Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 151

Chapter 151

His face darkens. “That’s exactly what needs to change. I don’t like other men looking at things I own.”

The word lands like the slap I should have given him. He doesn’t stop.

“It’s probably the way you dress,” he mutters, like I’m a problem he plans to fix. “But it doesn’t matter. Once we’re married, you’ll be too busy raising our sons to be seen by anyone else.”

My jaw tightens. I don’t speak. Not yet. Because if I do, I might end up doing something that will get me arrested or lose my job.

I’ll be damned if I lose my job over a man.

—

“You really think I’m something you own?” I say, voice dropping into something sharp enough to cut glass. “Let me be perfectly clear,

Dimitri. You couldn’t afford me even if you sold this hotel, your family name, and whatever’s left of your dignity.”

—

His mouth opens — probably to bluster, or beg – but I don’t give him the chance.

“You talk about sons like they’re trophies, and wives like they’re livestock. And the fact that you think I’d ever carry your children makes me want to bleach my entire reproductive system.”

He recoils like I slapped him. Good. Not nearly enough, but it’ll do for now.

I lean in, just enough for my words to sting in private.

“Touch me again without permission, and I swear to God the next thing you’ll be holding is your own teeth.”

Then I turn on my heel, heels clicking as I leave him standing there stunned, humiliated, and exactly where he belongs.

—

Five minutes. That’s how long I give it before my mother calls, shrieking about how I’ve “ruined” yet another chance at being someone‘ s submissive little bride. That I’ll never get married if I can’t romanticize harassment and serve men like tea on a silver tray.

Blah Blah Blah.

I make my way toward the lobby, scanning for somewhere to sit before this nauseating swirl in my stomach turns into something public and humiliating. The nausea started when they served eggs at breakfast Dimitri’s leering face must’ve amplified it into a full–body revolt.

–

I find a bench tucked near a window and lower myself onto it, trying to collect what little remains of my composure. One deep breath. Just one.

But before I even inhale, a voice slices through the fog.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face — too late.

“T–Taisiya?”

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