Not because I’m ashamed.
Honestly, I’m not. The money has helped more children than I can count, and I wouldn’t go back to change my actions even if I could. But bringing Henry shame? His family? His work? His team? It hits on an entirely new level, leaving me raw and vulnerable in front of a sea of cameras. They’re outside his arena, for chrissake. And they’re talking about me.
Guilt wraps around my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until it’s almost impossible to breathe.
This man has done everything. Earned his Ph.D. Built a successful professional hockey team from the ground up. Wormed his way into my heart, which I was pretty freaking positive was impossible.
And this is what the media is choosing to focus on? That he’s dating a sex worker? Ex-sex worker?
Fuck them.
I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want to spit in their faces and tell them to find a freaking hobby. Instead, I stay quiet. Because whatever I say, however I act, can influence Henry’s business. Everything he’s worked for. Everything he’s sacrificed. And here I am, potentially screwing it all up simply by being here. By holding his hand. By walking outside with him on a cool autumn day.
What is wrong with people?
Henry’s grip tightens on our entwined hands. He turns around to face the cameras, keeping me at his side.
“Do you care to repeat your last question?” he demands.
A beat of silence passes, and the same reporter calls out, “We’re curious if you have anything to say about your girlfriend being a sex worker.”
“That’s what I thought I heard.” A vein in Henry’s forehead pulses, though I doubt anyone else notices. No. He looks as peachy as can be. Actually, no. He looks downright lethal. Like the shark I’ve come to love who’s currently circling his prey.
My heart skips.
Love? Do I love him?
I glance at Henry beside me. Strong and proud and impenetrable. Putting himself between me and the rest of the world. Like a shield. A protector. My protector.
“I’m aware of my girlfriend’s connection to OnlyFans,” he announces, addressing every single reporter in the parking lot. “I know plenty of photos and videos of her are still floating around if you dig hard enough. However, let me make one thing clear.”
The same strange but heavy silence falls over the crowd.
“Mia Rutherford is not a sex worker,” Henry booms. “She is a social media manager for the Lions. She is smart. She is kind. She is resourceful. And she is mine. Every inch of her body. Every hair on the top of her perfect little head. Every polished nail covering her dainty little toes. She. Is. Mine.”
“Are you afraid of others feeling differently based on the photos and videos she’s sold in the past?” the reporter asks.
“Not at all,” he returns without a single ounce of hesitation. “Because if anyone tries to hurt her, if anyone tries to disrespect her or belittle her, they’ll have to deal with me. And trust me. You can ask any of my business partners or associates––past and present––you do not want to piss off me or the Buchanan name. Because the consequences?” His chuckle is dark and threatening, causing goosebumps to break out along my skin. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine the lengths I’ll go to keep this woman safe.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it in front of everyone, staking his claim. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, the Lions have a game to win.”
The cameras begin clicking even faster, and the flashes are damn near blinding me as Henry pulls me inside the arena.
“Whoa.” My eyes close, yet it doesn’t block the bright lights from being imprinted on my eyelids as the door closes behind us.
Once we’re alone, Henry’s hands are on my cheeks, his threatening persona yet to release him as he examines every freckle on my face. “Are you all right?”
“It’s fine,” I rush out. “I’m fine. Seriously.”
But he doesn’t let me go. If anything, he tugs me closer until I’m surrounded by all things Henry. His scent. His heat. His dark, penetrating gaze.
“Let me make something clear to you too,” he growls.
“Seriously, Henry, let’s not––”
Lifting my chin, he forces me to look at him. “The shame I know you’re feeling—”
“I’m not––”
“Don’t lie,” he interrupts. “You’re perfect. Okay? I might not fully understand the reason behind some of your decisions, but they make you, you. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you or the experiences you went through to make you who you are today. I know it’s selfish. To think it and to say it out loud, especially considering the shit I know you’ve been through, but I mean it. I wouldn’t change a thing.” He teases my bottom lip with his thumb. “Not the makeup. The tattoos. The piercings. The OF account. Nothing. Are we clear?”
I grab his wrist still holding my face in place and slowly encourage him to lower it. To let go of his anger. His fury. Not at me but at the people who cornered us. Because even though I love how he stood up for me, how he doesn’t resent me or my decisions, seeing him like this? So frustrated and amped up?
I hate it.
Slowly, I watch the furrow in his brow smooth and the frown marring his lips lose its rigidity. When he lets go of my face, I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him gently.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For standing up for me. For not being ashamed of me. For claiming me despite my past.”
His eyes soften, and he presses his forehead to mine. “Never gonna let you down, Brat.” I smile. “Never gonna let you go.”
With another quick peck against his lips, I let my heels touch the ground and smooth the lapel of his suit with my hand. “You better not.”
“Never.”
50
HENRY
The Lions are up two to one as we head into the third period.
With a tumbler of Pappy hanging from my fingertips, I sit in the box seats and watch Colt slap the puck into the top right corner of the net. The crowd goes wild.
“They’re good,” a familiar voice calls from behind me.
I turn around. My hackles rise, but I keep my expression blank as I calmly ask, “What are you doing here?”
Ice clinks against glass, and my father splashes some whiskey into a tumbler, making himself at home. In my arena. The arena he’s never deemed worthy of his time until today. The question is, why?
“I saw your remarks about Mia before the game,” he mentions, but he’s only half-paying attention to me. Instead, he’s slowly walking around the private room, examining every inch of the space like he’s in a museum.
I swallow the rest of my drink and watch him carefully from the corner of my eye. I want to know why he’s here. The real reason. Whether or not he’s decided to be a good father or make an enemy out of his oldest child. But I know him. I know him well. So I wait.
“They shouldn’t have cornered you like that,” he continues.
“It was to be expected.”
“Yes.” He nods once and takes a sip of his drink. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”