All Chapters of Hockey Star by Day, Oil Mogul by night: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

SCARLETT I wanted to leave. I wanted to hide away somewhere and lick my wounds in private. But I wasn’t walking away without answers. I wait patiently until Drake and Sylvia are done with their celebrations and interviews before tracing them to the locker room. The Scarlett of old would have run back home and cried into her pillow all night. Not anymore. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and noises of celebration as I walk into the room. I finally find Drake in his stall, still in his pads. Nausea roils in my stomach at the sight of Sylvia tucked under his arm like she’s always belonged there. They’re so engrossed in their world of giggles and intimate whispers that they don’t notice me until I stop three feet away from them. “Drake.” He looks up and for a second and something moves across his face. Guilt, maybe. It’s gone in a flash. His expression settles into a lazy, bored mask and he tilts his head. “Scarlett. What are you doing here?” My fingers

SCARLETT “Good evening and welcome to Velour,” my voice comes out smooth, professional. “Can I start you with something from the bar or —?” “You work here?” Sylvia asks, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. I force a smile. “Yes. Can I get you something?” She pouts; “You don’t have to be rude, Scarlett dear. Mother said you moved out of the house. How are you surviving? You look so exhausted. Have you been stress eating? You can barely fit into your uniform.” Her voice is tinged with sympathy, but there’s no denying the cruel mockery that simmers underneath. I would give anything to poke my fingers into her eyes, but I square my shoulders and hand them the electronic menu. “I can come back if you’re not sure —” “Life has really been terrible to you, Scarlett.” Sylvia cuts in, desperate to get a reaction out of me. “Recovering from a heartbreak and being forced to work?” She shudders, clutching Drake’s arm like it’s the most horrible feeling in the world. “I can’t

SCARLETTI thought he was unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and a jacket. Apparently, Harlan Rousseau in a suit is an image capable of setting my panties on fire. He tips his head to the side by a fraction, cold coffee-brown eyes roving over my cheap getup, and my cheeks redden with shame. Everything about him is so sleek, so fucking put together. Not a single crease mars the expensive material of his bespoke, coal-black suit. His wing-tipped shoes are made of leather probably shinier than my future. I’m pretty sure the man would contract some kind of disease if I touched him with my unsanitized hands.But beneath all the glitz and glamour, I notice something else. Something that should have me running for the hills, screaming in terror — but instead, it pulls me to him like a loose wire to a live current.I notice a wild, uncontrolled darkness that doesn’t quite match his aristocratic appearance. A darkness that sets my traitorous body on fire.That ten thousand dollar suit houses a

SCARLETTMy eyes flutter open and I watch a muscle leap in his jaw as he evidently struggles to form words. I hold my breath, expecting him to argue. Instead, he trains those hawk-eyes on me, almost like he’s daring my heart to act up again. “Your medical records say you’ve lived with this… condition for a long time.”“Yeah.” I croak. “Since I was five.” My heart still flutters, throwing itself like a trapped bird against my ribs. But the sharp edge of the pain has dulled.“My valve is floppy,” I feel the need to explain, although I’m positive that he knows this already. “It doesn’t close right. Sometimes, my heart throws tantrums about it.”“Floppy.” His voice is flat, devoid of emotion. “Your heart valve is floppy and you work double shifts at my club.”I shrug, wondering where he’s going with this.“Bills don’t pay themselves, Mr. Rousseau.”He says nothing for a while. Then I suddenly realize he’s rubbing my back in calm, soothing circles. His eyes are as cold as icicles. But h

SCARLETTI looked up Harlan’s doctor last night, Dr. Beatrice Wensworth, lead cardiologist at Lonsdale International hospital, and it’s safe to say I will not be paying her a visit.Her services are as expensive as her bougie last name. She has a two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar consultation fee, and apparently, only the top two percent of the world’s population can afford to get medical care at Lonsdale. So no, thank you.I am already more indebted to Harlan Rousseau than I would like. I’m not taking any more favours from that man. Which is exactly what I’ve been trying to explain to Yahir, Harlan’s driver, for the past thirty minutes.“Ms. Whitmore, the boss explicitly instructed me to drop you off at the hospital. We’re already running late.” He glances at the watch on his wrist and I follow his gaze. Rolex. Wow. I didn’t know being a driver paid that much.“And I’ve told you three times already, Mr. Yahir, I’m not going.”I brush past him, my blue, flowery dress swishing around m