All Chapters of Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

EMILIAThe rage comes in waves — sharp, hot, impossible to swallow. Diana doesn’t even flinch. She sips her water like we’re talking about the weather, eyes locked on me like she’s measuring the exact second I’ll snap.And suddenly, I’m not here anymore. I’m thirteen again, watching a younger Diana scream because the housekeeper trampled her strawberry garden. She’d nearly burned the woman with a curling iron. She didn’t cry, didn’t throw a tantrum. Just calmly cornered her and flipped the switch.Mum and Dad sent her to therapy. She came back quieter. Smarter. But she never stopped believing she was right.“Bad actions should have bad consequences,” she used to say, like it was simple maths. “Good actions should have good ones. That’s fair.”She was never cruel for no reason. That’s what made her dangerous.“It must be the curse of brilliance,” Luther used to joke. “Her brain works too fast to make room for empathy.”He didn’t know how right he was.I take a breath. Then another. “So

EMILIAI don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the spot Diana just left.Everything feels unreal — like the air’s been punched out of the room and hasn’t returned. I clench my fists, willing myself to move, and head for Tessa’s room.I try not to think about what Diana said. Try not to picture her face. Try not to feel anything at all.When I reach the door, I notice the lock — turned from the outside. The key’s still in the handle. All I have to do is twist it.I open the door.Tessa’s on the floor, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees. Reading glasses perched on her nose. She squints at me.“You’re dressed up,” she says, dryly. “So I’m guessing the surprise went well? I’m also guessing you got rid of the psychopath? I would’ve called you, but she took my phone like I was being punished.”I don’t answer. Just move to the ground beside her, awkward in my dress. I smooth it out and lean over to peek at her screen.“Are you working?”“Was.” She lets out a small sigh and cl

EMILIAIt takes me less than a minute to slip into Liam’s place. At this point, I’m basically part of the furniture — the doorman and I are on a first-name basis, and I don’t even gawk at the apartment’s ridiculous size anymore. Progress.It’s quiet inside, which isn’t exactly shocking. Liam told me I didn’t need to come over, that he’d swing by and pick me up himself. One of his teammates is throwing a barbecue, and no matter how much I tried to fake my way out of it (“Oh no, I think I’m coming down with... uh… allergies?”), he wasn’t buying it.Maybe it won’t be terrible. I’ve met a few of his teammates before, and they were sweet in that loud, chaotic, “we’ve adopted you now” kind of way. Still, an entire house full of them? That’s a lot of energy for someone who spent her morning making croissants.I kick off my shoes, wash my hands in the kitchen, and fight off a yawn before wandering into his bedroom. And there he is — sprawled out like he’s auditioning for the cover of “Men Who

EMILIAThe vendor is beaming at him, probably because Liam is arguing over strawberries like it’s a playoff final. I lean against his arm, watching his hand gesture animatedly while he charms the poor woman into throwing in an extra pint “just because the missus looks like she deserves it.”Missus. I don’t stand a chance.By the time he’s finished, he’s swinging a paper bag full of strawberries in one hand, mine still trapped in the other.“Do you flirt with every fruit seller, or just the ones with discounts?” I mutter.His grin is shameless. “Only the ones who give me extra because you smiled.”I groan, dragging my free hand down my face. “You’re insufferable.”“Mm,” he hums, leaning close until his nose brushes my temple, voice dropping low so only I hear it. “And you love me anyway.”I do. God help me, I do.“And since when do you even know how to haggle?” I jab his arm. “You don’t look the type.”“What — too polished? Too much of a rich city boy?”“Yes, exactly that.”He smirks,

EMILIAIt takes a solid few minutes to convince Liam that no, I’m not freezing to death, yes, it’s all in his head, and finally, the dagger: “What are you, my dad?” That one shuts him up fast. He looks so horrified I almost feel bad — almost. Instead, he sulks about his “misplaced concern” and how I “don’t care about his feelings” (still not sure how the two are connected, but okay). Eventually, he gives up the bit and finally leads me toward the backyard.The bass-heavy music leaking out from the porch is one thing, but actually stepping into Owen’s backyard is dizzying. It’s a mess of bodies and voices — men I assume are his teammates, women balancing paper plates, a couple kids darting between picnic tables. It feels like walking into a different world, one that’s all loud laughter, clinking bottles, and the faint smell of charcoal.Before I can even process the crowd, a tiny shriek cuts through the noise. “Uncle Liam!”One of those kids, a tiny girl with black pigtails and sharp