Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Lucy

I swipe a shimmery gloss across my bottom lip and lean toward the mirror, trying to decide if I look like someone who has their life together—or someone about to fake it in designer heels and a borrowed smile.

Emma’s face stares back at me from the glowing rectangle propped against the hotel lamp, taking up half my phone screen like she’s judging me from the comfort of Chapter & Grind.

“You look like a very glamorous hostage,” she says, sipping from her Don’t Talk to Me Before Espresso mug. “Blink twice if Natalie’s forcing you to wear sequins under duress.”

I blink once. Slowly. “It’s voluntary. Ish.”

Emma raises a brow. “Uh-huh.”

I glance down at the green juice sweating on the table beside me and sigh. “Coach Brody’s got Connor on some ridiculous promo circuit today and Natalie’s about to turn our suite into a West Hollywood fashion tornado. So yes, I’m alive—but barely.”

“At least you’re alive with cheekbones . And trending,” she adds, reaching offscreen and pulling a tablet into view. “Shall we check the headlines of shame?”

“No,” I groan, flopping back on the bed with a dramatic whine. “Please let me enjoy ten uninterrupted minutes of denial.”

“Too late.” She scrolls. “Ah, here it is. ‘ Icehawks Goalie and Billionaire Heiress: Hockey’s New Power Couple .’”

I cover my face with a pillow. “Kill me.”

“Sorry. You’re booked for a red carpet tomorrow. Death is not in your schedule.”

A beat of silence passes as I peek up at her through the fringe of my lashes. Her expression softens.

“You doing okay, Luce?”

I don’t answer right away. Just give a small shrug. “Trying to be.”

I sit up a little straighter, fingers curling around the hem of my blouse. “It’s just… everything, you know? Ethan’s still ghosting everyone. My family name is trending for all the wrong reasons again. And Connor…”

I trail off, pressing my lips together as I stare up at the ceiling like all the answers to the world are written up there.

Emma lifts a brow. “Connor what?”

I shake my head, a helpless little laugh escaping.

“He’s actually amazing. Which is terrifying , because I didn’t see any of this coming. I thought I was just going to survive this trip, not—” I wave my hands vaguely. “—fall for the goalie and have the entire internet dissecting my childhood trauma and bank statements.”

Emma tilts her head. “So, just a casual Tuesday then?”

I groan. “I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a hurricane with a sparkly clutch and a can of hairspray.”

She smiles gently. “Yeah, but babe—you’re also doing it in heels.”

I let out a soft laugh, something uncoiling in my chest. That’s why I love her. She knows when to push, and when to just be .

Emma smiles gently. “You’re doing better than you think.”

I force a grin. “Say that again when I survive all the heels and glitter tomorrow night.”

“Godspeed,” she whispers. “And remember—if all else fails, fake a fainting spell and blame altitude sickness.”

“L.A. is sea level.”

Emma sips again. “Commit to the lie, babe.”

I barely hang up the call with Emma when the door to my suite bursts open like it’s the set of a reality show and the producers just screamed action .

“Delivery!” Sophia calls, striding in with a garment bag flung over each arm and a bottle of champagne swinging from one hand.

Natalie follows close behind, juggling a tray of tiny boutique bags and a glittering box that might be filled with shoes… or jewels… or live doves, knowing her.

“Time’s up,” Natalie sing-songs. “We let you wallow for one hour longer than I wanted. Now it’s time to sparkle, bitch.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I say.

Sophia ignores me entirely, already uncorking the champagne with a dangerous pop and pouring into flutes she pulled from her tote like a magician. “We brought options,” she says, nodding to the garment bags. “A lot of them.”

Natalie hands me a glass and plucks my phone from my fingers. “No more scrolling. No more stressing. We’re doing gowns, glam, and goddess energy only.”

I blink. “I—wait. I haven’t even—”

“Bathroom,” Sophia orders, already hanging dresses along the curtain rod. “Chop chop, Cinderella.”

Part of me wants to dig in my heels. To say no. To remind them this isn’t me anymore—to get me a dress straight off the rack like a normal fucking person.

But then Natalie lifts one of the dresses from the rack and shoves it in my chest.

“We tagged your name on our favorites. try this one first."

I sigh, sip the champagne she already handed me, and head for the bathroom.

Not because I’m convinced. But because they are.

And sometimes… when your best friend's tell you they're there for you, that’s just about enough.

When I eventually step out of the bathroom, the entire suite has officially transformed into a boutique war zone.

Champagne glasses line the window sill, dress bags hang from every doorknob, and Sophia’s heels are strewn across the floor like party favors no one collected.

I step out in gown number one and pause in front of the mirror.

Natalie claps from the bed. “Okay. I am obsessed already. You look like a Bond girl about to destroy someone with her beauty and a poisoned martini.”

Sophia makes a small, reverent noise, clearly agreeing with every word.

I glance down at the high neck, the glittering sleeves, the dramatic belt cinched so tightly it practically announces, Yes, I inherited wealth and yes, I have an opinion about your posture.

I force a smile that's so fake it almost cracks beneath the pressure. “I look like my mother at a holiday gala.”

They both freeze.

“Excuse me,” Natalie says, blinking. “That is not an insult. That woman could wear a power suit like it was armor.”

I turn, studying the dress from a new angle. The reflection is sharp. Elegant. Impeccable.

It’s also… familiar .

The kind of familiar that makes my spine straighten on instinct, that whispers reminders in the back of my head about how to smile for photos and how to spin a headline in the families favor and how to hold a champagne glass just so your wrist looks elegant and not at all tense.

I smooth a hand down the side of the dress. “It’s the kind of thing she’d wear to a gala. I hate it."

“Babe… Are you okay?” Sophia asks gently.

I nod, but my stomach twists. I think about Ethan. About everything that glittered and cracked in our lives. The money, the pressure, the relentless expectation—it breaks people.

Quietly at first, and then all at once, like an explosion of hopes and dreams crafted in a carefully curated childhood imagination.

The moment lingers as I study myself in the mirror—shoulders squared, chin lifted, every inch of me styled to perfection.

For a second, I feel the ghost of who I used to be… and who I swore I’d never become. But then Natalie trips over a heel box with a yelp, Sophia starts DJing with her phone, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.

The next hour is a whirlwind of zippers and squeals, champagne refills and over-the-top commentary. I let myself get swept up in it. Dress after dress, twirl after twirl—I start to feel like maybe this doesn’t have to be about my past.

Maybe it can just be fun.

And that feeling when you actually do find the perfect dress?

Gold .

The zipper to one of the last dresses glides into place with a satisfying click , and for the first time all afternoon, the room falls completely silent.

Natalie and Sophia just stare.

I take one slow step toward the mirror, smoothing my hands over the hips of the emerald green satin, feeling the way it molds to me like second skin. It dips low at the front, clinging just enough to my curves without begging for attention, and the slit at the thigh promises danger with every step.

The back is mostly bare, all except for two delicate crisscrossed straps that make me feel like I’ve just walked out of that Bond film Natalie was talking about.

“Holy shit,” Sophia breathes. “I think we have a winner.”

I laugh, and for a moment, it doesn’t feel heavy. Doesn’t feel like I’m faking it.

It just feels good.

I wander toward the chair where we dumped clutches and heels and spare lipstick tubes, reaching for a sleek little velvet clutch to pair with the look. I flip the clasp open, but something small and folded falls out, landing softly on the carpet.

My name is scrawled across it in messy, unmistakably familiar handwriting.

Connor's handwriting.

I freeze, pulse fluttering in my throat. Then slowly, carefully, I crouch down and pick up the note.

I unfold it and read the words, each one etched with that same chaotic scrawl he uses on whiteboards and locker room notes.

I knew you'd pick this one. I've taken care of payment for you. Can't wait to see how beautiful you look in this stunner. –C.

My breath catches somewhere between my chest and my ribs.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make it a moment or a gesture or a production. Just quietly, confidently, did something that made me feel more special than I have in years.

I’m still standing there, fingers curled around the paper, the dress clinging to me.

It’s stunning. Show-stopping. The kind of thing I would’ve tried on, loved in secret… and put back on the rack because maybe not this one . Maybe it’s too much .

Too bold. Too seen. Too rich-world-y.

And somehow, Connor already knew that.

After a swift clean-up, the suite door clicks shut behind Natalie and Sophia, leaving me alone with my reflection and Connor's note still pressed between my fingers.

I move closer to the full-length mirror, watching the way the emerald fabric catches the light. Each step makes the slit dance, revealing just enough leg to be interesting without trying too hard. The neckline frames my collarbones perfectly, and those crossed straps at the back... they're everything I would have chosen for myself, if I'd let myself choose.

That's the thing about growing up Daniels - you learn early what you're supposed to want. What you're supposed to wear. How you're supposed to exist in spaces like this.

But standing here now, I don't feel like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's world anymore. This isn't about fitting into some pre-written script of charity galas and society pages.

This is my choice. My moment.

Connor saw me - really saw me - in a way that has nothing to do with my last name or my bank account. He knew I'd love this dress not because it's expensive or because it's what a Daniels "should" wear, but because it makes me feel powerful. Beautiful. Free.

The girl in the mirror smiles back at me, and for once, she looks completely at peace with herself.

Like maybe I can have both worlds - the glamour when I want it, and my quiet bookstore corners when I don't. Like maybe I don't have to choose between being Lucy Daniels and just being Lucy.

I touch the delicate strap at my shoulder, watching it shimmer under my fingertips. "Maybe this time... it's different."

The suite door opens and Connor strides in, practice bag dropping to the floor with a thud. His eyes find me by the window, and a knowing laugh escapes him.

"I knew it." He shakes his head, still grinning. "The second I saw that green, I just knew."

But as he crosses the room, his laughter fades into something else. His steps slow, and those amber eyes darken, drinking me in like I'm the last drop of water in the desert.

I turn slowly, letting the fabric swish around my legs, playing up the moment because - well, because I can. Because the way he's looking at me makes me feel invincible.

"You're..." He swallows hard. "Lucy, you're breathtaking."

I close the distance between us, reaching up to smooth his still-damp hair. "Thanks. Did you have a good practice?"

Instead of answering, he catches my lips in a kiss that makes me forget what I even asked. When we break apart, we're both laughing, drunk on this new reality where we get to have this.

"Already told Brody you're gonna steal the show tomorrow." His fingers trace the strap at my shoulder. "The guys are taking bets on who's gonna be the league's power couple this season. Blake and Sophia think they've got it locked up after last year, but..." He winks. "My money's on us."

"Is that right?" I lean into him, loving how solid and real he feels. How real this feels.

"Damn right, that's right." He presses a kiss to my temple as I laugh at his Connor-isms. "You in this dress? Game over, Lucy Lou. They don't stand a chance."

The sunset pours through the window, painting everything in gold, and I can't help but smile. "Careful, Walsh. Or I might just start liking this life again."