Page 26

I sat beside Riley in Diane's sleek downtown office, trying to appear calmer than I felt. Under the polished conference table, Riley's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining naturally.

Now we waited for him to arrive, the tension in the room thick enough to skate on. Riley's thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand, whether to comfort me or herself, I wasn't sure. Either way, I was grateful for her presence.

"Remember," Diane said, straightening a perfectly aligned stack of papers, "let me do most of the talking. Vincent thinks he has leverage, but we need to assess exactly what he's got before determining our response."

I nodded, though inwardly I was already certain of my position. No matter what Vincent had, I wasn't going to let Riley lose her restaurant.

The door opened, and Vincent entered with the confident swagger of someone holding winning cards. He wore an expensively tailored suit that somehow still managed to look cheap on him. Behind him followed a stone-faced man in an even more expensive suit—clearly a lawyer.

"Ms. Reynolds," Vincent greeted Diane. "So kind of you to arrange this meeting on such short notice." His gaze slid to Riley and me, lingering on our clasped hands with barely disguised skepticism. "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews. Lovely to see you both."

Diane rose, offering a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Carelli. And your associate is...?"

"Andrew, my attorney," Vincent replied smoothly. "I thought it prudent to have legal representation, given the... complexity of our discussion."

Introductions complete, we all settled around the conference table. Vincent wasted no time producing a manila envelope, which he placed deliberately in the center of the table.

"I believe these will help focus our conversation," he said, sliding the envelope toward Diane.

She opened it and removed several glossy photographs, her expression betraying nothing as she examined them. Finally, she spread them on the table where Riley and I could see.

My stomach dropped. The images were grainy but unmistakable—security camera footage from my building's lobby, showing Riley arriving that day to discuss our arrangement.

Another showed us in the penthouse with Diane, clearly reviewing documents.

Though the papers themselves weren't legible, the formal setup and our body language told the story clearly enough.

"It's such an interesting document signing," Vincent observed, leaning back in his chair. "Most newlyweds are focused on marriage certificates, not detailed contracts specifying termination dates."

Riley's hand tightened painfully around mine. I squeezed back gently, trying to convey reassurance I didn't entirely feel.

"These images prove nothing except that my clients met with me to review documents," Diane said coolly. "A common practice for high-net-worth individuals entering marriage, as I'm sure your attorney would confirm."

Andrew remained impassive, neither supporting nor contradicting her statement.

"Perhaps," Vincent conceded. "But I also have testimony from a former building security employee who overheard quite interesting details about your 'prenuptial agreement.' Including specific language about the temporary nature of the union and financial compensation."

Whether he was bluffing or not, the smug confidence in his voice suggested he believed he had us cornered. I felt Riley's silent distress beside me and made a decision.

"What exactly are you seeking here, Vincent?" Diane asked, cutting to the chase.

"I think we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement," Vincent replied silkily. "I've always admired Ms. Caldwell’s —forgive me, Mrs. Matthews'—business acumen and culinary talent. Hat Trick has such... potential."

Riley remained unnaturally still beside me, her grip on my hand tightening.

"I propose a simple exchange," Vincent continued. "Controlling interest in Hat Trick , maintained connection to Mr. Matthews for promotional purposes, and in return, complete silence regarding the... unusual nature of your marriage."

The silence that followed his proposal stretched taut as a tripwire. Diane looked to us, clearly waiting for some indication of how to proceed.

I'd heard enough. "No," I said simply.

Vincent blinked, momentarily thrown by my direct refusal. "Perhaps you misunderstand the situation, Mr. Matthews—"

"I understand perfectly," I interrupted, keeping my voice level. "Riley isn't giving you her restaurant. Not for anything."

Riley turned to me, her eyes questioning but trusting. I held her gaze, trying to communicate everything I couldn't yet say aloud.

"We'll tell the truth ourselves before letting you weaponize it," I added, turning back to Vincent.

My declaration visibly shocked everyone in the room. Diane's carefully maintained professional mask slipped momentarily, revealing alarm.

"Caleb," she cautioned, "let's consider all the implications before—"

"I've already considered them," I said firmly.

The worst outcome suddenly seemed manageable compared to watching Riley surrender her passion to Vincent's manipulation.

"If the choice is between Riley losing her restaurant and me facing some uncomfortable press conferences, there's no choice at all. "

Vincent's expression had shifted from smugness to uncertainty. This clearly wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated.

"Touching bravado," he said dismissively, "but we both know you're bluffing. You've built your entire relationship on deception. Exposure means guaranteed damage to both your careers."

What Vincent failed to understand—what I was only beginning to fully comprehend myself—was how profoundly things had changed since we'd signed those papers.

"Our marriage began as a business arrangement," I acknowledged. "But it hasn't been just that for months now."

Vincent scoffed. "Save the romance for your post-game interviews, Matthews. We all know what this really is."

"Do we?" I challenged quietly. "Because I'm not sure I do anymore."

Riley finally spoke, her grip tightening around my hand as her voice rang out clear and unwavering. "I'm not giving you my restaurant, Vincent. And I'm not afraid of the truth anymore." She glanced at me, her eyes raw with both vulnerability and resolve. “Whatever that truth may be.”

Vincent's confidence wavered visibly as Diane shifted to aggressive legal counterattack.

"Let's discuss what you're actually proposing here, Mr. Carelli," she said icily. "Blackmail and extortion, for starters. How exactly did you obtain these images? Because unauthorized access to private security systems is a federal offense."

She leaned forward, every inch the shark I knew her to be in negotiations.

"Then there's harassment, attempted coercion, potential tortious interference with business relationships.

.." She looked pointedly at Andrew. "Your client is exposing himself to significant legal liability. I'd advise reconsidering his position."

The attorney shifted uncomfortably, whispering something to Vincent, whose expression darkened.

"Perhaps we've been hasty," Vincent said finally, the bluster fading from his voice. "I'm merely a businessman seeking investment opportunities."

"Then I suggest looking elsewhere," Diane replied smoothly. "This meeting is concluded."

Vincent gathered his photos with poorly concealed frustration, his earlier confidence evaporated. As he and his attorney left, the tension in the room eased like air rushing from a punctured tire.

Once we were alone, Diane studied us thoughtfully. "How much of what you just said was truth?" she asked finally.

"Does it matter?" I countered.

"It matters considerably for how we handle what comes next," she said pragmatically. "Vincent may back off temporarily, but those photos still exist. We need to prepare for potential exposure."

I glanced at Riley, finding her already watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. "We're done letting the contract define whatever this is between us," I said quietly, as much to her as to Diane.

Diane sighed, gathering her files. "I'll develop contingency plans for public response if needed. In the meantime, maintain normal appearances." She paused at the door. "And perhaps figure out what you're actually doing here, because that was either award-worthy acting or something else entirely."

After she left, Riley and I sat in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us.

"We should head home," she said finally. "It's been a long day."

The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I kept replaying the moment in Diane's office when I'd realized with sudden clarity that I would sacrifice anything—my captaincy, my reputation, even my career—before I'd let Riley lose her restaurant.

It wasn't just about honoring our arrangement anymore. It was about her—her dreams, her happiness, her future. Somewhere along the line, those things had become as important to me as my own.

The realization was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

At home, Riley headed straight for the kitchen—her refuge when processing complex emotions, I'd learned. I watched as she methodically prepared tea, the familiar routine apparently calming her.

"Did you mean what you implied today?" she finally asked, her back still turned as she waited for the kettle to boil. "That this isn't just a contract for you anymore?"

I accepted the mug she offered, our fingers brushing in a contact that sent awareness through me. "Yes," I said simply. "I think it stopped being just a contract months ago, but I was afraid to acknowledge it."

She studied the steam rising from her tea. "Feelings weren't supposed to be part of the arrangement."

"No," I agreed. "But they are. At least for me."

Her eyes lifted to mine. "For me too," she admitted softly.

The admission hung between us for a heartbeat before I set my mug aside and closed the distance between us. My hands framed her face as I kissed her—gently at first, then with increasing urgency as her arms wound around my neck.

When we finally broke apart, both breathless, I rested my forehead against hers. "So where does that leave us?"

Riley smiled, something bright and hopeful dawning in her eyes. "I'd say we're in breach of contract, Captain Matthews."

"Serious violation," I agreed, unable to keep from smiling back. "Clause 7.3 is definitely shattered beyond repair."

"We could draw up a new agreement," she suggested, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the back of my neck. "One without an expiration date."

My heart thumped painfully in my chest. "What terms would you propose?"

"Hmm." She pretended to consider deeply. "Full kitchen access, obviously. Shared decision-making on all major life choices. Your unwavering support for Hat Trick , my attendance at all home games—"

"Done," I interrupted, pulling her closer. "Anything else?"

Her playfulness faded into something more vulnerable. "Just you," she said quietly. "The real you, not the captain or the hockey star or any other version. Just Caleb."

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how this woman had come to mean everything to me.

"I think I can manage that," I said. "In return for the real Riley. The brilliant chef who sees me as more than just a hockey player with a good slap shot."

"I think I can manage that," she echoed, rising on tiptoe to kiss me again.

As I pulled her closer, I reflected on the irony of our situation—how a marriage that had begun as the ultimate fake relationship had somehow transformed into the most real thing I'd ever experienced.

We still had challenges ahead—Vincent's potential exposé, the scrutiny of the hockey world, the inherent complications of our different careers.

But standing in our kitchen, holding Riley in my arms, those obstacles seemed manageable as long as we faced them together. What had started as a hat trick—a clever play to achieve two separate goals—had become something neither of us had been looking for but both of us had found:

A love as unexpected as it was genuine, and all the more precious for the circuitous route it had taken to reach us.

"You know," Riley murmured against my lips, "people are going to think we're crazy when they find out how this started."

"Maybe we are," I acknowledged. "But it worked out pretty well, wouldn't you say?"

Her smile was answer enough as she pulled me closer.