Page 5

"Trust me," she says, twisting the corkscrew into the bottle. "He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

Two hours later, I'm staring at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back. The green dress does indeed bring out my eyes and flatter my figure without being inappropriate for a family dinner. Mia has convinced me to leave my hair down and apply more makeup than my usual minimal amount—not dramatic, but enough to emphasize my features.

"See?" Mia says, admiring her handiwork. "Sophisticated but sexy. Perfect for meeting the parents of your fake boyfriend who's totally into you for real."

"You're insufferable," I tell her, but there's no heat in it. The one glass of wine has mellowed me slightly, taking the sharpest edge off my anxiety.

My phone buzzes with a text from Declan: Outside when you're ready.

He’d wanted to come to my door, but I’d convinced him to stay in the car – the last thing I need is for Mia to grill him or make her remarks about how he wants to “devour me.”

"Your chariot awaits," Mia says, reading over my shoulder. "Go knock 'em dead, Gardner."

I gather my coat and purse, nerves fluttering in my stomach despite the wine. "If I don't text by midnight, assume Richard Wolfe has had me eliminated for being an unsuitable match for his son."

"Drama queen," she calls after me as I head for the door. "But seriously, text me updates!"

Declan is leaning against his car when I push through the dorm entrance, casual in dark jeans and a gray button-down that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. He straightens when he sees me, something flickering across his face that makes my pulse quicken.

"You look..." he trails off, his eyes moving over me with appreciation that doesn't feel performative. "Wow."

"Is it okay?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Not too much? Not too little?"

"It's perfect." His voice has a rough edge that sends a shiver through me despite the mildness of the evening. "You're perfect."

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. This isn't the smooth-talking hockey star or even the strategic partner in our arrangement. This feels like something else—something genuine that makes the line between pretense and reality blur further.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," I say, trying to lighten the moment.

He smiles, opening the passenger door for me with a gallantry that still feels strange coming from him. "Ready for this?"

No, I think as I slide into the seat. I'm not ready for this dinner, for his family's scrutiny, for the growing complication of my own feelings. But what I say is:

"As I'll ever be."

The drive to his parents' home takes us away from campus and into the affluent suburb where old money Westford families have lived for generations. I try not to think about how if Declan’s family just lived somewhere else, on another coast for example, we wouldn’t have to do this. But of course things couldn’t be that easy. Of course they would have to live a fifteen-minute drive from campus.

Declan and I make small talk about classes and the upcoming weekend, carefully avoiding discussion of the increasingly blurred boundaries of our arrangement.

His phone buzzes as we turn onto a tree-lined street of imposing homes. He glances at it, then silences it with a frown.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine." His response is too quick, too dismissive.

But something in his expression suggests it's not fine at all. A flicker of tension crosses his face before he masks it with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Here we are," he says, turning into a circular driveway that leads to a sprawling colonial-style mansion. "Home sweet home."

The house is intimidating in its perfection—white columns, symmetrical windows, manicured gardens. Old money made architectural.

"You grew up here?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.

"Until boarding school at fourteen," he confirms, parking beside a sleek silver Mercedes. "Then summers and holidays."

"Of course you went to boarding school," I mutter, one more piece of the Declan Wolfe puzzle clicking into place.

He shoots me a look, something defensive crossing his features. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I backtrack, realizing too late how judgmental I sounded. "Just... it fits."

"With the spoiled rich kid image you have of me?" The question has an edge, a rawness I wasn't expecting.

"That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" He turns off the engine. "You've had me pegged from day one, Gardner. The privileged jock with a trust fund and no depth."

The accusation stings because there's truth in it—or there used to be, before I started seeing glimpses of the real Declan beneath the carefully constructed facade.

"Maybe I did," I admit quietly. "But I was wrong."

The simple confession seems to catch him off guard. His expression softens, the defensive tension leaving his shoulders. "We should go in," he says, avoiding a direct response. "My mother hates tardiness."

As we approach the front door, his hand finds the small of my back—a gesture that's becoming familiar. But the familiarity doesn’t stop the lightning from sliding through my stomach, a heat settling between my legs.

The door opens before we can ring the bell, revealing Caroline Wolfe in an elegant navy dress, her smile warm and welcoming.

"Right on time," she says, ushering us into a foyer that could comfortably fit my entire dorm room. "Richard's in the study with the Gordons. Drinks before dinner."

Declan presses a kiss to his mother's cheek, the gesture natural and affectionate. "Mom, you look great."

"Flattery," she says, but looks pleased nonetheless. Her attention shifts to me. "Ellie, that color is beautiful on you. Come, let me introduce you to our guests."

The study is a wood-paneled room straight from a film set—leather armchairs, built-in bookshelves, a fireplace crackling despite the mild evening. Richard Wolfe stands by a bar cart, pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers for an older couple who turn at our entrance.

"Here they are," Richard announces, his assessing gaze moving over me with the same clinical detachment as at the hockey game. "Thomas, Elizabeth, you remember our son Declan. And this is his friend, Ellie Gardner."

Friend. Not girlfriend. The deliberate downgrade isn't lost on me, nor on Declan, whose arm tightens around my waist.

"Girlfriend, Dad," he corrects, his voice carrying a warning that makes Caroline shoot her husband a look. "Ellie and I have been dating for a month now."

"Of course," Richard concedes with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "My mistake."

The Gordons turn out to be Richard's business partner and his wife—pleasant enough, if somewhat reserved. The conversation flows around general topics—the university, the recent hockey victory, the charitable foundation Caroline chairs. I answer questions when addressed directly but mostly observe, cataloging the family dynamics that have shaped Declan.

Caroline had mentioned at the game that other players and their parents would be here, but none of them are, and it’s not mentioned. I wonder if she concocted that story to make it more likely that I would come, so she could spend more time with the girl she thinks has won her son’s heart. The idea is both sweet and disconcerting at the same time.

Richard dominates without obvious effort, his presence commanding attention even when others speak. Caroline mediates, smoothing rough edges with practiced grace. And Declan—Declan shifts before my eyes, becoming a version of himself I haven't seen before. More formal, more guarded, his natural charm overlaid with a careful restraint.

I catch him watching his father, gauging reactions, adjusting accordingly. It's subtle but unmistakable—the performance of the perfect son, the heir to the Wolfe legacy.

Dinner is served in a formal dining room that could host twenty comfortably. The conversation turns to business—investments, market projections, the family company's latest acquisition. Declan participates with surprising knowledge, demonstrating a grasp of financial matters I wouldn't have expected from someone supposedly focused on hockey.

"Ellie," Elizabeth Gordon turns to me during a lull, "You mentioned you wanted a PhD in literature. What's your focus?"

"Feminist literary criticism," I reply, aware of Richard's slight eye roll at the term 'feminist.' "Right now I’m writing a paper for one of my classes on how female Gothic writers subverted patriarchal narratives through coded language and symbolism."

"Fascinating," Thomas Gordon says with what seems like genuine interest. "Any authors in particular?"

"Ann Radcliffe, primarily. But also Mary Shelley, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, even Daphne du Maurier in the modern era."

"All examining confinement and constraint," Caroline observes, surprising me with her knowledge. "Women trapped by societal expectations and limitations."

"Exactly," I agree, warming to the subject. "The haunted house as metaphor for patriarchal institutions, the madwoman as symbol of female rage against containment."

"All very interesting," Richard interrupts, his tone suggesting it's anything but. "Though I wonder about the practical applications of such study. In terms of career prospects."

There it is again—the barely veiled dismissal of academic pursuits without immediate financial value. I feel Declan tense beside me, ready to intervene, but this is a battle I've fought before.

"Knowledge doesn't always need to be monetized to have value, Mr. Wolfe," I say evenly. "But if you're asking about my career plans, I plan on pursing a professorship after my PhD. The publishing opportunities alone make it a viable path."

A flash of approval crosses Caroline's face, while Richard looks slightly taken aback by my direct response.

"Well said," Thomas Gordon raises his wine glass slightly. "To pursuing knowledge for its own sake."

The conversation shifts again, and I feel Declan's hand find mine under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. When I glance at him, there's something like pride in his eyes, warming me from the inside out.

Dessert has just been served when Richard turns the conversation in a direction that makes my blood run cold.

"Declan tells us you transferred mid-year, Ellie. From... where was it?"

"Pacific Northwest University," I supply, keeping my voice steady despite the sudden twist of anxiety in my gut. "In Oregon."

"Quite a change," Elizabeth observes. "What prompted the move across the country?"

Before I can formulate a suitably vague response, Declan interjects. "Ellie wanted a stronger literature program. PNU's focus is more scientific."

It's a plausible explanation, but not the truth. And something in Richard's expression suggests he knows there's more to the story.

"Surely there were closer options than Westford," he presses. "Family connections here? Or perhaps... personal reasons for the sudden change?"

The deliberate probe makes my cheeks heat. He's fishing, looking for something to discredit me, to prove I'm not good enough for his son—even in this fake relationship.

"Dad," Declan's voice carries a warning edge. "That's enough."

"Just making conversation," Richard says with false innocence. "Getting to know your... girlfriend."

The pause before "girlfriend" is deliberate, designed to undermine. I feel Declan's body go rigid beside me, tension radiating from him like heat.

"I ended an engagement," I say before Declan can respond, my voice calmer than I feel. "My fiancé cheated with my cousin. Rather than stay and deal with the fallout, I chose to make a clean break. Westford offered the best combination of academic opportunity and distance."

The table falls silent at my blunt disclosure. Caroline looks sympathetic, the Gordons uncomfortable, Richard surprised at my candor, as if he was hoping to embarrass me. But I’m not embarrassed by what happened. I didn’t do anything wrong. James did.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Elizabeth says finally. "How difficult for you."

"It was," I acknowledge. "But ultimately clarifying. Better to discover someone's true character before marriage than after."

Declan's hand finds mine again under the table, his thumb tracing small circles against my palm—a gesture of comfort that grounds me, steadies me.

"Well, we're certainly glad the circumstances brought you to Westford," Caroline says, shooting her husband a quelling look. "And into Declan's life."

Richard opens his mouth as if to pursue the topic further, but Caroline stands, effectively cutting him off. "Shall we move to the sitting room for coffee?"

The rest of the evening passes in more general conversation, the sharp edges of Richard's interrogation blunted by Caroline's skillful social navigation. Throughout, Declan remains close—his hand on mine, his arm around my shoulders, small touches that feel less like performance and more like genuine connection.

By the time we say our goodbyes, I'm emotionally exhausted but oddly triumphant. I survived dinner with the Wolfe family. More than survived—held my own against Richard's subtle hostility.

The drive back to campus is quiet at first, both of us processing the evening. Finally, Declan breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry about my father," he says, his voice tight with residual anger. "The questioning, the veiled insults. He had no right."

"It's okay," I reassure him. "I've dealt with worse."

"It's not okay." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "He was testing you, looking for weakness, for reasons to disapprove."

"And did I pass?" I ask, only half-joking.

Declan glances at me, his expression softening. "With flying colors. You were amazing in there, Ellie. Most people crumble under his scrutiny."

The praise warms me, though I try not to show how much it matters. "I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, his voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver through me. "You're definitely not."

We lapse into silence again, but it's comfortable now, the shared experience creating a new intimacy between us. When we reach my dorm, Declan parks but makes no move to get out.

"Thank you," he says, turning to face me properly. "For tonight. For all of it."

"Part of the arrangement," I remind him, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

His eyes search mine in the dim light of the car. "Is that all this really is? An arrangement?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us has been brave enough to voice. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to formulate a response that won't reveal how confused my feelings have become.

I'm saved from answering by a sharp knock on my window. I turn to find a face I haven't seen in months—one I never expected to see again—peering through the glass.

James. My ex-fiancé. Here at Westford.

Blood drains from my face as panic floods my system. "Oh, God."

"Ellie?" Declan's voice seems to come from very far away. "Who is that?"

I can't answer, can't breathe, can only stare in horror as the ghost of my past raises his hand in an awkward wave, gesturing for me to roll down the window.

"Ellie," Declan's voice sharpens with concern. "What's wrong? Who is that guy?"

"James," I manage to whisper, my voice strangled. "My ex-fiancé."

Declan's expression shifts instantly from confusion to something harder, more dangerous. "The one who cheated on you with your cousin?"

I nod mutely, panic rising like a tide. What is James doing here? How did he find me? And most importantly—what does his sudden appearance mean for the careful new life I've built, including the fragile arrangement with Declan?

"I'll handle this," Declan says, reaching for his door handle.

"No!" I grab his arm, desperate. "Don't. Please. Just... I need to do this myself."

Declan studies me for a long moment, conflict clear in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

No, I'm not sure of anything anymore. But I nod anyway, gathering my courage. "I'll be fine. He's probably just... I don't know. But I need to deal with this."

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," Declan says firmly. "Not after what he did."

"Then wait here," I concede, knowing I won't win this argument. "Let me talk to him first."

Reluctantly, Declan nods. I take a deep breath, straightening my spine, and step out of the car to face the man who shattered my heart and changed the course of my life.

James looks the same but different—familiar features arranged in an expression I've never seen before. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. Fear.

"Ellie," he says, his voice bringing back a flood of memories I've worked so hard to bury. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"What are you doing here, James?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the turmoil inside me.

"I had to find you," he says, taking a step toward me. I back up instinctively, bumping into Declan's car. "I've been trying to call, but you changed your number. You disappeared from everything. I had to beg your father to tell me where you transferred."

The thought of James talking to my father—manipulating him, no doubt—sends a fresh wave of anger through me. "Why? What could you possibly have to say to me after what you did?"

"I made a terrible mistake," he says, his voice breaking. "The worst mistake of my life. Ellie, I love you. I've always loved you. What happened with Alexa... it meant nothing. I was drunk, stupid, self-destructive."

"Save it," I cut him off, the familiar excuses igniting a fury I thought I'd moved past. "I don't care anymore, James. I've moved on."

"Please," he begs, reaching for my hand. I pull away sharply. "Just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Five minutes to explain, to apologize properly."

Before I can respond, I hear Declan's car door open and close. A moment later, he's beside me, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Everything okay here?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual. But I can feel the tension radiating from him, see the warning in his stance.

James's eyes flick between us, confusion giving way to understanding, then something darker. "Who's this?"

"Declan Wolfe," Declan extends his hand with deliberate politeness that doesn't mask the challenge in his eyes. "Ellie's boyfriend."

The word hangs in the air—a shield, a declaration, a lie that suddenly feels truer than it ever has before. James's face contorts with disbelief, then pain.

"Boyfriend?" he repeats. "But... it's only been two months since..."

"Two months is plenty of time to realize what I was missing," I say, finding my voice, my courage. "Declan, this is James. My ex. He was just leaving."

James ignores this, his attention fixed on Declan with growing hostility. "Two months," he says again. "Convenient timing."

"Not really," Declan says easily, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that feels simultaneously protective and possessive. "But I'm not complaining. Best thing that ever happened to me was Ellie walking into Professor Harmon's class."

The casual sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't the script we rehearsed. This is something else—something that makes my heart race and my breath catch.

"You expect me to believe you just happened to meet someone new right after leaving town?" James demands, his voice rising. "This is obviously a rebound. A way to hurt me."

"Believe whatever you want," I say coldly. "It doesn't change the fact that you and I are over. Have been since the moment I found you with Alexa."

"Ellie, please," James steps forward again, desperation in his eyes. "We were together for three years. We were going to get married. You can't throw that away over one mistake."

"She already did," Declan interjects, his voice hardening. "And from where I'm standing, it was the right call."

James's eyes narrow. "This doesn't concern you."

"Actually, it does," Declan says, the dangerous edge in his voice becoming more pronounced. "Because Ellie concerns me. And right now, you're upsetting her."

"I just need five minutes alone with her," James insists. "Five minutes to explain."

"Not happening," Declan's arm tightens around me. "She doesn't owe you anything. Not time, not attention, and certainly not forgiveness."

James looks at me, pleading. "Ellie, come on. This isn't you. Running away, hooking up with some... some jock as a revenge play? You're better than this."