologize for my son's reckless behavior."

"No, I'm serious, it was all a misunderstanding!"

She sighed, shaking her head with something that looked almost like motherly tiredness. "Young ladies are always so fond of covering up for Raxon's messes."

The words hung in the air.

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

The striking jawline. The dark, intelligent eyes. The effortless authority. The way she spoke about Raxon like he was a problem she'd been managing for years.

She wasn't a lawyer. She wasn't a PR manager.

She was Joan Boyd. His mother.

"Look, Nadia." Joan leaned forward, her face shifting from warmth to something more serious. "The public relations damage is already done. There's only one viable option left to save his career."

"I'll do anything," I blurted. "I'll work for your family, I'll clean, I'll sign a statement saying I lied....anything."

"Marry my son."

The words didn't register at first. They just hung there, impossible, refusing to make sense.

Then they hit.

"What?"

"I can't...." I backed away, my legs hitting the edge of the chair behind me. "I can't do that."

Joan arched one perfect eyebrow. "And why exactly is that?"

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Because there was no logical reason to refuse.

None.

Anyone else in the entire world would have flipped over the table and signed the marriage license in blood.

He was Raxon Boyd.

The man whose face covered my bedroom wall. The man I'd been half in love with since his rookie season. The man who had teased me against a pillar and called me refreshing.

But this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. None of this was how it was supposed to happen.

"I just..." The words wouldn't come. "I just can't. Thank you for your time, truly, but I have to get back to work."

I didn't wait for her to answer.

I practically ran out of the penthouse, down the elevator, and into the afternoon sun. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking. I stood on the sidewalk, gasping for breath, trying to process what had just happened.

Marry him.

Marry Raxon Boyd.

It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. It was insane. It was impossible.

It was everything I'd ever wanted, handed to me on a silver platter, and I'd just run away from it like a complete idiot.

What was wrong with me?

---

{THIRD POV}

Joan watched the elevator doors close.

The girl hadn't cried. Hadn't asked for money. Hadn't threatened to call the press or demanded compensation.

She'd defended Raxon before defending herself....stammering apologies for something that wasn't her fault, offering to sign statements, to clean, to do anything.

She'd called him refreshing. She'd said he was teasing her.

Joan had watched the footage a dozen times. She'd seen the way Raxon leaned against that pillar, relaxed in a way he never was at these events.

She'd seen the way the girl laughed.

Interesting.

And timely. Joan had been looking for a way to protect Raxon from himself for years. Maybe this girl was it. Maybe she was something else entirely. Either way, Joan intended to find out.

Joan reached for her phone and dialed.

"I need background on someone," she said. "Nadia Owen. Everything you can find."