Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 111 - チャプター 120

DIANAI don’t bother with a second glance.The necklace is off in one tug — the clasp snapping, the sound of metal hitting marble. I drop it onto the hotel floor. “I don’t wear counterfeits.”Amanda, ever the picture of discretion, nods once. “It was just a sample, ma’am. Sent over by Vanderbilt Jewellery for your approval. The creative director is suggesting we go with a—” she checks the notes in her hand— “simpler design for the campaign.”I take the proposal she offers me and skim exactly two lines before tossing it after the necklace.“So by ‘simpler’ he means cheaper,” I say flatly. “Remind him this is Vanderbilt Holdings, not some Etsy startup run by trust fund burnouts. Cancel the meeting. Scrap the concept. Either he comes back with diamonds or he doesn’t come back at all.”“Yes, Ms. Vanderbilt.”Amanda crouches to retrieve the necklace and papers, but I flick a hand. “Leave it. That’s what the cleaning staff are paid for.”By the time we exit my hotel, my patience is already

LIAMWe’ve barely landed before I’m ducking away from the rest at baggage claim. In classic Cam fashion, just as my cab pulls up, he materialises out of thin air with a lopsided grin.“You’re really just gonna ghost everyone? No ‘see you later,’ no group hug?”I roll my eyes and slide into the back seat. “Bye, Cam,” I say pointedly, then give the driver the address to Emilia’s bakery.To my eternal disappointment, the other door opens and Cam climbs in like he owns the damn cab.I glare. “Can you not?”“You’re going to see Emilia, right?” he says, far too smug. “Did you even tell her you were coming back today?”“That’s the point of a surprise,” I deadpan. “I show up, take my girlfriend somewhere nice, and ideally — ideally — you’re nowhere in sight.”“Nice try. I miss Emilia’s cookies.”“You’re on a diet.”“I’m also still technically drunk. Let’s not hold each other to impossible standards.”I don’t dignify that with a response. The driver pulls off, and Cam’s already chatting like w

EMILIAApparently, my boyfriend has me wrapped around his finger like a damn joystick. All he has to do is press the right buttons — say the right things with those dimples that should be illegal — and I’m gone. Driving to his place when I should be working. Wearing a dress that feels more like a suggestion than an outfit.Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic. But still.We’re in a cab now — heading to his apartment — and for some reason, it reminds me of our horse ride in Mackinac. The way he kept glancing at me like I was the view. He’s doing the same thing now, except he’s also trying to pretend he’s listening to the cab driver ramble about the game. A fan, clearly. I’m mildly impressed Liam hasn’t ducked into a hoodie and sunglasses like he usually does.I lean into his side without thinking, tugging at the hem of his hoodie.He looks down instantly. Of course he does. His attention was already halfway on me — it always is. His arm curls tighter around my shoulders, pulling me flush aga

LIAMI swear I’ve lived a decent life. Not perfect — there’s definitely a parking ticket or three collecting dust in some glove box — but I’ve helped my siblings, paid my taxes, smiled at strangers when I had it in me. Basically, nothing to warrant divine punishment.So why does it feel like the universe is actively trying to end me when the door creaks open and Emilia steps out?I freeze. Fully freeze. Like every part of me short-circuits at once.I’d just finished buttoning the last cuff on my shirt — no tie, collar open, black dress pants tailored just enough to make my agent raise an eyebrow. The jacket’s black, double-breasted, sharp and quiet like I wanted. It’s the kind of look I never wear unless I have to. But for her? I didn’t think twice.Now I’m staring like I’ve never seen a woman before.The dress fits her like it was made for her and no one else. Like the fabric itself wants to worship her skin. It’s short enough to threaten my sanity, and those heels are not helping. B

LIAMThe lights dim a little more just as Mar steps onto the stage, and immediately, the room changes.He doesn’t say a word. Just lifts the violin to his shoulder, settles it under his chin, and starts to play.Mar picked up the violin out of pure boredom. There’s no dramatic backstory. Just something to do when I was off at hockey camp and he wasn’t sitting in the bleachers at my games. Julie — in one of her endless phases — had tried and failed to learn it, guilt-tripped our mom into buying the thing, then tossed it at Mar one summer like a frisbee. Said he had pretty hands. Figured he might as well give it a shot.Funny how fate works out.I’ve heard him play a hundred times. Still guts me every time.The first notes are soft, just barely there — like he’s warming up, like the song’s still making its way through him. But then the bow finds its rhythm, and the room shifts. Everything slows down. Conversations trail off mid-sentence. Glasses are lowered. Even forks hang in the air,