Hazel's Pov
"What?" I gasp, the word tearing out of me like I hadn't heard him perfectly the first time. My ears are ringing, my head feels light. This can't be real.
"You heard me, Hazel." Dalton grunts, the sound rough and final. He runs a frustrated hand through his perfectly styled hair, not even looking at me. "I can't be with you. I've gotten to a reasonable top in my career and I need someone to match that. This was meant to be a fling from the beginning, you're just being difficult now."
The words don't make sense. They just bounce off me, meaningless and cruel. I scramble for my dress, my fingers fumbling with the fabric, pulling it on hastily as he calmly picks up his suit jacket and slips it on after straightening his shoes. He couldn't do this to me...not now. Not after everything.
"Is it about the sex?" The question is out before I can stop it, desperate and pathetic. "You know I want to... Dalton, I really do. I'll improve, I promise. Please, we can figure this out."
I reach out to touch his arm, to feel the solidness of him and make this all stop, but he steps away from my hand like my skin is poison. "My mind is already made up," he says, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You can stay here and clean up. Be out by morning." Then he's gone, the hotel room door clicking shut with a quiet, devastating finality.
My knees give out completely then. I crumple to the floor, the expensive rug rough against my skin, and just watch the empty space where he'd been. I don't run after him. I can't cause a scene. Hot, silent tears spill over and stream down my face as my brain tries and fails to process what just happened. He was supposed to propose tonight. He was supposed to have a ring. Not this.
Numbly, I force myself up and clean the room, erasing any trace of us. I leave the hotel, my head disoriented and throbbing. My thighs burn with a deep, aching agony with every step, a physical reminder of how wrong everything went. I bite my lip hard, focusing on that sharp pain instead of the hollowed-out feeling in my chest.
He was probably just angry, I tell myself, the thought a fragile lifeline. He'll cool off. He'll come back. We'll fix this soon. We have to.
I'm so lost in the mantra that I bump straight into someone in the lobby, my purse falling from my hand and spilling its contents onto the polished floor. Muttering an apology, I bend down, but he's faster. He gathers my things and hands the purse back to me. I take it without really looking at him, my vision still blurred.
"Thank you..." I whisper, the words barely audible.
But then his hand closes around my wrist. It's not harsh, but it's firm, stopping me from turning away. The grip forces me to look up, to meet the intensity of his sharp gray eyes. They're studying me, seeing right through me. "Are you okay?" he asks. The tone in his voice feels strangely familiar, like he knows me or like he's the kind of man who would instinctively step in to protect someone. It's unnerving.
I pull my hand away gently, shaking my head as I roll out the casual, practiced lie. "Yes..." I inhale a shaky breath, trying to sell it. "Yes, I am perfectly fine."
I didn't live up to that lie for a second. The dam broke the second I got to Kyra's apartment. I cried my heart out on her lap, sobbing until my throat was raw and my body was exhausted. She didn't ask questions, just held me and let me fall apart. I finally slept on her couch, a fitful, unhappy sleep.
The next morning, I woke up with a groan. Sunlight was streaming in, way too cheerful.
"Still on sports, hockey player Ernest Rutherford has been declared dead three days after a cardiac arrest at the Trojan Cup." The voice of a news reporter was smooth and clinical, rolling out the tragedy like she was reporting the weather.
"Ernest Rutherford?" I heard Kyra from the kitchen. She walked in holding two mugs of coffee and handed one to me. "Didn't he just sign with Kensington Sports Management?"
I took the warm mug, letting it ground me. "Yes...but he's so young. He just turned 25," I said, my voice still raspy from last night's tears. I stared at his smiling image on the screen before the broadcast cut to a live shot. The owner of KSM, Hayes Kensington, was strolling out of a building surrounded by a mob of reporters. He wore a stark black suit and impenetrable shades, ignoring every question thrown at him.
"That man should be in jail," Kyra scoffed, nodding at the screen. "Hayes Kensington," she clarified, though he was unmistakable. "This is the third player they're losing since his agency started signing hockey players. It's beyond creepy. I think he just gets a free pass because he's wealthy and stupidly handsome."
I took a sip of coffee, trying to sound reasonable despite the swirling mess in my own head. "We can't just jump to conclusions yet. It's a tragedy, not necessarily a conspiracy."
"You could write about it," she suggested, one eyebrow raised. "Dig a little."
"Kyra, I'm a sports journalist, not a detective. I have to go to work," I sighed, dropping the cup on the table with a definitive click as I stood up. My legs finally felt like they belonged to me again. "And besides, everyone knows Hayes Kensington never grants interviews. The man wouldn't give one if it would end world hunger."
She laughed. "That could be because he's hiding something though."
"Maybe," I shrugged, grabbing my bag. It was an old argument. "Look, my mom's on her way from Portland today. Please, please don't tell her about Dalton."
My voice is lowered to a plea, something in between a request and a prayer. I can't afford to have my mother know my perfect relationship just exploded. She's been looking forward to a wedding almost as much as I was. I'll fix it. I'll stop by his office later, apologize again. We'll fix it. But right now, I just needed to get to my cubicle and pretend everything was normal.
The car ride is smooth, with only a short delay caused by a crowd of Ernest Rutherford's fans holding a quiet vigil by the arena. I adjusted my top, took a deep breath, and strolled into the office building, trying to project a confidence I didn't feel.
The environment felt off immediately, cold. Everyone I walked past stopped talking to glare at me, their eyes following my path. Whispers trailed in my wake, each one carrying a snide remark or a hissed judgment. My throat went dry. I kept my head down, ignoring them all, my Mary Janes clicking a steady rhythm on the tile floor until they came to an abrupt stop.
My team leader, Reggie, was at my desk. His back was to me, and he was roughly yanking cords from the back of my computer monitor. Two other people from HR were there too, shoving my notebooks, my framed photos, my favorite pen into a cardboard box.
"Reggie, what the hell is this?" I half-yelled, the panic rising fast as I rushed forward and held back his hand from unplugging my desktop.
He turned to me, his face a mask of bitter disappointment. "We've received immediate orders from HR to evacuate you from the company. Effective right now. You'll receive an email to verify this soon." He growls the words, like I've personally offended him.
"What? Why? I didn't—I haven't done anything!" My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
"You should really check the news and stop pretending to be innocent," he frowns, his lips a thin, angry line. He retrieves his phone from his suit pocket, unlocks it, and shoves the screen right in my face. "See for yourself."
My heart doesn't just sink; it plummets. It stops dead for a terrifying second. There, on the screen of his phone, is a headline from a major sports gossip site. And right below it, used as the top image, is a photo. It's me. It's my bare body, my face clear as day, tangled in the sheets of a hotel room that looks suspiciously like the one I just left.
[Sports Journalist, Hazel Quince. Seductress or the Scapegoat for Workplace Indiscipline?]