The Presentation

By Friday afternoon, the compound felt less like a medical retreat and more like a corporate war room.

The contract was signed, but the real drama had already begun. At exactly two o'clock, a white delivery van passed through the security gates. Three women dressed in identical black uniforms marched into the main living area, carrying four massive clothing racks and several heavy garment boxes.

They were a professional wardrobe team sent directly by Arthur Kendrick.

"Miss Miller," the leader of the team said, checking a digital tablet. She didn't introduce herself. She didn't even look me in the eye. Instead, she scanned my plus-size figure with a critical expression. "We have forty-five minutes before the live-streamed interview with the sports network. Arthur Kendrick specified that your appearance must convey elegance, stability, and high-society status. We brought options to help shape your silhouette."

I stood in the middle of the room, keeping my posture straight. I knew this kind of treatment too well. To people like them, my body was always something that needed fixing.

"I don't need help shaping my silhouette," I said, my voice cold and even. "I wear a size sixteen. Pick a professional dress that fits me. I'm not wearing shapewear so tight I can't breathe while I'm trying to do my job."

The women exchanged brief, tense glances. The leader turned back to the racks, flipping through the clothes.

Rhys entered the room from the basement gym, his medical brace clicking against the floor. He stopped several feet away, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the carpet. His eyes moved from the racks of clothing to the wardrobe team, then finally to me.

"Arthur ordered these?" Rhys asked.

"Your father wants to control the narrative, Mr. Kendrick," I said, intentionally using his professional title to keep things clear between us. "He wants to make sure I look like I belong in the Kendrick estate."

Rhys looked at the wardrobe leader.

"Leave the options that match her request. Exit the room. We'll handle the preparation ourselves."

The women didn't argue. They placed three high-end designer dresses on a separate hook, rolled the remaining racks out of the room, and closed the doors behind them.

The silence returned, heavy with everything nobody was saying.

"You don't have to let them dictate what you wear, Sasha," Rhys said, his voice dropping.

"Your father's PR team controls this broadcast, Rhys," I said, walking over to inspect the choices. I picked a deep navy-blue structured dress with a high collar. It was simple, professional, and covered me properly. "If I look unpolished, the media will say this fake engagement is a joke. I'm doing this to protect my business, not to impress your family."

I took the dress into the guest room and changed quickly. When I returned to the living area, a technical crew had already set up a high-definition camera, lighting umbrellas, and a digital monitor on a table opposite the main sofa.

Helen Vance was there, adjusting the camera angle. She looked at my dress and gave a single, tight nod.

"The stream goes live in five minutes," Helen said, her voice fast and authoritative. "The anchor will ask three questions. First, how long you've been together. Second, why you chose to stay at the mountain compound. Third, how this affects the upcoming playoffs. Rhys, you handle the hockey questions. Sasha, you stick to the timeline we gave Dan Miller last night."

Rhys sat on the sofa. Because of his knee injury, his right leg had to remain completely straight. Marcus had covered the bulky medical brace with a pair of loose, dark trousers, but Rhys still couldn't bend the joint. He looked stiff, trapped, and incredibly tense.

I sat beside him, leaving exactly four inches between us.

"Closer," Helen commanded from behind the camera. "You're supposedly engaged. You look like you're waiting for a court hearing. Move closer, Sasha. Put your hand near his arm."

I felt a wave of resistance. I didn't want to touch him. But the red light on top of the camera began blinking, signaling that the network feed was about to start. Millions of sports fans and league executives were about to see our faces.

I shifted closer and placed my left hand against Rhys's thigh, just above his injured knee.

Instantly, his entire body went rigid. His muscles tightened beneath my palm like solid stone. He didn't move away, but his breathing became shallow.

"We're live in three, two..." Helen signaled.

The face of a well-known sports anchor appeared on the digital monitor in front of us.

"We are breaking live to the Kendrick mountain estate," the anchor's voice boomed through the speakers. "Chicago Iron captain Rhys Kendrick is on the line with his new fiancée, Sasha Miller. Rhys, the hockey world is in absolute shock. Walk us through this sudden announcement."

Rhys forced a calm smile onto his face. The change was immediate. The aggressive man I'd been dealing with all week disappeared, replaced by the charming, media-trained franchise star.

"It's great to be here, Jim," Rhys said smoothly. "I know it seems sudden to the public, but Sasha and I have kept our relationship private for months. With the intensity of the season and the pressure of the upcoming trade deadline, we wanted a sanctuary. This compound gave us that."

"Sasha, welcome to the franchise family," the anchor said, his eyes shifting to my face on the screen. "The fans are incredibly curious about your background. You're a high-level nutrition specialist. Did this romance start in the training facility?"

I looked directly into the camera. I kept my voice steady, using the same professional tone I'd used in countless meetings.

"Thank you, Jim," I said. "Our connection developed through a mutual respect for discipline and physical excellence. I understand what Rhys needs to perform at his highest level, and he respects my authority in that field. We chose to announce our commitment now so we could clear the air and allow Rhys to focus entirely on bringing a championship back to Chicago."

"Beautifully said," the anchor replied. "Rhys, there are rumors circulating that your isolation here is due to a physical setback. Can you confirm you're one hundred percent ready for the playoffs?"

I felt Rhys's leg twitch beneath my hand.

The stakes came rushing back. If he hesitated, the anchor would keep pushing.

"I'm the captain of this team, Jim," Rhys said, his voice hardening with genuine conviction. "I've never backed down from a challenge, and I'm not starting now. My preparation is on schedule. Sasha is making sure my body is exactly where it needs to be. We'll be on the ice when the clock starts."

"That's what Chicago wanted to hear," the anchor said. "Congratulations to you both."

The monitor went black. The live stream disconnected.

The moment the feed died, I pulled my hand away and stood up, smoothing the front of my navy dress. Keeping up that performance had taken more out of me than I wanted to admit.

Helen stepped away from the camera, looking relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours.

"Excellent. The analytics are already spiking. The injury rumors are completely buried under the engagement numbers. Arthur will be satisfied."

Rhys didn't move from the sofa. He remained seated, his injured leg stretched out, his eyes fixed on the spot where my hand had just been.

The media charm was gone.

In its place was something deeper. Something I couldn't quite read.

"We did what you wanted, Helen," Rhys said, his voice flat. "Take the crew and leave the house."

Helen gathered her materials and exited with the technical team. The front doors clicked shut, leaving the compound silent again.

I turned toward the kitchen to start preparing his evening meal, but Rhys's voice stopped me.

"Sasha."

I paused at the edge of the carpet and looked back at him.

"Yes?"

"Your answer to the anchor," Rhys said, his dark eyes locked onto mine. "You said we had a mutual respect for discipline."

"It was a scripted lie to satisfy the media, Rhys."

"It shouldn't be a lie," Rhys said quietly.

He leaned his head back against the sofa, his chest rising with a heavy breath.

"You handled that better than anyone in my family could have. Thank you."

I looked at him for three seconds, refusing to let that sudden vulnerability soften my boundaries.

"Don't thank me yet, Captain. We still have seven weeks and six days left."