Chapter Five

Lena’s Pov

My phone starts buzzing on the bedside table at six o'clock in the morning, and it doesn't stop.

Vibrate, buzz, ring. Vibrate, buzz, ring.

I pull the heavy white duvet over my head, groaning as I reach out blindly to grab the screen. When I swipe it open, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. The internet is completely broken. Every single sports website, celebrity gossip blog, and social media feed has the exact same picture right at the top of the page. It is a crystal-clear, high-zoom photograph of Carter and me kissing in the dark living room, framed perfectly by the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the penthouse.

My heart jumps straight up into my throat. I stare at the screen, my fingers trembling so badly I almost drop the phone.

How? How is that picture even real?

The windows of this penthouse are on the fiftieth floor. There are no other buildings this tall anywhere near us. A street photographer standing down on the sidewalk could never get an angle like that, no matter how expensive their camera lens is. Someone was up here. Someone was standing right outside the window, watching us in the dark, and taking pictures of our most private moment.

"Carter!" I scream, throwing the covers off and running straight out of the guest bedroom.

I burst into the master suite, but the bed is already empty. The shower is running, and the heavy sound of water echoes down the hallway. I pace back and forth across the expensive carpet, my chest heaving with panic. When the bathroom door finally clicks open, Carter steps out with a towel draped around his neck, looking fresh and wide awake.

"Did you see this?" I shout, shoving my phone right into his face. "Look at this picture, Carter! Look at where it was taken!"

Carter stops dead in his tracks. He looks down at the phone screen, and for a split second, something dark and terrified flashes in his blue eyes. But he hides it fast, pasting a cool, calm expression back onto his face as he wipes his wet hair with the towel.

"Relax, Lena," he says, his voice much too casual. "Paparazzi have long lenses and crazy equipment. They sit in cars across the street with giant scopes. It's just part of the job."

"No, it isn't!" I snap, my voice rising as I grab his arm. "Stop lying to me. You can't shoot upward at a fifty-story window from across the street. The angle is impossible! Someone was inside the building. Someone was watching us."

Carter's whole body stiffens under my hand. He pulls his arm away slowly, walking over to his dresser to grab a watch. "You're letting your imagination run wild. Marcus said the public loves the photo. The team's PR department is celebrating because ticket sales for the championship are through the roof. It worked. Everyone thinks we're madly in love."

"I don't care about ticket sales!" I yell, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes. "I care that someone is spying on us inside your home!"

"Drop it, Lena," he says sharply, turning to face me with a hard edge in his voice. "Just... drop it. We have a team breakfast in twenty minutes. Go change your clothes."

He walks past me without another word, leaving me standing alone in the middle of his fancy bedroom with my hands shaking.

An hour later, we are sitting at a long, polished oak table inside the private dining room of the hockey arena. The team executives, coaches, and sponsors are all smiling and clapping when Carter and I walk in together. Marcus, the publicist, looks like he just won the lottery, grinning from ear to ear as he points at his phone to show us millions of online likes.

"You two played your parts brilliantly," Marcus whispers loudly, handing us both coffee cups. "The fans are eating out of the palm of your hand."

I force a tight, polite smile onto my face, keeping my eyes glued to the table. I feel sick to my stomach. Every time I look at Carter, I keep thinking about that photo, and I keep thinking about the secret look of panic he tried to hide this morning. He knows something. I am sure of it.

Before I can take a sip of my coffee, the heavy double doors at the front of the room swing wide open.

A heavy silence falls over the entire table instantly.

Victor Vance, Carter's billionaire father, walks into the room with slow, heavy footsteps. He wears a dark, expensive suit that screams power, and his sharp gray eyes scan the room like a hawk looking for mice. Right beside him, walking with a smug, victorious little smile, is Sophia.

My breath catches in my throat. Sophia? What is she doing here?

"Good morning, everyone," Victor's deep, gravelly voice echoes off the walls. He doesn't look at his son. He looks right at me. "I apologize for my late arrival. I was just finalizing some important organizational changes. Effective immediately, Sophia will be joining our executive committee as the head of public relations for the championship season."

Carter slams his coffee cup down onto the table so hard the brown liquid splashes over the rim. "You can't do that," Carter growls, standing up halfway from his chair. "Sophia has no business being part of this committee."

"She is my choice, Carter," Victor says smoothly, his voice dripping with false kindness. "And she will be working very closely with your lovely new girlfriend. In fact, Sophia has already volunteered to show her around the facility today."

I feel a cold shiver run down my spine. I don't want Sophia showing me anything. I want to run out of this building and never look back.

Ten minutes later, while Carter is dragged away by the head coach to look at game tapes, Sophia corners me near the private elevators down the hall. She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back against the cool marble wall with a cruel little smirk on her lips.

"Well, look at you," Sophia says, her voice dripping with venom. "The little accountant from nowhere. You really think you've won, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sophia," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I turn to walk away.

Sophia steps right into my path, blocking the elevator doors. Her eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

"You think Carter chose you because he needed a fake girlfriend to fix his reputation," she whispers, leaning in close so her breath brushes my ear. "You think it was just luck that he picked a girl from his college days out of millions of people."

My heart skips a beat. I stop moving. "What are you trying to say?"

Sophia smiles, a truly ugly, triumphant smile.

"You think Carter chose you," she repeats slowly, every word landing like a heavy stone. "But your father is the reason he chose you."