**Chapter 6** I stand before the mirror, my fingers deftly curling the ends of my chin-length hair, infusing it with a lively texture. With a quick twist, I pull the strands away from my face, securing them into a rope braid that looks far more intricate than the effort it truly requires. Today, I’ve donned a daring high-waisted emerald skirt that kisses mid-calf, a flirtatious two-foot slit dancing up the side, and paired it with a spirited pink, yellow, and green striped sweater. Fashion has become my canvas—a vibrant protest against the muted pastel palette of my past. Coming from a well-off Canadian family, I was ensnared in a world where we never quite fit. My parents' fervent attempts to traverse the social ladder always fell flat. Enrolled in the prestigious Baskerville Hall at the tender age of three, they perpetually reminded me of the lofty expectations they harbored for me. My wardrobe echoed their aspirations—lifeless pastels that stripped me of individuality, carefully curated to project the image of the family they longed to imitate. But then came “the incident,” as my parents so delicately labeled it. I’ll never forget waking up in that sterile hospital room, the sting of stitches trailing along my back and a deep ache blossoming between my legs. I anticipated their fury, their rebuke. Instead, their whispers wrapped around me like chains, urging silence, warning me that speaking out could only bring more harm. They fixated on the idea that he, a scion of good breeding, was not to be blamed. It didn’t take long for their words to morph from concern to accusation, demanding to know what I had done to invite such horror upon myself. Their parting words still echo in my mind: if I loved them, I would keep this secret, far away from prying eyes. From that moment, a fierce determination ignited within me. I vowed to break free from the constraints of my upbringing. I painted my world with vibrant hues, immersing myself in the thrilling chaos of college hockey, living life unapologetically for my own happiness. But I never forgot that chilling lesson—those closest to you can become strangers in an instant if the truth jeopardizes their image. With a joyful façade, I concealed the darkness, locking my rage away, far from my conscious thoughts. Until last night, when I found myself engulfed in a sea of pastel dresses and painted smiles, the box of rage rattled within me, reminding me of my alien presence in that world. The click of my patent leather Doc Martens on the floor serves as a reminder of my strength. They empower me, as if I could stomp out all my troubles and shut the door on them forever. As I exit my building, the Uber app reflects an imminent ride; yet, awaiting me is not the expected vehicle, but Nicholas, his smile infectiously wide as he opens the back door of a sleek black sedan. Alarm bells explode in my mind at the shocking sight. “What are you doing here?” I ask, the words sharper than intended. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, loosening his impeccably tied tie. “Mr. Everette has requested that I remain your driver for the foreseeable future.” My mind reels at his words. “What?” I blurt, disbelief written across my features. Confusion clouds my thoughts, and I return to the Uber app, my resolve hardening. “Not happening. You can tell your boss thanks, but I’m not interested.” “Understandable, Miss Hart. But it would mean a great deal to me if you allowed me to drive you until you can discuss this matter with Mr. Everette,” he pleads, his agitation palpable, sapping the air from my lungs. I can’t find anger with him. “Just this once,” I relent, feeling small. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he bows his head slightly. “Of course, miss.” The car ride envelops us in an uncomfortable silence, the weight of the situation suffocating my usual exuberance. Once we arrive, I muster a genuine thank you, an apology spilling forth for the unexpected twist in our arrangement. “No inconvenience at all, it’s truly an honor to drive someone as significant to Mr. Everette,” he remarks, scrambling the logic in my mind. I’m merely a lowly PR rep, and yet his words confound me, leaving me grappling for a coherent explanation. After some time spent regaining my composure, I plan to contact Damon. The mere mention of his name ignites vivid memories—the way he stood before me, the heat of his breath dancing along my skin. I shake my head, shoving those thoughts away, deciding it might be best to give it a few hours. Thankfully, Damon is rarely present, making my chances of encountering him a bit slimmer. My first stop is my cubicle, where I drop off my belongings and check emails before heading down two flights to the fitness center. Our building houses an NHL team, and the facilities are impressive: a lap pool, a weight room, and a running track that circles the entire floor. But it’s the juice bar nestled in the center that tempts me down here. “Hey, Mike! The usual, please,” I call out with an easy grin. The attendant nods. “One orangesicle smoothie coming right up.” Far from the healthiest choice, it delights me to indulge, especially when I’m not the one gunning for peak performance. “Misty,” Lucas greets me as he struts over, a cloth draped around his neck, its brightness a stark contrast against his deep brown skin. “How’s it going? You dashed out quickly after the fire alarm; Piper was hoping to see you for drinks.” I take a long sip, mentally searching for an acceptable response. What can I say? That the owner of his team aroused me in the alleyway, and I’d been desperate to escape? “Headache. I texted the group chat when I got home,” I finally manage. His expression is scrutinizing, unsure if my response merits belief. “So you’re all good?” “Yup, just perfect,” I stammer, almost too fast, watching his brow furrow in confusion. Desperate to change the topic, I latch onto the most engaging subject. “I’ve been working with Mia on the fundraiser. We’re organizing an auction. Remember how well it went for you and Piper?” Lucas chuckles through his nose as he grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge stocked with snacks for the guys. “This is going to cost me a fortune.” “Probably, but it’s for a good cause. You should bid on Alex just to see River freak out when he realizes,” I tease. “Evil, aren’t we?” he shakes his head, half-smirking. “I prefer clever, thank you very much.” “Fair enough.” Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts, and I jump slightly when Carter, one of the second-line defensemen, approaches from behind. “What’s so funny?” he asks, a smirk illuminating his features, revealing charming dimples. “Misty’s an evil genius, and I’m just glad she’s on our side,” Lucas responds, quenching his thirst with a long gulp. Carter’s eyes switch to me. “Oh really? Is that true?” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind my shoulder, a movement both innocent and intrusive. Maybe he’s got confidence, but the casual intimacy sets me on edge. Then again, I’ve allowed far more from Damon, and the thought of him solidifies the flutter of discomfort within my chest. “You should trust in my cunning abilities. You’d be amazed by what I keep hidden,” I tease, punctuating my words with a wink. Lucas laughs heartily. “I warned you, man. Keep your distance from this one.” His gaze locks onto mine, and Carter's attitude shifts as he considers my quip. “I plan on it. How about we grab lunch sometime?” Oh, how much simpler things would be if I were even remotely attracted to him. But alas, my heart remains unmoved. “I… I don’t—” Then, those icy gray eyes pierce through the room, colliding with mine from across the expanse. My chest constricts under Damon’s intense gaze, simmering with a mixture of irritation and possessiveness. His expression gives me the impression that he believes I’m doing something wrong. I plant my hands on my hips, challenging him in return. A single brow lifts in defiance, his demeanor infuriatingly confident. That reckless energy of his is a wildfire threatening to consume me. “Of course, give me your phone,” Carter says, oblivious to the tension. Handing it to me, I enter my number, attempting to ignore the way Damon’s stare feels like a branding every moment it lingers on me. With my task complete, I flash a triumphant smile at Carter. Truly, I’ve embraced the role of the cunning adventurer, reveling in the unpredictable dance of attraction, even as the shadows flicker on the edges of my brightly painted world.