maria

1. Forced Proximity

2. Meet Ugly

3. Roomates

4. Second Chance

5. Meet Cute

6. Forbidden Romance

7. Home

8. Dreams

9. Letters

10. Fussing

11. Disaster

12. Haircut

13. Exile 

14. Fairytale AU

15. Cowboy AU

16. Bodyguard AU

17. Sports Romance AU

18. Soulmate AU

19. Arranged Marriage AU

20. Gods/Goddesses AU

21. C: What if?

22. C: Domestic Moments

23. C: Rowaelin from Outside POV

24. After Happily Ever After

25. Family Time

26. Training

27. Flipped POV

28. Single Parent

29. Workplace Rivals

It was a bit disappointing to leave the party without showing Aelin my dark green GranCabrio, but her security team wasn’t keen on letting her drive in my convertible car, and I’m up for whatever’s safest for her.

Now, at the private elevator that takes her straight to the penthouse, and I’m all wired up. I’ve never brought a girl here before. I don’t bring casual flings into my personal space, and I haven’t had the prospect of a girlfriend ever since signing with the White Hawks and moving back to Doranelle City.

Every comment the women in my family ever made about this being a void bachelor pad rushes to my mind. I wipe them away—at least it’s neat.

The elevator dings loudly when it opens its door—a personal touch I asked management to add because of unasked visitors. I hold the door open for her to cross. “You ready?”

Aelin eyes the paper bag I’m holding. “I should ask you the same question.”

She didn’t want to go out for dinner—and face another public space, I presumed—and I didn’t want to send her home hungry. So we settled into eating whatever my chef has made—Emrys never leaves my fridge empty. But since my food’s meticulously measured to fit my personal taste and my work demands, I still stopped at a French place to buy wine, croissants, chocolate and whatnot.

We walked in, and her eyes wandered over the dark wood, blacks and deep greens of my living room. The extensive area with floor-to-ceiling windows happens when you tell your real state agent you just need a two-bedroom apartment, so she makes up for it by finding a penthouse with a living room the size of five bedrooms. I love it, though—especially the railed mezzanine overlooking the living room, a more private area where my bedroom is.

Aelin doesn’t comment on it, but she keeps her posture straight, chin high as she surveys the room with a twinge of satisfaction. I know better than to expect her to stroke my ego by complementing my apartment like everyone else does, so I’ll have to do with reading her small cues.

I offer to set her up with some wine in the living room as I get things ready, but she prefers to accompany me in the kitchen—so I maintain the plans and switch her location.

“So...” She elegantly sits by the black kitchen island, and I can’t stop staring at the beautiful contrast that her golden gala dress makes against it. Her gaze travels over me, lingering as she searches for what to say. “How many Michelin stars does this chef of yours have?”

“All of them.” I grin, joking. “I gave them to him myself.”

Emrys has no Michelin stars yet because we don’t want those fuckers sticking their noses in our business. The day I invite them for a post-game cheat meal, it’s over for those posh downtown chefs.

I take off my jacket, lean it over an empty stool and say, “Steak or salmon?”

“I like steak best.” I’m elbows deep inside the fridge when she adds, “So let’s see what he does with the salmon.”

Snorting, I reach for the other container and take it out, along with two pans and two bowls.

Aelin doesn’t look impressed when I empty the rice into the pan and turn on the stove. I remind myself she’s not a random girl I picked, about to ooh and aah everything I do—which can be pretty annoying—but I still feel a twinge of unease; am I doing something wrong?

If anything, my pan reheating will do Emrys’ food justice. The microwave is my most used method, but a pan and a tablespoon of water—or oil for the salmon—will make sure the food stays fresh and doesn’t dry out. It’s how my mom would reheat dinner for Dad when he got home late from work, and it’s how, twenty years later, I’m trying to charm my way into Aelin’s pants.

This same kitchen could work if that’s what she’s into; anywhere, really. Gods—celibacy doesn’t suit me. It’s been almost a month, and I’m crawling up the walls.

The tux collar poking into my neck makes me regret I didn’t fully change before, but I’m focused on dinner now.

Aelin disrupts my focus by saying, “I still mean to have the salmon with you, but I’m starving.”

I crane my neck to peek at the scene unfolding behind me.

One croissant I brought got torn in two; the smaller half in her hand, bitten. Her other hand is also full with a glass of wine.

I smirk. “The food’s there to eat—you know that, right?”

She gives me the smallest, pleased grin, and it puffs my chest with pride.

In this moment, I decide I like that she’s not at my feet, eager to please me. I’m enjoying the mental challenge of the chase, and I like how these moments feel earned, even if that’s kind of messed up.

When the food’s ready, the salmon and jasmine rice are already in the bowls, but I stop short when it’s time to add the veggies.

“No kale for you, I take it?”

Her burst of laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained—beautiful. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

I’m still adding some final touches when she gets up and asks, “Who dressed you?”

“I—” Before my words come out, Aelin has her eyes narrowed on my throat. My bow tie hangs untied around my collar, and she gently removes it. Her fingers on my neck—I feel it in my spine, in the tips of the hairs on my forearm—are back to fiddle with my collar. She explains, but I can barely listen to her; her fingers weave thickness in the air, a weight made heavier by my month of inertia.

It feels like forever until she detaches the wing collar from my shirt.

“Gods,” she breathes, too close to my skin. “Your collar was loose on the left side. It must’ve scraped your neck all night long.”

“Huh,” I say, my mind foggy from her closeness. “so there was something wrong besides the general discomfort that’s wearing a tux.”

“Yeah, that was a rookie mistake.” Her eyes examine the assaulted area of my neck once more before straying to mine. “Who dressed you?”

I make a face. “So… that would be the work of my sixteen-year-old cousin.”

“You’re joking!” Aelin’s jaw falls, eyes widened. “Rowan, the size of that event… you’re joking.”

I raise both hands, palms forward in surrender. “She’s great! She knows what’s trending, has good taste, and she did some closet witchcraft that now all my clothes match, and I don’t have to think much when I’m getting dressed.”

“So you hired a sixteen-year-old to work as a professional stylist.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Pretty much, yes.”

Aelin face-palms herself; I stiffen and reevaluate my words, wondering if I said something offensive to the fashion people out there, when I notice the shaking on her shoulders. My own loosen up on the spot. She’s laughing at my expense.

“Alright.” With one deep breath, Aelin resets herself, gripping the counter. Her lip twitches, threatening to mock me further, but she didn’t let it happen. “Well, for someone who’s severely underqualified, I think your cousin’s doing a great job.”

“I think so too.” My tone remains light as I move both our bowls to the dining area between the kitchen and the lounge.

She follows behind me, wineglass in hand. “But if you ever consider finding more… experienced help, I know a person or two to recommend.”

“I’m doing good, but thanks. If I ever win a Balloon d’Or, though, I'll double-check with someone else.”

I place one wide, shallow bowl at the head of the table and the other perpendicular to it, by the closest seat—the one Aelin directs herself to. I pull out the chair for her before she gets there.

Now sat, I say, “I don’t think I have candles here.”

Aelin has her head tilted, inspecting me, when I open the freshly downloaded candle app on my phone, letting it rest upright against her wine bottle. The fake, digital flame even flickers, closer to the actual thing than I’d figured.

With that, her snort quickly becomes a giggle. “It’s just the two of us now. It doesn’t have to be a romantic dinner.”

“I know.”

She eyes the small glass bottle beside my bowl. “Is that…?”

“Tart cherry juice.” I spin it so that the label faces her. “It’s gonna be some more months before I can drink with you.”

For a minute, I think Aelin looks disappointed, but it’s gone before I can register it. “Thank Mala I’m not shy, then.” She raises her glass, shrugs and takes a sip. “More for me.”

Aelin takes a forkful of the crispy salmon. I try to act nonchalant, but I’m too eager to know what she thinks of Emrys’ cooking. Leaning closer, I watch her every move, such as her wide-eyed expression that leaves me guessing if it's a great or awful sign.

“Mala’s tits, I—” Aelin mindlessly dabs her lips with a napkin, her eyes vacant with puzzlement. Then she blinks, giving herself a moment before she looks at me. “What’s your chef’s name again?”

“I won’t let you steal him from me, but nice try.”

Truth is, Emrys’ already stolen. He used to work for the White Hawk’s training center, and it was one job offer after another until I made one that was too good to pass up.

“Damn.” She fakes a pissed look and pretends to slap the table. “It was worth trying, though.”

I’ve got my mouth full, but I manage a close-lipped smile.

“Can I ask you something?”

Still chewing, I nod. Gods, I was starving.

“You mentioned something about a balloon. What’s up with that?”

I raise a single finger, a silent request for a moment to finish chewing before I speak. In the meantime, I watch the smallest of frowns on her face, and she really has no clue what a Ballon d’Or is. Adorable.

It’s obvious that not every single person in the world knows about it, but it’s always been such a big deal to me—even when I was a kid, and especially now that every single person in my life is even remotely engaged with football.

Her cluelessness is… cute? Kind of. Refreshing, for sure.

“A Balloon d’Or is the biggest award a football player can receive. Once a year, journalists elect the best player based on performances—individual and team—plus fair play. It's got its issues, and the decision process isn't that fair, but it's still a big deal.”

“So it’s like football Grammys?”

I snort mid-sip. “Kind of, yeah. But just one category.”

“Nice.” Aelin closes her eyes to chew, her body visibly melting onto the wooden chair. I owe Emrys a solid.

I dimmed the lights to make it feel cozy and private, but my windows—wall?—are open, the city lights doing their own job of lighting things up. Whenever Aelin’s face moves, some tiny particles catch the light and flicker on the highest points of her cheekbones. I’m not sure if putting glitter on your face is part of women’s dress code for gala attire, but I like the golden shimmer. It suits her.

“Is that a dream of yours? The Balloon d’Or, I mean.”

“Nah, not really.”

She giggles at my blunt response, already affected by the wine, and her surprised reaction makes me give it some more thought before continuing.

“I mean, many other players would consider this to be their ultimate dream. Receiving one would obviously be an honor for me. But a dream?” I shrug. “I think I’ve achieved all of those already.”

“Oh?” She straightens, a smirk on her smudged lips. “Sorry, Mr. I-achieved-all-of-my-dreams-at-twenty-eight.”

“Eighteen, really.”

“Is that so?” Aelin prompts me further with the heel of her palm supporting her chin, eyes keen on me.

“I—”

I take another forkful of the salmon while I process what to say. It's a widely known fact about me that others often point out; I rarely bring it up myself.

“Did you look me up online?”

Aelin bites her lower lip, playing coy. “Would you believe me if I pretended I didn’t?”

I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t notice my lip twitch. So, she has at least an idea of what I’m about to say.

“My first and biggest dream was always to get the hell out of the slums. Get my family a better life, y’know?”

I’ve dreamed of that considering both the family I have and the one I’m yet to build. Taking longer bus rides because I lived far or not having cool stuff, that’s one thing. I can live with that. But not being able to afford a safe place to live, wondering if my mom would be alive today if we had access to better healthcare—that shit tore me up.

“My second, less achievable dream was to do it as a football player.”

Aelin gives me a close-lipped smile. Squeezes my hand on the table. “I’m glad you worked that out.”

“I mean, calling it a dream is too much of a stretch, but there’s more I want to do, goals I’m going after.”

“Like fake dating a pop star?”

I chuckle. Like actually dating said pop star, but I won’t bring it up now.

She says, “My work life might be shit these days, but I’ve really lucked out in the fake boyfriend department lately, with you and Dorian.”

I stop. Blink. Perhaps I misunderstood.

“What?”

“Obviously, it’s still work, but it’s nice when the people I work with are good to be around.”

“No, the thing you said about Dorian. The two of you…?”

“He’s very sweet, and a good friend of mine, but you know…” She gives me a pointed look. If I could speak, I’d remind her I do not know. “It wasn’t all fake—I wasn’t pretending to have fun or to enjoy his company. Our feelings for each other just weren’t romantic.”

“And you never dated.”

“Not one kiss off-camera, no.”

The fuck?

I get up, the scrape of my chair loud against the floor. I look away to the city, then back to Aelin.

“And kale?”

“Real—unfortunately.”

With my hands braced on the back of the chair, I lift a finger, asking her for a minute. My eyes zero on a blank spot in front of me as I gather my thoughts, ears ringing.

She frowns. “Why are you all pissy? We’re doing the very same thing.”

Because Aelin and Dorian never dated.

So Chaol was never her boyfriend’s best friend, just a friend’s friend.

Which means Aelin had her reputation ruined because of something she didn’t even do.

From her eyes, narrowed at me, I know she’s at least flustered with my reaction. Not wanting to delay this further, I spit the words out in the least articulate way possible.

“Oh.” She blinks. Relaxes back into her seat. “I mean, that pisses me off too, but that’s business. Besides, I took that risk with Chaol myself, knowing full well what could happen. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”

Still braced on the chair, I lean my face closer to hers. Why is she so nonchalant about this?

Unfair isn’t even a strong enough word for what’s going on with her.

Slut-shaming women—that’s unfair. Cruel and wrong too. But making Aelin’s life a living hell over a guy she never even dated? Come on.

And she dares to laugh. Pats the seat I was in before, inviting me over.

“Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She has the faintest smile on her lips, one that doesn’t reach her eyes the way it did when she found out my incorrectly pinned collar had stabbed my neck all night long.

But I comply.

Because this isn’t about me, I follow her lead. She’s the one who was wronged, and maybe the last thing she needs right now is to be alone with a raging man.

So I sit next to her, take a deep breath and command my boiling blood to calm the fuck down.

“If you ever need someone to beat the shit out of those people, I’m your guy.”

At that, she grins.

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It was a bit disappointing to leave the party without showing Aelin my dark green GranCabrio, but her security team wasn’t keen on letting her drive in my convertible car, and I’m up for whatever’s safest for her.

Now, at the private elevator that takes her straight to the penthouse, and I’m all wired up. I’ve never brought a girl here before. I don’t bring casual flings into my personal space, and I haven’t had the prospect of a girlfriend ever since signing with the White Hawks and moving back to Doranelle City.

Every comment the women in my family ever made about this being a void bachelor pad rushes to my mind. I wipe them away—at least it’s neat.

The elevator dings loudly when it opens its door—a personal touch I asked management to add because of unasked visitors. I hold the door open for her to cross. “You ready?”

Aelin eyes the paper bag I’m holding. “I should ask you the same question.”

She didn’t want to go out for dinner—and face another public space, I presumed—and I didn’t want to send her home hungry. So we settled into eating whatever my chef has made—Emrys never leaves my fridge empty. But since my food’s meticulously measured to fit my personal taste and my work demands, I still stopped at a French place to buy wine, croissants, chocolate and whatnot.

We walked in, and her eyes wandered over the dark wood, blacks and deep greens of my living room. The extensive area with floor-to-ceiling windows happens when you tell your real state agent you just need a two-bedroom apartment, so she makes up for it by finding a penthouse with a living room the size of five bedrooms. I love it, though—especially the railed mezzanine overlooking the living room, a more private area where my bedroom is.

Aelin doesn’t comment on it, but she keeps her posture straight, chin high as she surveys the room with a twinge of satisfaction. I know better than to expect her to stroke my ego by complementing my apartment like everyone else does, so I’ll have to do with reading her small cues.

I offer to set her up with some wine in the living room as I get things ready, but she prefers to accompany me in the kitchen—so I maintain the plans and switch her location.

“So...” She elegantly sits by the black kitchen island, and I can’t stop staring at the beautiful contrast that her golden gala dress makes against it. Her gaze travels over me, lingering as she searches for what to say. “How many Michelin stars does this chef of yours have?”

“All of them.” I grin, joking. “I gave them to him myself.”

Emrys has no Michelin stars yet because we don’t want those fuckers sticking their noses in our business. The day I invite them for a post-game cheat meal, it’s over for those posh downtown chefs.

I take off my jacket, lean it over an empty stool and say, “Steak or salmon?”

“I like steak best.” I’m elbows deep inside the fridge when she adds, “So let’s see what he does with the salmon.”

Snorting, I reach for the other container and take it out, along with two pans and two bowls.

Aelin doesn’t look impressed when I empty the rice into the pan and turn on the stove. I remind myself she’s not a random girl I picked, about to ooh and aah everything I do—which can be pretty annoying—but I still feel a twinge of unease; am I doing something wrong?

If anything, my pan reheating will do Emrys’ food justice. The microwave is my most used method, but a pan and a tablespoon of water—or oil for the salmon—will make sure the food stays fresh and doesn’t dry out. It’s how my mom would reheat dinner for Dad when he got home late from work, and it’s how, twenty years later, I’m trying to charm my way into Aelin’s pants.

This same kitchen could work if that’s what she’s into; anywhere, really. Gods—celibacy doesn’t suit me. It’s been almost a month, and I’m crawling up the walls.

The tux collar poking into my neck makes me regret I didn’t fully change before, but I’m focused on dinner now.

Aelin disrupts my focus by saying, “I still mean to have the salmon with you, but I’m starving.”

I crane my neck to peek at the scene unfolding behind me.

One croissant I brought got torn in two; the smaller half in her hand, bitten. Her other hand is also full with a glass of wine.

I smirk. “The food’s there to eat—you know that, right?”

She gives me the smallest, pleased grin, and it puffs my chest with pride.

In this moment, I decide I like that she’s not at my feet, eager to please me. I’m enjoying the mental challenge of the chase, and I like how these moments feel earned, even if that’s kind of messed up.

When the food’s ready, the salmon and jasmine rice are already in the bowls, but I stop short when it’s time to add the veggies.

“No kale for you, I take it?”

Her burst of laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained—beautiful. “Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

I’m still adding some final touches when she gets up and asks, “Who dressed you?”

“I—” Before my words come out, Aelin has her eyes narrowed on my throat. My bow tie hangs untied around my collar, and she gently removes it. Her fingers on my neck—I feel it in my spine, in the tips of the hairs on my forearm—are back to fiddle with my collar. She explains, but I can barely listen to her; her fingers weave thickness in the air, a weight made heavier by my month of inertia.

It feels like forever until she detaches the wing collar from my shirt.

“Gods,” she breathes, too close to my skin. “Your collar was loose on the left side. It must’ve scraped your neck all night long.”

“Huh,” I say, my mind foggy from her closeness. “so there was something wrong besides the general discomfort that’s wearing a tux.”

“Yeah, that was a rookie mistake.” Her eyes examine the assaulted area of my neck once more before straying to mine. “Who dressed you?”

I make a face. “So… that would be the work of my sixteen-year-old cousin.”

“You’re joking!” Aelin’s jaw falls, eyes widened. “Rowan, the size of that event… you’re joking.”

I raise both hands, palms forward in surrender. “She’s great! She knows what’s trending, has good taste, and she did some closet witchcraft that now all my clothes match, and I don’t have to think much when I’m getting dressed.”

“So you hired a sixteen-year-old to work as a professional stylist.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Pretty much, yes.”

Aelin face-palms herself; I stiffen and reevaluate my words, wondering if I said something offensive to the fashion people out there, when I notice the shaking on her shoulders. My own loosen up on the spot. She’s laughing at my expense.

“Alright.” With one deep breath, Aelin resets herself, gripping the counter. Her lip twitches, threatening to mock me further, but she didn’t let it happen. “Well, for someone who’s severely underqualified, I think your cousin’s doing a great job.”

“I think so too.” My tone remains light as I move both our bowls to the dining area between the kitchen and the lounge.

She follows behind me, wineglass in hand. “But if you ever consider finding more… experienced help, I know a person or two to recommend.”

“I’m doing good, but thanks. If I ever win a Balloon d’Or, though, I'll double-check with someone else.”

I place one wide, shallow bowl at the head of the table and the other perpendicular to it, by the closest seat—the one Aelin directs herself to. I pull out the chair for her before she gets there.

Now sat, I say, “I don’t think I have candles here.”

Aelin has her head tilted, inspecting me, when I open the freshly downloaded candle app on my phone, letting it rest upright against her wine bottle. The fake, digital flame even flickers, closer to the actual thing than I’d figured.

With that, her snort quickly becomes a giggle. “It’s just the two of us now. It doesn’t have to be a romantic dinner.”

“I know.”

She eyes the small glass bottle beside my bowl. “Is that…?”

“Tart cherry juice.” I spin it so that the label faces her. “It’s gonna be some more months before I can drink with you.”

For a minute, I think Aelin looks disappointed, but it’s gone before I can register it. “Thank Mala I’m not shy, then.” She raises her glass, shrugs and takes a sip. “More for me.”

Aelin takes a forkful of the crispy salmon. I try to act nonchalant, but I’m too eager to know what she thinks of Emrys’ cooking. Leaning closer, I watch her every move, such as her wide-eyed expression that leaves me guessing if it's a great or awful sign.

“Mala’s tits, I—” Aelin mindlessly dabs her lips with a napkin, her eyes vacant with puzzlement. Then she blinks, giving herself a moment before she looks at me. “What’s your chef’s name again?”

“I won’t let you steal him from me, but nice try.”

Truth is, Emrys’ already stolen. He used to work for the White Hawk’s training center, and it was one job offer after another until I made one that was too good to pass up.

“Damn.” She fakes a pissed look and pretends to slap the table. “It was worth trying, though.”

I’ve got my mouth full, but I manage a close-lipped smile.

“Can I ask you something?”

Still chewing, I nod. Gods, I was starving.

“You mentioned something about a balloon. What’s up with that?”

I raise a single finger, a silent request for a moment to finish chewing before I speak. In the meantime, I watch the smallest of frowns on her face, and she really has no clue what a Ballon d’Or is. Adorable.

It’s obvious that not every single person in the world knows about it, but it’s always been such a big deal to me—even when I was a kid, and especially now that every single person in my life is even remotely engaged with football.

Her cluelessness is… cute? Kind of. Refreshing, for sure.

“A Balloon d’Or is the biggest award a football player can receive. Once a year, journalists elect the best player based on performances—individual and team—plus fair play. It's got its issues, and the decision process isn't that fair, but it's still a big deal.”

“So it’s like football Grammys?”

I snort mid-sip. “Kind of, yeah. But just one category.”

“Nice.” Aelin closes her eyes to chew, her body visibly melting onto the wooden chair. I owe Emrys a solid.

I dimmed the lights to make it feel cozy and private, but my windows—wall?—are open, the city lights doing their own job of lighting things up. Whenever Aelin’s face moves, some tiny particles catch the light and flicker on the highest points of her cheekbones. I’m not sure if putting glitter on your face is part of women’s dress code for gala attire, but I like the golden shimmer. It suits her.

“Is that a dream of yours? The Balloon d’Or, I mean.”

“Nah, not really.”

She giggles at my blunt response, already affected by the wine, and her surprised reaction makes me give it some more thought before continuing.

“I mean, many other players would consider this to be their ultimate dream. Receiving one would obviously be an honor for me. But a dream?” I shrug. “I think I’ve achieved all of those already.”

“Oh?” She straightens, a smirk on her smudged lips. “Sorry, Mr. I-achieved-all-of-my-dreams-at-twenty-eight.”

“Eighteen, really.”

“Is that so?” Aelin prompts me further with the heel of her palm supporting her chin, eyes keen on me.

“I—”

I take another forkful of the salmon while I process what to say. It's a widely known fact about me that others often point out; I rarely bring it up myself.

“Did you look me up online?”

Aelin bites her lower lip, playing coy. “Would you believe me if I pretended I didn’t?”

I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t notice my lip twitch. So, she has at least an idea of what I’m about to say.

“My first and biggest dream was always to get the hell out of the slums. Get my family a better life, y’know?”

I’ve dreamed of that considering both the family I have and the one I’m yet to build. Taking longer bus rides because I lived far or not having cool stuff, that’s one thing. I can live with that. But not being able to afford a safe place to live, wondering if my mom would be alive today if we had access to better healthcare—that shit tore me up.

“My second, less achievable dream was to do it as a football player.”

Aelin gives me a close-lipped smile. Squeezes my hand on the table. “I’m glad you worked that out.”

“I mean, calling it a dream is too much of a stretch, but there’s more I want to do, goals I’m going after.”

“Like fake dating a pop star?”

I chuckle. Like actually dating said pop star, but I won’t bring it up now.

She says, “My work life might be shit these days, but I’ve really lucked out in the fake boyfriend department lately, with you and Dorian.”

I stop. Blink. Perhaps I misunderstood.

“What?”

“Obviously, it’s still work, but it’s nice when the people I work with are good to be around.”

“No, the thing you said about Dorian. The two of you…?”

“He’s very sweet, and a good friend of mine, but you know…” She gives me a pointed look. If I could speak, I’d remind her I do not know. “It wasn’t all fake—I wasn’t pretending to have fun or to enjoy his company. Our feelings for each other just weren’t romantic.”

“And you never dated.”

“Not one kiss off-camera, no.”

The fuck?

I get up, the scrape of my chair loud against the floor. I look away to the city, then back to Aelin.

“And kale?”

“Real—unfortunately.”

With my hands braced on the back of the chair, I lift a finger, asking her for a minute. My eyes zero on a blank spot in front of me as I gather my thoughts, ears ringing.

She frowns. “Why are you all pissy? We’re doing the very same thing.”

Because Aelin and Dorian never dated.

So Chaol was never her boyfriend’s best friend, just a friend’s friend.

Which means Aelin had her reputation ruined because of something she didn’t even do.

From her eyes, narrowed at me, I know she’s at least flustered with my reaction. Not wanting to delay this further, I spit the words out in the least articulate way possible.

“Oh.” She blinks. Relaxes back into her seat. “I mean, that pisses me off too, but that’s business. Besides, I took that risk with Chaol myself, knowing full well what could happen. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”

Still braced on the chair, I lean my face closer to hers. Why is she so nonchalant about this?

Unfair isn’t even a strong enough word for what’s going on with her.

Slut-shaming women—that’s unfair. Cruel and wrong too. But making Aelin’s life a living hell over a guy she never even dated? Come on.

And she dares to laugh. Pats the seat I was in before, inviting me over.

“Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She has the faintest smile on her lips, one that doesn’t reach her eyes the way it did when she found out my incorrectly pinned collar had stabbed my neck all night long.

But I comply.

Because this isn’t about me, I follow her lead. She’s the one who was wronged, and maybe the last thing she needs right now is to be alone with a raging man.

So I sit next to her, take a deep breath and command my boiling blood to calm the fuck down.

“If you ever need someone to beat the shit out of those people, I’m your guy.”

At that, she grins.

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Even though I understand the amount of camera work that goes into live broadcasts of these kinds of events, I’m still taken aback by how they’ve been filming Aelin and me non-stop.

None of us work in the film industry—I’m sure my appearance for my former team’s documentary doesn’t count. Shouldn’t they have better people to film?

Our publicists sent us here with a few of our friends as a “fun soft launch”—their words exactly—of our relationship. However, wearing this bow tie hasn’t been fun for me, neither is this relationship launch soft.

So far, it’s been a barrage of photographs and inquiries about our love life, despite her odd policy about not doing red carpets with men, just her girlfriends—I don’t get it, but it didn’t bother me either, so I let this rule slide.

Aelin tugs my arm. Sat beside me, she leans over my shoulder with one hand cupped to cover her mouth and whispers, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”

I nod, find her hand and squeeze it. I take advantage of my height to press a kiss to the crown of her head, draping my arm over the back of her chair.

She freezes, the thin straps of her dress exposing her tight posture.

I chuckle and whisper in her ear, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”

The delicate tremble that marks her shiver is more than enough to lift my mood.

“Are you cold, baby?”

She squints her eyes at me, defiant and stubborn despite not being able to vocalize it. Tomorrow, there’ll be tons of lip readers going through our footage of tonight, trying to piece together every conversation we’ve had.

I cup her face, my thumb idly tracing her chin and cheek. “Lovely,” I say without cupping my mouth this time, and I mean it. She’s adorable when she’s mad or flustered over being attracted to me.

Aelin sighs and leans on me, focusing back on the host making a joke I should understand about a director with a funny name I should know.

I lean closer to Vaughan on my left and ask, “Who’s that?”

“He’s this super niche director from Eyllwe. Makes underground stuff.”

“Have I watched any of his stuff?” I ask, already sensing the answer.

“I don’t know, dude.” Vaughan laughs into his hand. “He doesn’t film cars blowing up, so I don’t think you have.”

My elbow meets his side; I’m now snickering as well. “Fuck off.”

Sinking back into my seat, I appreciate its size. It’s ironic; I’m usually the one who’s too big for the seats, but today I’m okay—it’s the tiny women in massive gowns trying to squeeze in.

The venue is so spacious, yet it feels cramped with the amount of people here, turning it into a fog of strong perfume and hairspray. When I checked out these events from the outside, people seemed chill and put-together—I’d never have guessed the atmosphere here is so thick with anxiety.

Some veterans easily sail through, but there’s always someone fighting their outfit, people tripping on gowns. Men with starched collars or women with too-heavy diamond necklaces, their necks being chafed raw.

The cameras and red-carpet journalists don’t make it any easier.

I wonder if the cameras can catch the damp mark on the host’s leg from wiping his sweaty hand. To his defense, stage lights’s warmth can be brutal.

“But hey.” Vaughan juts his chin towards my date. “What’s up with your girl’s girl?”

Ansel, who’s sat on Aelin’s other side. Aelin and I weren’t invited to this event, so technically I’m Vaughan’s date, and she’s with her actress friend.

“We just met.”

I’ve seen some of her movies and know she started out as one of those child stars, but I’m pretty sure my cinephile friend knows that too.

“Is she single?”

“Dude.”

“What?” Vaughan says in the same disbelieving tone.

He can call me selfish all he wants, but my chances with Aelin are slim; it’s not like I’m messing things up by introducing her friend to Vaughan. I've never seen him be serious with a girl. He'd say the same about me, but I'm not risking others for my shot—I went up to her myself.

“I’m not setting you two up. If you pull her, I want no part in it.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Just do this one thing for me. I’ll cover your ass in the last 10 minutes of the next three matches.”

I cross my arms, not quite believing him. But Vaughan’s not budging, and I’m almost believing he’s for real.

“You’ll do my defensive work? All the running?”

“Yeah, you can just chill there.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose—I’m actually going to do this, aren’t I? “Just don’t be a jerk, okay? I don’t want to piss Aelin off.”

“I’m a gentleman.”

“Dude, I swear to God, if you ghost this chick—”

“Okay, okay! Got it. I won’t ghost her, geez.”

I squint at him again, studying his earnestness. Vaughan looks serious enough, so I lean into Aelin’s side.

“Hey.”

Her eyes remain locked on the stage, but the tantalizing curl on the corner of her red lips tells me she’s listening.

“So, is Ansel single?”

Her mouth flattens. “How does that concern you?”

“Because Vaughan’s interested, and he won’t leave it alone.”

“Oh.” Her chin dipped down for a second before she said, “She’s single, but she might not be for your friend. Let me ask.”

Aelin shifts away. Without skipping a beat, Vaughan pokes my side in a sequence of aggressive jabs.

When I comply and lean closer, he adds, “But don’t be too obvious.”

I nod and tilt towards Aelin, to my right. “Let’s not be too obvious,” I whisper.

She snorts. “Smooth. Got it.”

I give Vaughan a curt nod. He does the same.

As the night drags on, I get more and more antsy, and I’m doing my best to quit fussing with my collar. Perhaps I don’t appreciate how great my work uniform is, because I’d hate to wear a fancy suit all the time.

“And Aelin Galathynius is with us tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” the host says.

More cameras shift towards her. She gives a close-lipped smile, polite but not warm.

“I was going to ask if she plans to stay single, but her relationship status changed before I had the chance!”

My brain needs a beat to process what he said, that he actually said that on a live broadcast. My eyes dart back to Aelin, but she doesn’t flinch. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed and with a bit of an attitude.

Why is she being so chill about it? In the field, my homies and I raise hell when someone’s half as snarky to one of us.

I’m keeping quiet because that’s what she’s going for—if a silent rebellion is what she wants, that’s what I’ll do. However, she can’t stop me from cradling an arm around her. I don’t look at any cameras or video walls with his face; my focus is on him alone when I tilt my head, staring like I could draw blood with my eyes alone. The posture I maintain is a threat and a dare: he can’t come because I’m bigger than him, and he can’t run because I’m faster than anyone inside this venue, even Vaughan or security.

Peripheral vision allows me to see my face plastered on the venue's wall-sized screens, which also means it's on millions of screens worldwide too. My focus remains on him alone.

It’s uncivilized and ridiculous in modern society, but triggering a primitive part of his brain is how to stop men with a way of thinking like his. I can be pretty intimidating—scary, even—when I need to be, and I'm hell-bent on making this creep wish he never brought her up.

“Uh-oh.” An uneasy laugh. “I think I pissed off her boyfriend, and he’s twice my size. Moving on…”

He quickly finds another celebrity to hassle, but my arm remains around Aelin.

We only relax when everyone’s attention moves forward—cameras and guests alike.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was nothing.” And I mean it. Her team clearly didn’t show her the brawl I was in when that preppy little shit from Bellhaven United called Connall a ‘faggot’. I never apologized—not to that fucker nor to the team suits and coach when the disciplinary committee expelled me for the next three games.

“Are we close to your bedtime, old man?”

“Past it, actually.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes, please.”

Aelin smirks at me and leans over toward Ansel.

My jaw sets again when her attention is elsewhere, and I barely have time to brood over what happened when Vaughan scoots closer to me.

“You really like her, huh?”

I haven’t really thought about how much I like Aelin—the person—rather than the prospect of finishing what we started on the night we met, but yeah. Depending on what ‘like’ means to him, I do like her.

My friend wiggles his eyebrows. “When are you bringing her to a game?”

I cock my head, surprised because I thought my answer was obvious. “Never.”

Vaughan doubles over, and I’m not sure what he’s laughing at.

“Dude, have you seen her? She’s like, Miss Universe type of shit. I’m not taking her anywhere near those fuckers.”

Vaughan’s not laughing anymore, but you can tell he’s about to crack up again. “Don’t you wanna see her cheering in your jersey?”

Shit.

Yes, I do.

In a short skirt, if I have any say in it.

Damn, I need to reconsider this.

Before I can continue my reevaluation, Aelin leans in once more.

“If we go now, do you think Vaughan can keep Ansel company till the party’s over?” Aelin grins. “She decided she’s single.”

My heads up and warning to Vaughan doesn’t last half as long as Aelin’s goodbyes to Ansel, and I can’t help but overhear them.

“Do not. Disappear. Again.” Ansel has a firm tone, her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“I won’t.”

“I can’t believe you disappeared for a couple of weeks and came back with a whole boyfriend!” It’s hard to say if Ansel is distressed, confused, or amused. Maybe all of them. “You said both your dads are friends, right? Did he wait for you to be single? Was it a friends to lovers thing?”

Aelin has her face turned away from me, but I can see her shoulders shake with laughter.

“Every relationship I have is an enemies to lovers. I hate men.”

Her friend cackles at her antics, and I can’t help but chuckle as well. My hand gently skim over Aelin’s bare shoulders as I call her attention.

“I’m ready if you are.”

We both get up and push our way through the packed venue, my palm on her back. It doesn’t take long for us to grab the host’s attention.

“…and Aelin and her double-door-fridge-sized boyfriend are leaving. Tough crowd tonight, huh?”

That fucking host has the gall to address her again.

“I can’t hear you,” I yell, tapping my ear with my index finger. “Misogyny too loud.”

If the live footage didn’t catch what I said, I’m sure the lip readers will.

I pull her closer, wrapping my arm tighter around her, and guide her out.

It crosses my mind that I might never get invited to this again, but then I remember I wasn’t even invited to this one. It’s not like I’ll ever miss attending those things, anyway.

A Feminist King in the Making? Rowan Whitethorn Calls Out Misogyny During Varese Film Festival’s Opening Ceremony

Is Aelin Galathynius Reforming our Favorite Playboy?

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Even though I understand the amount of camera work that goes into live broadcasts of these kinds of events, I’m still taken aback by how they’ve been filming Aelin and me non-stop.

None of us work in the film industry—I’m sure my appearance for my former team’s documentary doesn’t count. Shouldn’t they have better people to film?

Our publicists sent us here with a few of our friends as a “fun soft launch”—their words exactly—of our relationship. However, wearing this bow tie hasn’t been fun for me, neither is this relationship launch soft.

So far, it’s been a barrage of photographs and inquiries about our love life, despite her odd policy about not doing red carpets with men, just her girlfriends—I don’t get it, but it didn’t bother me either, so I let this rule slide.

Aelin tugs my arm. Sat beside me, she leans over my shoulder with one hand cupped to cover her mouth and whispers, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”

I nod, find her hand and squeeze it. I take advantage of my height to press a kiss to the crown of her head, draping my arm over the back of her chair.

She freezes, the thin straps of her dress exposing her tight posture.

I chuckle and whisper in her ear, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”

The delicate tremble that marks her shiver is more than enough to lift my mood.

“Are you cold, baby?”

She squints her eyes at me, defiant and stubborn despite not being able to vocalize it. Tomorrow, there’ll be tons of lip readers going through our footage of tonight, trying to piece together every conversation we’ve had.

I cup her face, my thumb idly tracing her chin and cheek. “Lovely,” I say without cupping my mouth this time, and I mean it. She’s adorable when she’s mad or flustered over being attracted to me.

Aelin sighs and leans on me, focusing back on the host making a joke I should understand about a director with a funny name I should know.

I lean closer to Vaughan on my left and ask, “Who’s that?”

“He’s this super niche director from Eyllwe. Makes underground stuff.”

“Have I watched any of his stuff?” I ask, already sensing the answer.

“I don’t know, dude.” Vaughan laughs into his hand. “He doesn’t film cars blowing up, so I don’t think you have.”

My elbow meets his side; I’m now snickering as well. “Fuck off.”

Sinking back into my seat, I appreciate its size. It’s ironic; I’m usually the one who’s too big for the seats, but today I’m okay—it’s the tiny women in massive gowns trying to squeeze in.

The venue is so spacious, yet it feels cramped with the amount of people here, turning it into a fog of strong perfume and hairspray. When I checked out these events from the outside, people seemed chill and put-together—I’d never have guessed the atmosphere here is so thick with anxiety.

Some veterans easily sail through, but there’s always someone fighting their outfit, people tripping on gowns. Men with starched collars or women with too-heavy diamond necklaces, their necks being chafed raw.

The cameras and red-carpet journalists don’t make it any easier.

I wonder if the cameras can catch the damp mark on the host’s leg from wiping his sweaty hand. To his defense, stage lights’s warmth can be brutal.

“But hey.” Vaughan juts his chin towards my date. “What’s up with your girl’s girl?”

Ansel, who’s sat on Aelin’s other side. Aelin and I weren’t invited to this event, so technically I’m Vaughan’s date, and she’s with her actress friend.

“We just met.”

I’ve seen some of her movies and know she started out as one of those child stars, but I’m pretty sure my cinephile friend knows that too.

“Is she single?”

“Dude.”

“What?” Vaughan says in the same disbelieving tone.

He can call me selfish all he wants, but my chances with Aelin are slim; it’s not like I’m messing things up by introducing her friend to Vaughan. I've never seen him be serious with a girl. He'd say the same about me, but I'm not risking others for my shot—I went up to her myself.

“I’m not setting you two up. If you pull her, I want no part in it.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Just do this one thing for me. I’ll cover your ass in the last 10 minutes of the next three matches.”

I cross my arms, not quite believing him. But Vaughan’s not budging, and I’m almost believing he’s for real.

“You’ll do my defensive work? All the running?”

“Yeah, you can just chill there.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose—I’m actually going to do this, aren’t I? “Just don’t be a jerk, okay? I don’t want to piss Aelin off.”

“I’m a gentleman.”

“Dude, I swear to God, if you ghost this chick—”

“Okay, okay! Got it. I won’t ghost her, geez.”

I squint at him again, studying his earnestness. Vaughan looks serious enough, so I lean into Aelin’s side.

“Hey.”

Her eyes remain locked on the stage, but the tantalizing curl on the corner of her red lips tells me she’s listening.

“So, is Ansel single?”

Her mouth flattens. “How does that concern you?”

“Because Vaughan’s interested, and he won’t leave it alone.”

“Oh.” Her chin dipped down for a second before she said, “She’s single, but she might not be for your friend. Let me ask.”

Aelin shifts away. Without skipping a beat, Vaughan pokes my side in a sequence of aggressive jabs.

When I comply and lean closer, he adds, “But don’t be too obvious.”

I nod and tilt towards Aelin, to my right. “Let’s not be too obvious,” I whisper.

She snorts. “Smooth. Got it.”

I give Vaughan a curt nod. He does the same.

As the night drags on, I get more and more antsy, and I’m doing my best to quit fussing with my collar. Perhaps I don’t appreciate how great my work uniform is, because I’d hate to wear a fancy suit all the time.

“And Aelin Galathynius is with us tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” the host says.

More cameras shift towards her. She gives a close-lipped smile, polite but not warm.

“I was going to ask if she plans to stay single, but her relationship status changed before I had the chance!”

My brain needs a beat to process what he said, that he actually said that on a live broadcast. My eyes dart back to Aelin, but she doesn’t flinch. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed and with a bit of an attitude.

Why is she being so chill about it? In the field, my homies and I raise hell when someone’s half as snarky to one of us.

I’m keeping quiet because that’s what she’s going for—if a silent rebellion is what she wants, that’s what I’ll do. However, she can’t stop me from cradling an arm around her. I don’t look at any cameras or video walls with his face; my focus is on him alone when I tilt my head, staring like I could draw blood with my eyes alone. The posture I maintain is a threat and a dare: he can’t come because I’m bigger than him, and he can’t run because I’m faster than anyone inside this venue, even Vaughan or security.

Peripheral vision allows me to see my face plastered on the venue's wall-sized screens, which also means it's on millions of screens worldwide too. My focus remains on him alone.

It’s uncivilized and ridiculous in modern society, but triggering a primitive part of his brain is how to stop men with a way of thinking like his. I can be pretty intimidating—scary, even—when I need to be, and I'm hell-bent on making this creep wish he never brought her up.

“Uh-oh.” An uneasy laugh. “I think I pissed off her boyfriend, and he’s twice my size. Moving on…”

He quickly finds another celebrity to hassle, but my arm remains around Aelin.

We only relax when everyone’s attention moves forward—cameras and guests alike.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was nothing.” And I mean it. Her team clearly didn’t show her the brawl I was in when that preppy little shit from Bellhaven United called Connall a ‘faggot’. I never apologized—not to that fucker nor to the team suits and coach when the disciplinary committee expelled me for the next three games.

“Are we close to your bedtime, old man?”

“Past it, actually.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes, please.”

Aelin smirks at me and leans over toward Ansel.

My jaw sets again when her attention is elsewhere, and I barely have time to brood over what happened when Vaughan scoots closer to me.

“You really like her, huh?”

I haven’t really thought about how much I like Aelin—the person—rather than the prospect of finishing what we started on the night we met, but yeah. Depending on what ‘like’ means to him, I do like her.

My friend wiggles his eyebrows. “When are you bringing her to a game?”

I cock my head, surprised because I thought my answer was obvious. “Never.”

Vaughan doubles over, and I’m not sure what he’s laughing at.

“Dude, have you seen her? She’s like, Miss Universe type of shit. I’m not taking her anywhere near those fuckers.”

Vaughan’s not laughing anymore, but you can tell he’s about to crack up again. “Don’t you wanna see her cheering in your jersey?”

Shit.

Yes, I do.

In a short skirt, if I have any say in it.

Damn, I need to reconsider this.

Before I can continue my reevaluation, Aelin leans in once more.

“If we go now, do you think Vaughan can keep Ansel company till the party’s over?” Aelin grins. “She decided she’s single.”

My heads up and warning to Vaughan doesn’t last half as long as Aelin’s goodbyes to Ansel, and I can’t help but overhear them.

“Do not. Disappear. Again.” Ansel has a firm tone, her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“I won’t.”

“I can’t believe you disappeared for a couple of weeks and came back with a whole boyfriend!” It’s hard to say if Ansel is distressed, confused, or amused. Maybe all of them. “You said both your dads are friends, right? Did he wait for you to be single? Was it a friends to lovers thing?”

Aelin has her face turned away from me, but I can see her shoulders shake with laughter.

“Every relationship I have is an enemies to lovers. I hate men.”

Her friend cackles at her antics, and I can’t help but chuckle as well. My hand gently skim over Aelin’s bare shoulders as I call her attention.

“I’m ready if you are.”

We both get up and push our way through the packed venue, my palm on her back. It doesn’t take long for us to grab the host’s attention.

“…and Aelin and her double-door-fridge-sized boyfriend are leaving. Tough crowd tonight, huh?”

That fucking host has the gall to address her again.

“I can’t hear you,” I yell, tapping my ear with my index finger. “Misogyny too loud.”

If the live footage didn’t catch what I said, I’m sure the lip readers will.

I pull her closer, wrapping my arm tighter around her, and guide her out.

It crosses my mind that I might never get invited to this again, but then I remember I wasn’t even invited to this one. It’s not like I’ll ever miss attending those things, anyway.

A Feminist King in the Making? Rowan Whitethorn Calls Out Misogyny During Varese Film Festival’s Opening Ceremony

Is Aelin Galathynius Reforming our Favorite Playboy?

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My primary plan for this evening was straightforward: meet Rowan’s team, see what they want and figure out his intentions.

However, that was before Quinn, Dad’s campaign manager, got held up at another meeting, sent both teams apology food, so now we have to make small talk and wait for him.

A bit awkward, but not for Rowan.

“Gods, I was starving,” he comments while smashing a whole-grain turkey sandwich with lots of veggies.

What’s left of his meal looks so tiny in his hand. His big, calloused hand that — “Are you cold?” he asks me.

“I…” I blink. “What?”

“Here.” Rowan hands me the jacket that was draped on the back of his chair. “You were like…” He trails while mimicking me rubbing the base of my throat and my collarbone. “I can ask someone to turn down the AC.”

“No need.” I smile and take his jacket, eager to change the topic.

He resumes eating, and when I look to my right, Lys is biting back a laugh, eyes focused on her sandwich. I kind of hate her at the moment.

Another reason fake dating Rowan sounds like a disaster to me: I can barely keep my cool around him. It’ll differ from dating objectively good-looking guys that are incapable of making my skin tingle.

How do I pretend I’m pretending to like someone I actually like, then kiss them in public and go home alone? When I don’t allow myself to see other people out of fear I’ll get caught, do I have any guarantees that I won’t be home reeling after a “fake” date? Because that’s what happened after Rowan and I’s real one—if one can even call that a date.

And why on earth would he propose a PR relationship, after all? He’s at the height of his career, and I’m at… the opposite of that. Strategically, I bring nothing to his table at this moment.

“You’ve barely touched your sandwich.”

My eyes rise to meet his. “I’m full.”

He frowns, and his eyes zero back on my half-eaten sandwich with what I interpret as barely contained longing. “And you’re just gonna throw that away?”

“Rowan…” I try to contain my grin. “Do you want my sandwich?”

“I mean.” He tries to play casual. “If you won’t eat it anymore, then sure. Why waste it?”

I hand him my plate, chuckling. If we meet again, I’ll make sure he gets extra food. He must require plenty of fuel to maintain all that.

When he leans down to eat, his broad shoulders hunch, and compared to his massive complexion and enormous arms, my sandwich looks comically tiny.

I cross my legs and look away. Damn. When I decide it’s time to focus on the fish swimming in the tank that serves as a wall, I see Quinn in his suit, coming our way.

My dad insisted that his campaign manager’s presence—or his own, as I’ve suggested—was unnecessary, but I insisted.

I fucked up his campaign enough, and the more forgiving Dad acts, the guiltier I feel. He attempts to reassure me, saying that supporting me shows his commitment to women’s rights, but I don’t see it that way. I can’t focus on the bright side like he does. All I can think of is that I shouldn’t be interfering with his campaign at all.

At every meeting with his team, I feel like screaming until my throat bursts. I don’t do it though—my family has been so understanding, I don’t want to bother them with my most inconvenient emotions.

So, I invited Quinn myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I can’t bear the thought of messing up my father’s job again—and his campaign manager is the best person to assist me with that.

If Rowan or his new publicist—Elide—seems surprised by it, they don’t show it.

She opens with, “After my client and Ms. Galathynius were photographed and hit the headlines, we—his team—realized what a unique opportunity it would be for brand synergy.”

She makes interesting arguments; I can give her that.

First, money. Done correctly, celebrity partnerships can be profitable; her graphics highlight Rowan's sales increase for both advertised products and his official jersey.

My fans are doing well enough to buy a jersey based on a picture of someone with my lipstick smudged on them. Good for them.

Elide can’t access sensitive information about my sales or streaming numbers, but she believes something similar might happen to me if I get talked about in a different circle—sports. I’m not sure about that, but my affiliation with the White Hawk’s star player has potential to make people take a kinder view of my dad. Bring in voters.

I do my best to dissociate when she approaches the next part, which is that my “relationship” with him is the only thing that’s being talked about me online in a positive light.

Yes, a PR relationship would divert attention. Yada yada. Beautiful fish next to me. No need to be reminded of something that I’ve discussed with my team for the past endless days.

And despite all the warnings about why I shouldn’t, there’s that undeniable fact: a stable relationship would tone down the slut-shaming that came with the Dorian and Chaol fiasco, which benefits both me and my dad.

She shows a media report just to back up her argument; I know it’s her job to do so, but it feels like she’s using sharp bar graphs and hashtags to stab my throat.

“I know my statistics,” I snap, my need for her to stop outweighing my desire to be polite. “But what does Rowan get out of it?”

Her understanding, apologetic smile triggered an overwhelming desire to scream an apology, to cry even—if she, like others I’d wronged, was kind to me once more, I might finally give in.

“That’s the point I was about to make.” Elide moves on to the next part as I asked her to. “Throughout his career, and because of his job, my client has been wrongfully associated with red pill content, along with other beliefs he does not share…”

I tilt my head, trying to understand this motivator better as she speaks. Rowan remains pretty neutral on the political scene—people speculate he has certain beliefs, but he has never spoken up about any of that. I hold a firm opinion of fence-sitters, but it surely worked out well for him.

“…but my client only became truly upset about it when Mr. Arobynn Hamel reached out to him, seeking a partnership.”

A frigid wave crashed over me, the world blurring as I desperately grasped for any sense of stability.

That motherfucker.

My mind goes from blank to racing.

Having Rowan pictured with me and then Hamel the next day… that’d be quite the talk. They could claim something caused him to flee and use it against my father.

I take a deep breath. Of course he’s gathering his team, formulating his strategies—it makes sense that he’s doing this now. Why would this make me even remotely distressed?

Elide’s explaining how Rowan’s association with me might aid him as a quiet statement when I get up.

"I'll be back in a minute," I said, already turning to leave.

The weight of the past two weeks sits heavier on my shoulder each day, making my tolerance for work meetings shorter each time.

I stop walking only when I reach a mesmerizing large hall. Marine life burst behind the curved glass of both walls and ceiling; the vibrant colors and varied species swam right before my eyes. It makes me feel like an insignificant dot, as if I’m the one in a tube watching other lives, not the other way around.

It’s quite soothing, after all.

Despite initially coming here to freak out in privacy, I take my mom’s advice and live in the moment immediately next to me instead of fretting about other aspects of my life. The room’s deep blue calms me, and I follow the path of an unhurried stingray with my eyes.

I envy the fish for a moment, but when my mind ponders the reasons, I pack the thought and let it go. It flows out in waves like the eel that swims past me.

“You good?”

The interruption snaps my attention to the entrance, where Rowan hovers, watching me warily. My welcoming, close-lipped smile is invitation enough for him. As he comes in, he says, “We can reschedule if you’re not feeling it.”

While I appreciate the gesture, I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in the mood for a long work meeting. Better get this over with now that everyone’s here.”

He snorts. “I know exactly what you mean.”

We don’t leave, though. He leans his back against the tank wall, watching the fish—and me—as I stare at the marine life on the wall he’s braced against. A gentle gurgle and the low buzz of the filter, undetectable when the aquarium’s open, fill the room amidst their silence.

“Are you considering Hamel’s offer?” My shoulder is next to his even though we’re facing opposite walls.

I feel the weight of his gaze as it shifts and settles on me, but I don’t move.

“No.”

Then he briefly explains to me what happened, and I can’t imagine being as chill about what happened as he seems to be.

Besides, I’m glad he’s sharing this with me. He could’ve lied to create a sense of urgency between me and my team, but he didn’t. I appreciate how he prioritizes transparency instead of pressuring my team.

Also, in my line of work, I have to tolerate enough people I despise. When I can pick who I work with, I do it wisely.

“You could take the easier route—have an actual girlfriend and make a statement online about your opinions like the common folk do. That’s not what you want, though.”

“Indeed, it isn’t.”

I turn at last, my gaze fixed on him. “You’re pretty hard to figure out, Rowan Whitethorn.”

Chuckling, he shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m a complex person. I’m just some dude with a shark team.”

“Humor me, then. Why are you doing this?”

He opened his mouth, but I added with, “And I don’t want you to recite any charts. The real reason.”

“The real reason?”

“Yep.”

“You want the true, unfiltered truth about star striker Rowan Whitethorn?”

“Hit me.” I cross my arms and press my lips together, trying not to laugh at whatever his game is.

“Okay, then.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m actually pretty boring.”

I can’t help it—my laugh comes loud and unfiltered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious—I’m only cool on the field.”

“I’m sorry, but—” My shoulders still shake from the laughter. “You’ll have to elaborate on that.”

“Okay, so…” He absentmindedly scratches his shaved jaw, pondering his reply. “Did you see my social media and what people talk about me?”

“Briefly,” I lie. I totally stalked him like a lunatic.

“It’s all very…” He flails his hands, trying to find the words. “Shiny. Appealing. It’s… what people end up seeing as ‘my life’—it’s not a lie, but it’s such a small part of it. I mean, I like parties and fancy dinners as much as the next person, but I have my diet, my sleep schedule… I love my job, but I have to sacrifice some things for it, you know?”

I nod; while I can't fully relate to his circumstances, I still get it.

“Sounds like you don’t have space in your life for a relationship right now.”

“No! It’s not that.” He grimaces, scratching the back of his head. “When I find someone I like, she expects an experience I can’t offer.” He runs a hand over his face. “Regular dating things like grabbing drinks—I can’t do this at all. I don’t eat pasta on non-game days, but when I can eat pasta, I can’t stay up for long enough to call it a proper date night. I also rarely ever eat dessert, but I learned the hard way that I’m a jerk if I just buy it and don’t eat it with the girl because she’ll feel fat and—”

He groans, bowing his head to pinch the bridge of his nose.

I won’t tell Rowan, but I find his turmoil endearing in a twisted way. I figured he’d moan about gold-diggers, or similar issues that powerful men often bring up, but he’s concerned about how the woman feels when they’re together. It’s cute.

I rest my head against the tank wall, a soft smile on while I witness his distress.

“So, for you, having a fake girlfriend is easier than shattering a poor girl’s illusion of what dating you is like?”

He scratches the back of his head with an adorable boyish nose-wrinkling. “Kind of? I mean, I’ll have a better shot at it when they kick me out of the game—I won’t have my job for long, you know?”

“I… completely understand that.” Far too much. In a similar amount of time, the media’s attention will shift to a younger and hotter artist than me. I try not to be too bitter about it. “So you want to prioritize your job while it’s still yours?”

“Yup. You pretty much nailed why I suck at dating.”

I chuckle, even though I doubt that’s true.

“You’re Gilda, then?”

“Is that another singer I should know?”

I open my mouth, but close it again as I ponder. “No, not really. She’s a classic movie character, the ultimate femme fatale. The actress, Rita, said men fell for Gilda, but then, well, they woke up with her. It was like… I think her partners mistook the real woman for Gilda’s appeal.”

Rowan hummed and crossed his arms, contemplating the story.

“That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

For a moment, we do nothing but watch each other. His green eyes look darker under electric blue lights, and he has a searching gaze towards me that should unsettle me, but I’m too tired to be bothered by it—his silent presence is rather comforting, in fact.

“You look good in my jacket—I mean, the color, you know? This color suits you.”

As Rowan trips over his own words, a darker tone blooms in his cheeks. Adorable.

I’m smiling wider than I normally do when given praise. “Thanks.”

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, voice soft.

I blink, and my mind blanks out before I remember the reason I left the meeting.

“Yeah, sure.” I straighten my shoulders, snapping back into my professional demeanor. “Shit, I can’t believe we left them there for so long.”

He waves me off. “I had them go over some boring details while I came here.”

An inviting tilt of my head is all he needs to leave this gorgeous room with me.

“Isn’t she a new hire?” I ask as we return; our footsteps echo in the silent corridor.

He shrugs. “I trust her.”

“Good, but wasn’t too much trust what got you in a meeting with Hamel?”

I can’t imagine showing up with a new publicist, no agent, and trusting her to deal with your career unsupervised. Friend’s wife or not.

After a brief pause, he tells me with renewed conviction, “I trust her.”

The moment we re-entered the meeting room, the arguing and loud chatter we had overheard from the hallway had come to an immediate halt.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Silence hung heavy, and each person at the table eyed one another, unsure of what to say.

“Don’t look at me.” Quinn raises both hands, palms out. “I’ve been shooting zombies on my phone for the past eight minutes.”

It doesn’t concern my dad’s campaign, then. I send Manon and Lys a silent plea.

My agent returns it with a pissy one and says, “We have a disagreement regarding the morality clause.”

I circle the desk, taking my time, and return to my previous seat beside my publicist. Once I’m comfortably seated, I lean back and ask, the words floating on the quiet air, “How so?”

The morality clause—a wave of bitterness overcomes me as I consider Manon’s words. Rowan just gave me an entire speech about how orderly his life is. If he throws a tantrum about not getting girls or partying without my team’s consent, that’ll piss me the fuck off.

I’m not apologetic about my demands. I’m a unique asset, and boys only come one at a time for me. To get the perks that come with dating me, they must walk the line.

“I believe the ‘No-Romance’ clause is a point of contention for my client.”

Rowan crosses his arms, brows creased. “What does it say?”

Manon cuts in. “It states that neither of you can pursue a genuine romantic, sexual, or emotionally intimate relationship with each other while it’s in effect.”

“Oh.” He ponders for a second, then shakes his head and says, “Yeah, I’m not signing that.”

Lysandra sags with fatigue, and she rests her head in her hands.

“Aelin,” he calls, his tone calm as he keeps his attention solely on me. “I have a question, and I need you to be totally honest—no sugarcoating. I won’t get mad, I swear.”

“Shoot.”

He swallows, and he takes a moment to plan his words. He’s got something on his mind, but it doesn’t seem to be easy to voice.

“Do you feel safe around me? I mean, does that clause make you feel safer about working closely with me?”

I still remember the night we met–how effortlessly he let me take the lead, never once objecting to the way the evening unfolded.

It’s not Rowan I’m concerned about.

“I appreciate your concern in the matter,” I start with an acknowledging nod. “But that’s not the case. Being with you has never made me feel unsafe or at risk.”

“Well, that’s lovely to hear.” His voice now has a playful and borderline predatory undertone. He leans closer, and my hackles rise. “The clause isn’t for me, then—it’s for you.”

Bingo.

As my lips part, I make the mistake of showing how startled I am at his quick observation. Both our teams vanish—there’s no one here but his conquering green eyes that pierce me to my chair, reading me way too well.

“Excuse me?”

He crosses his arms and leans them over the edge of the desk; the triumph in his gaze tells me he’s about to show me a royal flush.

“You know I won’t lay a finger on you unless you’re begging me to. So, why do we even need this clause, baby?” Rowan tilts his head. Smirks. “Can’t control yourself around me?”

His eyes never stray away from mine, and I hold his gaze with my head high.

“Remove the clause,” I tell my team, maintaining his stare without a flinch.

Manon says, “Aelin, I strongly advise you to—”

“I said what I said.”

Rowan leans back in his seat, a smirk twisting his lips. Just as one might leave their home under a cloudy sky and sense a storm on its way, his eyes twinkled with a wicked delight, and a feeling of impending doom crept into my chest.

Where is Aelin Galathynius?

After having all matters that require my presence settled in Doranelle City, I decide to work remotely and spend a handful of days at my parents’ country home.

I thought it was safe here, but is it?

All I know is that my enemies will receive no mercy from me, particularly when I recall the sting of their betrayal.

I show my cards when he least expects it, and the silence that follows is one of fright and respect.

“Oh, come on!” Aedion shouts as he snatches the four cards I just made him draw.

While Aedy isn’t looking, Dad and I exchange an amused look across the dining room table. Game nights are for family bonding, but I’m afraid they get too competitive and not-so-friendly sometimes. Though it’s not my fault that my cousin becomes a whiny baby every time he has to draw cards.

“You…” Aedion promises revenge, face stormy as he rearranges his deck. “Just you wait, Aelin.”

I chuckle, and it’s my dad’s turn to play.

Now that we’re actually playing, I can’t remember why I had such a hard time coming down from my old room to our family night. Even though I came to my parents’ to unwind for a couple of days, I was going over the last details for my next public appearance. However, if my dad can take a break from his senator and future presidential candidate duties to prioritize family night, I can postpone a conversation with my hairstylist as well.

My heaviest responsibility lies on my bedside table—not the one by my sleeping side, but the one I’m prone to disregard—the reviewed version of my contract with Rowan.

Dad slams his hand on the table.

A 9 card.

Aedion and I are quick to put our hands atop his. I grin at Mom, who never out-wits us at the 9 rule, always the last one to stack her hands atop ours.

"Shit!" she yells before drawing her penalty card, and her unusual swearing causes everyone to laugh.

I skip Aedion’s turn, and he threatens my life with such vivid language my mom feels the need to intervene.

A few more rounds and his insults will get as good as the hate comments on Twitter.

Gods, what a way to sour my own good mood.

My team is hopeful about the deal with Rowan, though—they’re hoping he’ll make me look cool again instead of me sinking his reputation along with mine.

I’m just not entirely sure I’m ready to sign it yet.

For instance, I might’ve told Lys I’m going celibate, but I’m not sure I meant it. To think that Chaol could be the only person in my bed this year… so depressing.

I need to focus on myself now that I’m canceled, and Rowan’s demand to remove the ‘No-Romance’ clause… it changes nothing, after all. I might have the tiniest crush on him, but we get along well, and I don’t want things going sour while we still need to see each other and pretend to be in love.

“Fireheart,” my mom calls. “It’s your turn.”

I blink, and the soft yellow lightning casts over everyone’s waiting faces.

Retrieving my deck from between my leg and the underside of the table—gotta watch out for the cheaters—I discard my penultimate card. “Uno!”

“You’re joking,” Aedion says, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

I shrug. “Not my fault you suck.”

It’s so good to be home and able to rub a hand over my face without fearing ruined makeup. I ditched it for meetings some time ago, around when the paps spotted Chaol—potentially—cheating on me. My team got quite used to seeing my eyebrows pointing in every direction possible.

I thought I’d figure Rowan out once we saw each other again—wrong, wrong, wrong.

He asked me out on a date, then proposed an arrangement where we don’t do any of that. What was that about? Was a work agreement all Rowan wanted to achieve when he asked to have dinner with me?

It looks like it, but he’d sounded flirty. Also, his motives for wanting to fake date me are good, but they aren’t enough to lock down six months of his life. He told me he’s not a relationship guy—unless he made up the other stories out there, it’s clear he’s no monk.

Still, the chances of him wanting me for real get slimmer the harder I think about it. We were alone at the aquarium for quite some time; he could’ve pushed, and something tells me I would’ve said ‘yes’, but he didn’t. We had a moment, and he did nothing—which makes me think, did we have a moment, or am I imagining it?

It would be so much easier to decide whether to sign it if I understood him better.

Who am I kidding? Everyone knows I’ll sign the damned thing anyway.

My mom discards a yellow 7—that number means we’re supposed to be quiet. Not for long, though.

In slow-motion, I pretend to discard my last card and quickly retrieve it halfway. I do it again. Aedion’s stare locks onto my hand, desperate to see if I’ll win or draw another card, and the 7 rule won’t allow him to tell me to drop the suspense and fuck off.

At last, I discard my last card, a red 7.

“No way!” he yells, and faces my parents while pointing at me. “She just bought a bazillion cards—there’s no way she won!”

“Yeah, and that was, like, a million years ago,” I point out.

His jaw flexes, and I don’t miss how his eyes dart to my crossed legs, the way I’m perched with my feet tucked beneath me. No.

Aedion lunges at me in the most uncivilized manner, and my childhood home becomes a blur as he lifts me from the safety of my seat to haul me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

My parents in the table, the pets, the portraits on the wall—the motion turns it into a dizzying smudge as I curse aloud.

“Aedion.” Dad is trying to be stern but, even upside down, I can sense the amusement in his tone. “Put her down.”

I hear a chair scratching the floor, and I can pick up that my mom just got up.

“Oh, Fireheart,” she laments.

“What was it this time?” Dad asks.

“There are two cards on her chair.”

I scream, “No!”

Mom continues, “I think she hid those under her leg.”

“I fucking knew it.” Aedion drops me on the floor.

“Fuck off!”

“Language,” my mom lectures us.

Still sitting on the floor, I open my arms wide. “I don’t know how those showed up there—he framed me!”

Not even me and Aedion fighting can rouse Dina from her beauty asleep, but Fleetfoot takes advantage of my seated position and jumps at me. That dog is not aware of her own size and strength, because her lunge oozes the air out of me as my upper body falls to the ground.

The clumsy dog’s antics always crack me up, and I gasp for air as she licks my face—wet nose, sopping tongue, and all she offers.

“Fireheart!” My dad is our everlasting self-assigned croupier, too wary of Aedion and me both to let us shuffle the cards. “Are you coming for another one?”

“Yeah, just a minute.” I’m still trying to detangle myself from Fleetfoot—I don’t want to, but I want to see what Aedion’s next move will be.

Once I’m able to take a full breath again, I kiss my dog between the ears and get up.

When it feels like the world is against me and I’m down in the aquifer that feeds rock bottom, I’m grateful to have a place—people—that makes me feel normal again. More than any fame or fortune, my people are my luck.

The Biggest Rumors Surrounding Aelin Galathynius’ Personal Life

I signed the contract while nursing the bruise Aedion left on my knee with frozen cauliflower.

While I didn’t picture my makeup artist as the next person to get that intimate with the inner swell of my knee, at least it looks fantastic now.

The lack of traffic briefly made me feel better, but my nerves came back up when I heard the barricade of fans on the sidewalk opposite the venue. My driver parks close to the heavily guarded sidewalk, temporary tents and cobblestone flooring leading to the line of celebrities waiting for their turn on the red carpet. My insides turn cold.

Tonight is the first step of the carefully laid-out plan both our teams made, showing up separately at the Varese Film Festival, then soft-launching our “relationship” by holding hands and looking cozy inside.

The screaming gets louder when I step outside, and I hope I don’t get booed. I offer a quick wave from a distance, keeping it short. The dress I have on is a shimmering gold fabric; the skirt is lean, but the cut on the slit is as high as I could get away with without reinforcing my ‘slut’ status.

What can I say? I have nice legs and every right to show them off.

Right now, what matters is that my posture is perfect, my face serene, and even though I’m not looking down, I won’t trip over my dress. Just one step at a time, and—

My left foot won’t lift. The fuck?

Doing my best to look confused but light-hearted, I look down to find out why my foot won’t get up again, and…

Those fucking cobblestones.

I tug my foot up again, but it doesn’t budge, and I don’t wanna force it too much and risk ruining my shoe before the red carpet. I look around, seeing if someone looks free enough to help me, when I see a tuxedo-clad figure already jogging my way.

“Hi, baby.”

My insides melt.

The screams from the other side of the street get impossibly louder.

I try to give him a stern look, but I also can’t help my grin. “You were supposed to arrive after me.”

“For sure, but you see… I got here at the time I was told to, and you’re so late you’re the one who arrived after me.”

We ended up bumping into each other here, but these things happen, right? I may have run late for overindulging while getting ready, but I wanted to look extra cute for my first public appearance in weeks. Sue me.

“So.” He glances down, giving my foot a pointed look. “Need a hand, Princess?”

I try to lift it once more—it’s fruitless. “If you won’t mind.”

I’m not ready for it when he gets down on one knee before me. Rowan examines my exposed leg, his eyes tracing every curve in a slow, deliberate survey. His appreciative survey felt like a warm day, burning into my skin. At last, the slit ended, and his gaze reached the part that required his help: the shoe.

Reverent and entitled, he wraps his hand around my ankle. When his eyes seek mine, his thumb gently brushes my Achilles tendon, and I lose sight of my surroundings in the depth of his pine-green eyes. The air crackles with charged energy, a tangible current fizzling between us, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end.

I look away. “Can you please hurry?”

“Why?” He cocks his head, smirking. “I thought you liked your men down on their knees for you, babe.”

Rowan gives my ankle the tiniest twist, and another tug causes my heel to pop out of the gap in the cobblestones.

With one last brush of his thumb against my ankle, he gets up, flicks the dust off his clothes and hands, and offers me his arm.

“Shall we?”

I don’t do red carpets with men, but considering the situation, arriving together seems like the most practical option. Then, we can take our pictures one at a time.

I take his arm, and the crowd goes wild when he kisses my cheek.