Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 177

Chapter 177

She’s outside my door, in full designer gear and a tight ponytail, snapping orders at two grown men who look terrified,

“No, no, no! That vase is vintage Murano – if you break it, I will break you. Do you have any idea how rare that colour pattern is? No? Then carry it like it’s your grandmother.”

One of the movers fumbles with a throw pillow and she hisses, “That silk is imported. If you smudge it, I’m billing you personally.”

I blink. Then blink again.

“What in the Real Housewives of Moscow is going on?”

The woman turns slowly at the sound of my voice, eyes sweeping over me like I’m something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “Are you Tessa Orlov?”

“Yeah?” I snap. “Who the hell are you and what is going on?” I gesture wildly at the chaos unfolding in front of my apartment.

One of the movers reaches for my standing lamp – the one piece of furniture I actually like and I lunge like it’s a hostage situation. “Put that down! Don’t touch it! That’s mine!” I whirl on the clipboard girl, completely losing patience. “Why are there a million boxes in front of my door? Who are these people?! What the hell is all this?!”

The woman doesn’t flinch. She just steps up like she deals with panicked celebrities and toddlers for a living. “I’m Amanda. Ms. Vanderbilt’s personal assistant. She’s instructed us to begin renovations immediately-

“Renovations?!” I practically shrick. “You can’t renovate someone else‘ s apartment! This is my home! You can’t just show up and start-” I nearly tear her clipboard in half. “I swear to God, if anyone so much as scratches my coffee table-”

“I’d calm down if I were you,” Amanda says, still maddeningly

unbothered. “Ms. Vanderbilt was very specific about the timeline. This is just phase one.”

I’m halfway through composing the kind of profanity–laced threat that would make a sailor blush when a voice behind me cuts through the noise – syrupy sweet, slow, dangerous.

“Actually…”

I freeze.

That voice. I don’t even need to turn around. My entire body recognises danger like it’s instinct.

I turn.

And there she is.

Diana Vanderbilt.

Dark brown skin, smooth and glowing like it’s been kissed by wealth itself. Light brown eyes, amused and ice–cold. Her hair is slicked back like she’s about to walk a runway, not commit a personal crime. And that smile – all pearls and poison – makes my skin prickle.

“I bought the building fast night,” she says lightly, like we’re discussing the weather. “So technically… this is my apartment now.”

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