Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 40

Who’s real? Who’s not? Emilia Janice Carter, the poor bakery owner, or Emily Margaux Vanderbilt, the estranged daughter of billionaire couple Genevieve and Andrew Vanderbilt?

The headline loops in my mind, over and over, like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.

My stomach twists violently, and I hunch over the toilet, retching.

Liam is right beside me, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back, the other holding my hair away from my face. His touch is steady and reassuring, but I can hear the worry in his voice.

“Breathe, love. Just breathe.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t breathe.

Because it’s out now.

The truth.

The secret I’ve spent years protecting.

Exposed for the whole world to see.

Liam helps me up and I stand in front of the mirror, leaning onto the sink for support. I open the tap, rinse my mouth and face. My movements are automated and I can vaguely feel Liam let go of me.

Then I hear the sound of the toilet flush.

My chest tightens.

The air feels too thick, too heavy, like I’m drowning in it instead of breathing it in.

I clutch the edge of the sink, but my hands are shaking so badly I can’t hold on. My vision tunnels, black spots creeping at the edges. The headline — those awful, damning words — keeps flashing in my mind, looping, taunting.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t—

A sob rips from my throat, the sound is raw and broken and takes me off guard.

Liam’s hands are on me in an instant, warm and steady. One presses against my back, the other cups my cheek, tilting my face toward him.

“Em,” his voice is soft, but firm. “Look at me.”

I try. God, I try. But my body won’t listen. My breaths come in quick, shallow gasps, my chest rising and falling too fast, too hard.

“Breathe with me,” Liam says, his forehead pressing gently against mine. His breath is slow, steady. “In for four. Out for four. Just follow me, love.”

I shake my head. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

His thumb strokes my cheek, grounding me. His other hand slides down my arm, finding my fingers and squeezing tight.

I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

And maybe he is.

Slowly, painfully, I match my breathing to his. In for four. Out for four. Over and over until my heart isn’t trying to break free from my ribs, until my lungs don’t feel like they’re collapsing.

Until I can finally meet his eyes.

He gives me a small, reassuring smile. “There you are.”

I swallow hard, my throat burning. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” His fingers brush against my jaw, light and comforting. “I’m right here, Em. No one’s going to touch you. No one’s going to hurt you.”

But the damage is already done.

And I have no idea how to fix it.

We stand there in silence, the only sound between us the soft rhythm of our breathing. Liam doesn’t rush me. He just stays — steady, patient — like he’s anchoring me in place.

After a while, his voice breaks the quiet. “Is your stomach still upset?”

I shake my head.

“Do you feel like throwing up?”

I hesitate before shaking my head again, embarrassment heating my cheeks.

Liam studies me, his gaze gentle but unreadable. Then, as if making up his mind, he exhales. “Alright. Go sit down for a bit. I need to step out, but I’ll be back soon.”

His voice is so soft, so careful, that something in my chest tightens.

I nod, and Liam guides me toward the bed like I might break if he’s too rough. His fingers linger on my arm for a moment, warm and steady, before he finally lets go.

And then he’s gone.

The room instantly feels colder.

I left my past behind because it hurt too much to face. I wasn’t just some hockey player’s fiancée playing house. I’m not just a bakery owner who works herself to exhaustion every day.

No.

I’m an heiress — a girl who ran away when things got too real. A girl who couldn’t face what she had done. A girl who deserved the hatred her family gave her.

My throat tightens. I force myself to move, to do something. I brush my teeth, scrub my face with cold water, but when I glance at my reflection, a hollow laugh slips out. It’s like I’ve undone months of work in just a few hours.

By the time I crawl back into bed, exhaustion presses down on me. I pull my knees to my chest, curling into myself as I try — really try — not to spiral again.

Then the door opens.

Liam steps inside, a white plastic bag dangling from his fingers. His eyes flick over me, scanning my face, searching for something. Whatever he sees makes his shoulders relax, his lips curve into a small, relieved smile.

He came back.

The thought is ridiculous. Of course he came back. Where else would he go? But still... something inside me eases.

He sits down beside me and tugs on my shirt, pulling me closer until I can see the bag’s contents. “Do you want it? Or do you not?” he asks slowly.

As awful as I feel, I can’t help but smile.

“Thank you, Liam.” I don’t think I say it properly, but he just pats my head.

“You never have to thank me for anything, love.”

Inside the bag is a pack of strawberries with melted chocolate.

Something cracks inside me. It’s such a small thing, but right now, it feels impossibly big.

I take them from him, my fingers shaking as I rip open the container. The moment the sweetness of the strawberries hits my tongue, the bitterness in my chest starts to fade.

Liam just sits there, watching me. Not saying a word.

When I finish, my hands are a mess of chocolate, and I’m about to excuse myself to wash up when Liam suddenly shakes his head.

And then — before I can react — he reaches over and brushes his thumb against my cheek.

Liam doesn’t push. Doesn’t prod. Doesn’t demand details.

He just nods. “Okay.”

I blink. That’s it?

I turn to look at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. "You’re not going to question me? Ask why I’m faking my entire identity? Why I’m stupid enough to run away from a billion-dollar inheritance?"

Liam just raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “You said you’re not her, so you’re not. Simple.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“You’re who you think you are. Who you want to be. Who you accept. Nothing more, nothing less.”

My breath catches.

“Don’t let anyone define you or tell you how to define yourself, love.” His voice is calm but firm, like he’s telling me a fact, not just trying to make me feel better. “I told you this yesterday. Remember?”

And I do.

His words from before echo in my head, wrapping around me like a lifeline.

"You’re who you are. Nothing else. Nothing more. Whatever anyone thinks? That’s their problem. Only the truth matters."

I swallow hard, something thick and unsteady settling in my chest.

He believes me. No hesitation. No conditions. No ‘if that’s what you want me to think.’

Just trust.

Liam sees me. The version of myself I’m still struggling to accept. The version I’m scared to claim.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m running.

“Okay.”

Liam leans back, completely unbothered. “Besides, trusting everything on social media is stupid. They think I’m this emotionless playboy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”

He pauses, tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Then, with a small shrug, he says, “It’s fifty-fifty. I make sure the girls I’m involved with know I don’t want anything serious. Sometimes they think they can change my mind, so I guess I’m at fault too.”

His honesty is disarming. There’s no cocky smirk or teasing grin, just a simple truth.

Something about that makes my stomach twist.

“Did Jessica think that too?”

The second her name leaves my lips, his expression shifts. It’s brief — just a flicker of something unreadable — but I catch it.

Then he exhales, a slow, bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Jess is different. She doesn’t count.”

That green, ugly thing in my chest tightens. Different? How different?

I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t.

But I do.

I want to ask. I want to dig, to pull the answer out of him, to figure out why the mention of her name dims something in his eyes.

But before I can, a knock at the door shatters the moment.