Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 171

Chapter 171

There’s a note tucked between the stems. I don’t read it, but I catch the signature.

Aaron Cobalt.

I blink. Well… that’s new.

I definitely didn’t see that coming.

With a long sigh, I gather up the overpriced candles, the food, the flowers, the lingering scent of my regret, and swipe my key card to let myself in.

“Tessa!” I call out, kicking the door shut behind me with more force than necessary. The bags drop onto the counter with a satisfying thud. “What the hell even is your problem?!”

The apartment smells like vanilla. Sweet and suffocating. I don’t need to guess – she’s lit up every candle she had left.

It only makes me angrier.

I shrug off my coat, tossing it over a chair as I stomp through the hallway. My voice climbs with every step. “Do you know I just got a full lecture from your delivery guy? Apparently A. Cobalt has been sending you food and flowers every day for weeks, and your response is radio silence!”

I reach her office door and pause. It’s closed. Of course it is.

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I throw my hands up. “He said you told him to start throwing them out. Do you have any idea how dramatic that sounds? It’s like the plot of a soap opera, and you’re the emotionally constipated lead!”

Still no answer.

“I bought your stupid candles. I ignored my gut and pretended I didn’t notice that half your grocery list reads like a breakdown. But this?” I jab a thumb toward the door like she can see me. “This is not healthy!”

I take a breath.

No answer.

I take a breath, try to reel it back in. My voice had gotten sharper than I meant, and now that I’ve let it all out, I feel a little… wrung out.

I turn to leave, already half–regretting the outburst -bwhen something catches my eye.

A tray.

The breakfast I made her this morning.

Still sitting there. Still untouched.

My jaw tightens. That fuse I thought I’d burned out? Yeah. It sparks right back to life.

I storm over to her office door, half–prepared to drag her out by the ear

– only to realise it’s unlocked.

And empty

I freeze in the doorway.

She’s not here.

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I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or bang my head against a wall.

This morning, all I wanted was for her to leave this damn office. And now that she has? I want to throttle her for it.

Mentally. Obviously.

Sort of.

I back away and head for her bedroom, not even bothering to knock. I push the door open – and immediately regret it.

It’s a mess. Like, hurricane–hit–a–thrift–store kind of mess.

My mouth parts in disbelief. Tessa might not be a neat freak, but this? This is not her.

—

There’s always been method to her madness – something she calls “controlled chaos.” Clothes draped on a chair but never on the floor, makeup scattered but colour–coded, sticky notes in three different languages. It was a system, in its own weird way. She always knew exactly where her things were.

But now?

Now it looks like she lost control. Or stopped caring.

My heart sinks a little. The frustration lingers, but it’s shifting. Morphing into something quieter. Guiltier.

I shouldn’t be this mad at her.

Not when everything about this room screams someone unraveling.

With a heavy sigh, I start picking things up. Empty coffee mugs. A shirt I’m 95% sure she stole from me. Crumpled receipts. Papers, some of them with scribbles, some completely blank. I start folding blankets,

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stacking books, sorting makeup brushes.

–

It’s only as I clean that I realise how long it’s been since I’ve actually seen her — not just physically, but truly seen her. She’s been a ghost in her own life. And I’ve been too busy being annoyed to really notice.

Eventually, the chaos starts to shrink. The floor reappears. Her bed looks less like a battlefield and more like somewhere a person might actually sleep.

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