Chapter 5 The Training Squad

Romy kept walking.

Her wet footprints marked the tile behind her until the changing-room door swung open.

Then Clara’s voice broke through the poolside murmur.

“Wait—that badge. Isn’t that the British national swimming team training emblem?”

The atmosphere shifted at once.

Romy stopped with her hand still on the door.

Across the pool, a group of swimmers had entered through the main doors in matching navy windbreakers. They moved in a line, tall, lean, and focused, carrying kit bags and water bottles, their presence cutting through the leisure-club brightness like a blade through silk. Conversation thinned around them. Even the younger swimmers in the lanes glanced over.

At the front of the group walked a man in his fifties with iron-grey hair, a tactical board tucked under one arm. His expression was severe, his posture still carrying the authority of a man who had spent decades turning talent into medals.

Matthew Miller.

Clara was already sitting straighter. Serena lowered her phone, interest sharpening across her face. Caroline’s eyes brightened, her hand settling instinctively over her flat stomach as Devon turned to see what had caught everyone’s attention.

As a woman who had spent years shaping herself into the perfect society darling, Caroline understood the value of the right association.

Sporting charities. National events. Photographs beside respected champions and legendary coaches. These things did not merely look good in magazines; they raised a woman’s worth in rooms where people spoke softly and decided futures over champagne.

More importantly, Kensington Group was preparing to sponsor an international aquatics event next quarter. If she could help Devon build a connection with Matthew Miller’s team, her place within the Kensington family would become even harder to question.

“Devon,” Caroline said, lightly tugging at his sleeve. Her voice was gentle, but there was a brightness in it she did not try to hide. “That’s Coach Miller. Should we go and say hello? If Kensington Group’s sports charity project could have his team’s support, the board would be very pleased.”

Devon followed her gaze and gave a small nod.

From a business perspective, it was indeed an excellent opportunity. He helped Caroline rise from the lounge chair with practised care, shifting her handbag and thermos into his left hand so his right could remain near her waist, shielding her as they stepped around the damp patches on the poolside tiles.

“Coach Miller, good morning,” Caroline said.

She positioned herself neatly beside Devon, not too forward, not too shy. The smile on her face was warm, polished, and exactly the right degree of admiring.

“I’m Caroline Thorne. It’s such an honour to meet you. I never expected to run into the national team here today.”

Then she turned slightly, bringing Devon into the conversation with effortless grace. There was pride in her tone, carefully softened so it sounded more like affection than display.

“This is Devon Kensington, heir to Kensington Group. His family has always been committed to supporting aquatic sports in Britain. If there is ever an opportunity to work with your team, it would be our privilege.”

Devon extended his hand.

His manner was flawless, as always—calm, assured, and just warm enough to make formality feel personal.

“Coach Miller,” he said, his voice low and composed. “I’ve seen your work in the news many times. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Miller had been looking over the training plan in his hand when they approached. He had spent half his life on pool decks and competition floors, among athletes who measured respect in seconds and medals rather than compliments, and commercial pleasantries had never held much interest for him. Still, he accepted Devon’s hand out of courtesy.

His gaze moved once between Devon and Caroline.

Caroline stood close to Devon in her white sports dress, her cheeks faintly flushed from the indoor warmth and the hot water he had brought her. Her hand rested on his arm with the ease of someone who did not need permission to be there. Devon held her handbag and thermos without visible discomfort, his other hand hovering near her waist whenever someone passed too close.

In the raw, humid atmosphere of the pool, where strength and discipline made most forms of elegance look decorative, they seemed oddly untouched by the place around them. Wealthy, composed, beautifully matched. A couple who looked as though they belonged on the glossy page of a charity magazine.

“Mr Kensington,” Miller said, polite but brisk. His eyes flicked briefly to Caroline’s hand on Devon’s arm before he added, with the automatic courtesy of a man making small talk, “A pleasure. You’re a fortunate man to have Mrs Kensington supporting your work.”

At the words Mrs Kensington, Caroline’s heart gave a violent little leap.

A private, dazzling rush of pleasure swept through her, so intense that she had to lower her eyes to hide it. In the eyes of the national team’s head coach, she was the woman standing beside Devon in the place that mattered. Not hidden. Not explained away. Not waiting for anyone’s approval.

She did not correct him.

Instead, she dipped her head with a shy, graceful smile and leaned just a little closer to Devon, as though the mistake embarrassed her too much to address.

Devon’s expression changed only faintly.

He heard it. Caroline knew he had.

But he did not correct Miller either.

Perhaps he considered it impolite to embarrass a respected coach over a harmless misunderstanding. Perhaps, in a public setting, he saw no reason to make Caroline lose face. Or perhaps the title sounded less wrong to him than it should have.

Whatever the reason, his silence settled over Caroline like a gift.

On the spectators’ seats nearby, Serena and Clara had seen everything. They leaned toward each other at once, excitement lighting their faces.

“Did you hear that?” Serena whispered. “Even Coach Miller thinks Caroline is the real Mrs Kensington.”

Clara gave a soft laugh, her eyes cutting toward the changing-room doors. “Of course he does. Look at them. They actually look like a couple. That ghost of a wife shouldn’t even be standing here.”

Caroline heard enough to know what they were saying.

She did not look back at them. She only lowered her lashes, letting the faintest curve touch her mouth before smoothing it away.

Miller’s social courtesy lasted exactly that long.

As he withdrew his hand and turned to lead the team toward the deep end, something at the edge of his vision made him stop.

A slim figure in a black training swimsuit stood near the changing-room entrance, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, her damp hair dark against her neck. She had been walking away with her head slightly lowered, as if she intended to leave without anyone noticing.

Miller stared.

The severe, unshakable expression that had carried him through world championships and Olympic trials changed so abruptly that even the athletes behind him slowed.

He took one step forward, then another, his training board lowering forgotten to his side.

Devon turned slightly, following his line of sight.

Caroline’s hand tightened around his arm.

Miller was already moving past them.

He did not excuse himself. He did not finish the polite exchange. He went around Devon and Caroline as if they had become no more than furniture in his path, his voice ringing across the pool deck with disbelief sharp enough to silence the nearby lanes.

“Romy?”

The woman by the changing-room door stopped.

Miller quickened his pace.

“Romy Palmer!”