Chapter 12 Chapter 12
Noah's POV
I hated formal events with a passion. The suits felt like costumes. The donors felt like judges. The smiles were all practiced, rehearsed, and polished until they stopped meaning anything. It was a performance and I have spent most of my life performing already.
The tux jacket pulled slightly across my shoulders as I leaned against the ballroom wall, watching the crowd swirl under the chandeliers. Light reflected off the crystal glasses and polished marble floors. Laughter echoed across the room in the controlled way people laughed when money was present. They were Donors, Alumni and University executives. People who decided whether someone like me got another chance. Normally I would already be halfway through a drink and counting the minutes until I could leave, but tonight there was a new problem... Emily.
She was standing across the ballroom talking to a pair of older donors, and I swore she was the calmest person in the entire room, which made no sense. because this was her first time doing something like this too, and yet she looked like she belonged here.
The dress she chose wasn't pink, which was surprising on its own, but it fit her in a way that made people turn their heads without quite understanding why. It’s elegant and sophisticated. She looked like someone who could dismantle you in a debate and still smile politely afterwards.
One of the donors laughed at something she said, and Emily nodded gently, tilting her head slightly as she listened. That was when I start noticing things.... the little things. The way she guided the conversations without anyone realizing it. The way she subtly redirected topics when someone asked about me. The way she somehow made a seventy-year-old donor feel like the most interesting person in the room. She was managing this entire situation like it was a complex surgery. And somehow... She was managing me too.
“Smile,” she murmured under her breath as she walked back towards me.
“I am smiling.”
“You’re smirking.”
“Close enough.”
She sighed quietly and nudged my elbow. “Shoulders back.”
“Yes, coach.”
She shot me a look before she turned back to greet another donor like nothing happened. I watched her for a moment longer. Emily wasn't just surviving this event, she was controlling it. And I couldn't decide if that was impressive or terrifying.
The thing about Emily was that she was tense but not visibly where people would notice anything, but I did. Every time I touched her, even slightly, her muscles would react like she had been startled. When I placed my hand on her waist earlier for the photo, her entire body went rigid for half a second before she forced herself to relax. It wasn’t disgust or fear. She didn't pretend easily and most certainly didn't lie easily either, which was funny because I have been performing for years.
The rebellious athlete, reckless star, headline disaster and the list went on. Sometimes I think the world created that version of me before I even understood what it meant. But Emily ws painfully genuine, which made this whole fake relationship thing harder for her than it was for me, and I could tell.
Dinner was where things almost fall apart. But we were saved. She was better at talking and she answered the questions with sharp precision, never too much information nor too little. But one tiny slip up and Coach Bennett intervened... Well, saved us.
The longer the evening went on, the more curious I got about Emily. Not her work but her. Why was she so driven? Why did she hate public attention so much? Why did she relax the moment cameras moved away?
I started noticing these things. The way she pushed her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way her posture straightened whenever someone important approached. The way she fiercely defended professionalism even when she was exhausted. She cared deeply, and people who cared that much usually had a reason.
At one point I left the table to check on some younger athletes invited to the gala. One of them being Jason, who had a shoulder surgery earlier this season. I knelt down beside him. “How’s the rehab going?” I asked.
“Slow,” he replied.
“Yeah. Shoulders are stubborn.”
We talked about recovery for a few minutes. I showed him a stabilization exercise Emily had me practice earlier. He listened carefully. Across the room I noticed Emily was watching us. Her expression was strange like she was curios, like she saw something she didn’t expect, but I looked away first.
The gala ended late. The night air outside was cool as we walked across the parking lot towards my car. For a while neither of us spoke. Our footsteps echoed softly against the pavement.
Emily exhaled breaking the silence between us. “Well, that could have gone worse.”
I glanced at her. “You kicked me under the table four times.”
“Five.” She corrected.
“I’m bruised.”
“You deserved it.”
I opened the car door for her. She paused as if in thought before she looked at me. “You didn’t have to stay the entire time,” she said quietly.
“It’s part of the job.” She looked beautiful as the lamp casted the perfect glow over her.
“No. You could have walked away.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to leave you alone with the yacht collectors.”
That made her laugh softly which made me smile. She climbed into the car. As I walked around to the driver’s side, I glanced back at the ballroom and then at Emily. She was staring out the window in thought, part of me wanted to know what was going on in that head of hers. For the first time since this whole arrangement started... I realized something. I was not just thinking about saving my career anymore. I was wondering who Emily Taylor really was, and why the hell I so suddenly wanted to find out. Everything inside me was screaming to know more about her, like something that continues to pique my curiosity. Maybe, I should just keep a distance but I never felt this way before for any woman.