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 execution had already begun. At exactly two o'clock, a white delivery van breached the security gates. Three women dressed in identical black uniforms marched into the main living area, carrying four massive mobile 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 did not introduce herself. She didn't look me in the eye. Instead, she scanned my plus-size figure with an objective, critical expression. "We have forty-five minutes before the live-streamed video interview with the sports network. Arthur Kendrick specified that your appearance must convey elegance, stability, and high-society status. We brought options to modify your silhouette."

​I stood in the center of the room, keeping my posture rigid. I was very familiar with this kind of treatment. In their eyes, my natural shape was a problem that required a corporate solution.

​"I do not need to modify my silhouette," I said, my voice cold and even. "I wear a size sixteen. Select a professional dress from your inventory that fits my measurements. I am not wearing shapewear that restricts my breathing while I am trying to do my job."

​The women exchanged brief, tense glances. The leader turned to the racks, her fingers flipping through the garments rapidly.

​Rhys entered the room from the basement gym, his medical brace clicking loudly against the floor. He stopped several feet away, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the carpet. He looked at the racks of clothing, then at the wardrobe team, and finally at me. His expression was guarded.

​"Arthur ordered these?" Rhys asked.

​"Your father wants to control the narrative, Mr. Keller," I said, intentionally using his professional title to maintain our boundary. "He wants to make sure I look like I belong to the Kendrick estate."

​Rhys looked at the wardrobe leader. "Leave the options that match her request. Exit the room. We will handle the preparation ourselves."

​The women did not 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 and full of unspoken resentment.

​"You don't have to let them dictate your clothing, Sasha," Rhys said, his voice dropping into a lower register.

​"Your father’s PR team has complete control over this broadcast, Rhys," I said, walking over to inspect the choices. I selected a deep navy blue structured dress with a high collar. It was simple, professional, and completely covered my frame. "If I look unpolished, the media will claim your fake engagement is a fabrication. I am doing this to protect my business contract, not to please 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 angle of the lens. She looked at my dress and gave a single, tight nod of approval.

​"The stream goes live in five minutes," Helen said, her voice fast and authoritative. "The network anchor will ask three questions. First, how long you have been together. Second, why you chose to stay at the mountain compound. Third, how this impacts the upcoming playoffs. Rhys, you handle the hockey questions. Sasha, you validate 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 tailored trousers, but Rhys could not bend the joint. He looked stiff, trapped, and incredibly tense.

​I sat down beside him, leaving exactly four inches of space between our bodies.

​"Closer," Helen commanded from behind the camera. "You are supposedly engaged to be married. You look like you are waiting for a court hearing. Shift your position, Sasha. Place your hand near his arm."

​I felt a surge of internal resistance. I did not want to touch him. But the red light on top of the camera began to blink, signaling that the network feed was initializing. Millions of sports fans and league executives were about to see our faces.

​I shifted my weight, closing the distance between us. I placed my left hand flat against the fabric of Rhys’s thigh, just above his injured knee.

​Instantly, I felt Rhys’s entire body go rigid. His muscles tightened under my palm like solid stone. He didn't move away, but his breathing became shallow.

​"We are 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 Keller 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, measured smile onto his face. The transformation was immediate; his aggressive training persona disappeared, replaced by the charming, media-trained franchise star.

​"It’s great to be here, Jim," Rhys said, his voice smooth and confident. "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 his screen. "The fans are incredibly curious about your background. You are a high-level nutrition specialist. Did this romance start in the training facility?"

​I looked directly into the camera lens. I kept my voice steady, utilizing the professional tone I used during corporate boardroom presentations.

​"Thank you, Jim," I said. "Our connection developed through a mutual respect for physical excellence and discipline. I understand what Rhys requires 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 are one hundred percent ready for the playoffs?"

​I felt Rhys’s leg twitch beneath my hand. The high stakes of the moment returned with full force. If he hesitated, the anchor would press for details.

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

​"That is what Chicago wanted to hear," the anchor said. "Congratulations to you both."

​The monitor went black. The live stream was disconnected.

​The moment the feed died, I pulled my hand back and stood up immediately, smoothing down the front of my navy dress. The emotional energy required to maintain that performance had left me completely exhausted.

​Helen Vance stepped away from the camera, her face relaxed for the first time in twenty-four hours. "Excellent. The analytics are already spiking. The injury rumors are completely buried under the engagement metrics. Arthur will be satisfied."

​Rhys did not move from the sofa. He remained seated, his straight leg extended, his eyes fixed on the empty space where my hand had just been resting. The media charm was gone, replaced by a deep, unreadable expression.

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

​Helen gathered her materials and exited the room, taking the technical team with her. The front doors clicked shut, leaving the compound in absolute silence once again.

​I turned to walk back to the kitchen to begin preparing his evening meal, but Rhys’s voice stopped me.

​"Sasha."

​I paused at the edge of the carpet, looking 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," I said.

​"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 his sudden vulnerability soften my boundary. "Don't thank me yet, Captain. We still have seven weeks and six days left."