The Rules Of Our Engagement

Chapter 5: The Rules of Engagement

Dominic Isaiah didn’t answer me right away.

He stood in the narrow shadow of the equipment door, his dark, piercing eyes searching my face as if looking for the punchline to a cruel joke.

"You're out of your mind," he repeated, though the edge in his voice had shifted from pure disgust to something far more dangerous: calculating interest.

"I'm desperate," I corrected, keeping my gaze locked on his.

"There's a difference. You need the media to stop asking about that leaked match-fixing video. I need a badge that gets me into every arena in the country without security dragging me out. A fake relationship gives you a clean, tragic narrative to hide behind, and it gives me access."

Dom let out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head as he slung his gym bag over his shoulder.

"Access to Dakas. You still want him."

"I want him ruined," I said.

The word came out cold, sharp, and razor-like.

A slow, cynical smirk touched the corner of Dom’s mouth.

"A vengeful ex-girlfriend and a disgraced point guard. Perfect match."

He stepped closer, crowding me back against the brick wall until the heat of his chest was inches from mine. Forced proximity made my skin prickle, but I refused to shrink away.

"Here are my rules, Aima.

Rule one: you don't touch my team, you don't touch my family, and you do the bloody job as team assistant.

Rule two: when the cameras are on, you act like I'm the only man in the room.

Rule three: the second this feels real to you, we're done."

"It won't feel real," I snapped. "You're arrogant, rude, and I can't stand you."

"Good," Dom murmured, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper that made my pulse betray me with a sudden flutter. "Feeling's mutual."

He reached into his bag, pulled out a thick, heavy Titans varsity jacket in navy and gold, and tossed it at my chest.

"Put it on. The press conference for the Mid-Season Invitational is in ten minutes in the main auditorium. Let's go give the tabloids something else to write about."

The heavy wool of his jacket smelled like cedarwood, crisp autumn air, and fresh laundry. Wrapping it around my thin shoulders instantly drowned me in his frame, the oversized sleeves swallowing my hands.

________

Ten minutes later, I was standing in the back of the blindingly lit Northgate Press Room. Reporters were crammed row upon row, shouting questions at Coach Daniel Isaiah, Dom's father, who stood at the podium looking pale and exhausted.

"Coach Isaiah! Is it true Dominic is under internal investigation for sports betting?"

"Coach, how do you respond to rumors that the Titans' captain threw the semi-final match against Crestview?"

Coach Daniel raised a hand, his face tight with strain. "Dominic is our captain. The allegations are unproven—"

"The allegations are false," a deep, commanding voice cut through the noise.

The entire press pool spun around.

Dom walked down the center aisle, his expression unreadable, his posture tall and unbothered.

But he didn't walk alone.

He reached back, his large, warm hand catching mine, his fingers lacing tightly through mine in front of fifty flashing cameras.

Gasps rippled through the room. Shutter clicks erupted into a deafening roar.

"Is that... the flower girl?" someone gasped.

"That's Aima Julius! James Dakas's ex!"

Dom pulled me gently to his side, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me firm against his ribs. The public front of our fake dating setup had officially begun, but the feeling of his heavy arm around me felt startlingly solid.

"My personal life has been dragged through the mud by baseless rumors," Dom said into the sea of microphones, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Including lies about my integrity on the court. But right now, my focus is on leading the Titans to the finals—and supporting Aima after the disgusting way she was treated in Manchester."

The room erupted. Reporters scrambled over each other, thrusting microphones forward.

"Aima! Are you dating Dominic Isaiah now?"

"Is this revenge against James Dakas?"

"Dominic, how long have you two been together?"

---

Before Dom could answer, the double doors at the side of the auditorium clicked open. A camera crew from Crestview Media walked in, followed by the rising star himself.

James Dakas walked into the room, flanked by two representatives from Vanguard Athletics—the predatory sports agency managing his sudden rise to celebrity romance status. Beside him, dressed in an immaculate white blazer, was Jemima Vanterpool.

James was laughing, answering a reporter's question about his newly announced engagement, when his eyes landed on the stage.

His laughter died instantly.

James froze in the middle of the aisle, his eyes darting from my face, down to my hand intertwined with Dom's, and finally to the navy and gold Titans varsity jacket draped over my shoulders.

Dom's jacket.

The symbol of Crestview's fiercest rival.

The dynamic in the room shattered into pure voltage—a high-stakes love triangle unfolding live under the media glare.

A dark, dangerous flicker of possessive jealousy flashed across James's face, unmasking the polished celebrity persona for a split second. His jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched. He took a step toward us, ignoring Jemima, who caught his elbow with a subtle, warning grip.

"What is she doing here?" James demanded, his voice low, dropping the charming smile he gave the cameras. "Aima, take that jacket off."

Dom didn't move an inch.

He simply shifted his body slightly in front of mine, his arm tightening around my waist as he looked down at James with supreme, icy contempt.

"She goes where I go, Dakas," Dom said, his voice echoing across the silent room like a thunderclap. "And right now, she belongs to Northgate."

James stared at me, his eyes burning with a volatile mix of anger, disbelief, and something far darker. The cameras flashed frantically, capturing the exact moment the national golden boy lost his composure over the girl he had publicly discarded twenty-four hours ago.

Dom leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as the press went wild.

"Smile for the cameras, sweetie," he whispered softly, his breath warm against my cheek. "Your ex looks like he's about to blow his top."

I looked past Dom’s shoulder directly into James’s furious eyes, lifted my chin, and let a slow, brilliant smile touch my lips.

The fake relationship was live. The trap was set.

But as Dom’s thumb gently brushed against my hip beneath the heavy jacket, a quiet, terrifying realization hit me: the line between the lie we were selling and the heat rising between us was already starting to blur.