Page 31

I’m elbow-deep in resistance bands and trying not to think about what Ragnar looks like in a suit. Specifically, whether he owns one. And if not, whether it would be weird to offer to help him pick one out.

Not because I care or anything, but as a professional courtesy. A purely logistical gala-prep kind of favor. So he doesn’t end up wearing something tragic. Like a black-on-black-on-black combo with a clip-on tie from the mall.

“Thinking t-too hard?” Ragnar says from the table behind me, voice low and laced with amusement. “D-did the foam r-roller insult you?”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s lying on his side, propped on one elbow, watching me with a smirk that’s barely there but still hits me in the sternum.

His hair is damp from the shower and curling at the ends.

His shirt—the one I pretend not to notice fits him unfairly well—clings to his chest as he slowly stretches his hip.

“Not the roller,” I mutter. “Just mentally going over logistics.”

“Y-you haven’t m-moved.”

“I’m mentally very active.”

“Yes y-you are.”

I grab a roll of pre-wrap and chuck it at his chest. He catches it one-handed, left-handed, like the show-off he is.

“You know,” I say, straightening the box of ice packs on the shelf beside me, “the gala is this weekend.”

“It i-is.”

Do you have a date? That’s what I want to ask, but it’s a dangerous line of conversation. I pivot “Do you have a tie?”

He hesitates. “I have s-several. Two b-black. One blue. A-and one that d-doesn’t need mentioned.”

“Why’s that?” Is it from an ex? Covered in curse words? Santa heads?

“Spags g-gifted it to m-me.”

I put my hands up in surrender. Dicks. I’d bet my degree it’s covered in dicks.

I snort. “So black and blue. Typical.” I shake my head. “Why are men so afraid of color?”

The corner of his lips tip in a smirk and a thousand winged creatures take flight in my belly.

“B-blue is a c-color.”

“A basic one.”

He gives his best approximation of a shrug while lying on his side. “D-does it help if it’s l-light blue?”

“Sure,” I roll my eyes, “If you’re trying to match the team.”

“Is there another option?”

He’s not wrong. A light blue tie is colorful. It’s more than I expected. Not when he’s a lone man living by himself, fending for himself since he was a preteen.

“Nah, it’s fine. I was going to help you, that’s all.” I grin. “You clearly don’t need it.”

His brow arches. “Are you offering to style me, Jones?”

“Would you let me dress you, ólaffson?”

He pauses, shifting his muscles under until he’s no longer sideways, but upright. His eyes bore into mine, glinting under the fluorescents. “You’d need to undress me first.”

My face is on fire, lava oozing through my veins and a shudder trips down my spine. This is dangerous. We are dangerous.

“Yes,” I say.

He laughs softly, a low, warm sound that makes the air between us shift. And even though I turn away, back to the piles of brightly colored bands. Even so, I can tell he’s smiling.

He’s easy with me. Playful. Gentle, even when he’s teasing.

He makes it easier to breathe in a job that often feels like a tightrope strung over lava.

And yet, every time I feel that pull—toward him, toward something real—I remember that if I let myself have him, this, we're going to destroy everything we’ve worked for.

The gala is always a mess. A glittery, self-congratulatory fundraiser for the team with enough celebrity sparkle to make the donors believe they’re part of something elite.

This year it’s doubling as a birthday party for Bill, the team owner, my boss’s boss’s boss, and my dad’s old college roommate.

Which means more speeches, more cameras, more pressure.

Because if anyone is expected to be the picture of perfect deportment, it’s me.

It’s also the kind of event my parents live for. Black tie. Polished smiles. Public obligation wrapped up in cocktails and awkward small talk. Tiny bites of food that couldn’t feed a two-year-old, let alone a ballroom full of professional athletes.

I shouldn’t be this nervous. It’s a gala. A party.

A fundraiser with too many speeches, too many shiny dresses, and this year, my ex will be there.

Mom called this morning from the office to double check I’d RSVP’d while fussing about table arrangements and donor badges. I half-listened, stirring protein powder into coffee like that would somehow fix my unsettled stomach.

“Oh,” she said, like it only just occurred to her. “Christian will be there. Isn’t that nice?”

My hand froze on the spoon. “Yeah,” I said after a beat. “Great.”

“He said he’s looking forward to seeing you,” she added, her voice light and warm, like it was some cute high school reunion.

“I still don’t understand what happened between you two.

One day, it was serious, you were living together.

We were planning for an engagement, the next…

poof. It’ll be so nice to see you two together again. ”

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, gripping the edge of the counter like it might steady me. “We grew apart, Mom.”

It was the easiest lie I knew. Well-practiced. Polished. Harmless.

She hummed. “I know. You always say that, but it’s a shame. You two were such a lovely couple. I always thought—well. Never mind. Just try to be gracious, okay? He works with dad, now.”

There it was. The reminder. Keep the peace. Keep your voice down. Be agreeable. Be good.

“I will,” I said, because that’s what I always say.

She moved on to some comment about the florist they’d chosen, but I’d already drifted—mind wandering somewhere dark and familiar.

Christian in my bedroom, arms crossed, mouth tight, telling me to change my clothes.

Christian in the car, mocking how I spoke.

Christian pulling away in public, then gripping my wrist a little too hard when no one else could see.

Yelling at me for leaving cabinets open, for cooking a meal he didn’t like, for making plans without him.

And me. Smiling. Laughing. Making excuses.

He was overworked.

Overtired.

His parents were not nice people.

It was my fault because I knew better. Could have tried harder.

I wasn’t giving him what he needed. I could fix that.

God, I hate that part the most.

When the call ended, I stood in front of the kitchen counter and just stared at my phone, heart thudding, fingers twitching. I dumped my coffee down the drain, convinced I couldn’t keep it down if I tried.

Ten deep breaths, two grounding exercises, and one near panic attack later had me scrolling toward Ragnar’s contact.

I almost texted him. Almost asked if he’d go to the Gala with me.

He’d have said yes. No hesitation. He’d wear a suit and that unreadable expression he gets when he’s protecting something that matters.

He wouldn’t let Christian get near me. He’d notice—somehow, without me saying a word—and he’d stand between us like a wall of calm, red-bearded defiance.

But then what?

Then he’d know.

Or he’d guess. And I don’t want that either.

I don’t want him to look at me the way I sometimes look myself. Like I’m broken, or fragile, or easy to hurt. I don’t want to bring him into the mess of who I used to be. Of what I let happen. Of what I never told anyone.

So I don’t text.

I just stood there in the quiet, choking on shame and the aching want for someone to hold my hand without asking why.

Because Christian works with them, my parents. His mother is my mom’s best friend. Because he’s ingrained in their social circles and they don’t see it—the manipulation, the lies, the little sharp-edged comments that used to leave me crying in locked bathrooms and questioning my sanity.

I didn’t tell them because I didn’t want to start a war.

Because I thought I could handle it on my own.

And now I’m the one stuck playing nice with a man who made me small every day I was with him.

If I don’t, my parents will know something’s wrong.

And if they ask, I might tell them. And if I tell them, everything will change.

Not just for me.

For them.

They’ll have to choose. And I don’t know if they’ll choose me. I’m afraid to give them the chance to side with him.

So I have to smile.

I have to be polite. Distant, but not rude. Aloof, but not cold.

I have to make it through the night without drawing attention, without making a scene, without unraveling.

I have to spend the entire evening avoiding Christian while pretending I’m not avoiding him. Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist into something hard and tight.

Pretending all the time is exhausting.

Pretending to like my program. Pretending I love this job. Pretending I’m still the girl they raised and not someone holding herself together with breath mints and anxiety and a secret pink streak in her braid.

Sometimes, I want to stop pretending so badly I could scream.

Or hit something.

Or hit him.

Or—

Or go to the gala with Ragnar.

If I showed up on his arm—if I let him be real, even for a night—I wouldn’t have to pretend. Not in the same way. I wouldn’t have to smile and dodge and swallow my rage.

But he’s not mine. And I’m not his.

I’ve spent the last ten years mastering the art of being digestible. So I’ll keep my head down.

Later that night, I’m brushing my teeth and muttering practice lines in the mirror.

“Hi, Christian. Hope you’ve been doing okay.”

“So nice of you to come.”

“It’s nice to see you again.”

“I hear work is going well.”

They all taste like ash.

I try alternatives.

“Please don’t speak to me.”

“I’d prefer we keep our distance.”

“I’m not comfortable around you.”

“Go to fucking hell and burn.”

They all sound like red flags to people who don’t understand. To people who will ask questions I’m not ready to answer.

I picture Christian’s smile. The one that makes other people say “charming” and me say “dangerous.”

I picture Ragnar beside me.

His quiet steadiness. His wide, warm hands. The way he looked at me earlier when I teased him about his tie—like I wasn’t just funny, but good.

He makes me feel like I fit. Like I don’t have to try so hard. Even when I’m a mess of poor decisions and buried panic, he sees something worth standing close to. I grip the edge of the sink. Watching my toothpaste sluice down the drain.

It shouldn’t matter what Christian thinks. Or what my parents want. But I’ve spent so long trying to be the version of me they recognize. The me they helped build. I don’t know how to stop.

The next morning, Ragnar’s already in the weight room when I arrive. Alone. Focused.

He’s mid-rep, muscles flexing under his shirt, sweat clinging to the curve of his neck. He doesn’t see me. And for one second, I just watch him. Let myself want things I can’t have.

Then I clear my throat.

“You’re not supposed to be lifting heavy until next week.”

“I’m b-below my max.” He looks up, eyes crinkling, and my stomach cramps.

“You’re also not cleared.”

“I feel f-fine, Sadie.”

“You want to redo your rehab schedule?” I’m acting like a bitch. It’s not his fault, but I can’t seem to pull back on the attitude.

His mouth twitches. “W-would it mean m-more time with you?”

My breath catches.

It’s not a joke. Not really. Not with the way he’s looking into the depths of my soul.

Ask him. My brain screams at me, and I want to. But all I can see is Saturday night. The flash of cameras. My parents’ proud faces. Christian’s smirk.

I clear my throat. “Just keep it under one-hundred-fifty pounds.”

Ragnar watches me for a second longer. Like he sees what I’m not saying.

Then he nods, and the moment passes.

As I turn to leave, he calls out, “B-bring me a t-t-tie option for S-Saturday.”

I don’t look back.

But my hands are shaking as I open the door.