Page 64 of Misconducts & Temptation

Attached was a picture of Keaton and me at the courthouse, exchanging rings. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at the screen, my eyes wide with shock.

"Ms. Winters," the professor's voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. "Or should I say Mrs. Douglas?"

The class erupted in oohs and laughter; the noise swelling around me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"I understand congratulations are in order," the professor continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But it would behoove you to pay attention considering this information will be on the final. Save the bedroom chat for the bedroom."

I wanted to sink into my seat and disappear. The weight of everyone's stares pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe. I forced myself to look up at the professor, trying to focus on his lecture despite the mortification coursing through me.

Every glance from my classmates felt like a dagger, each whispered comment like a punch to the gut. I clutched my pen tightly, my knuckles turning white as I tried to drown out their voices.

This was supposed to be a fresh start for me—a chance to escape my past and build something new. Now, it felt like everything was unraveling around me.

As the lecture continued, I scribbled notes mechanically, not really absorbing any of it. My mind kept drifting back to that text message and the picture that had turned my world upside down.

I knew I had to face Keaton later and deal with whatever fallout came next, but right now all I wanted was to get through this class without breaking down.

The clock ticked slowly forward, each second feeling like an eternity. All I could do was keep my head down and hope that somehow, I'd find a way through this mess.

Class was finally dismissed, and I quickly gathered my things, desperate to escape the whispers and judgmental glances. But as I stood up, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation behind me.

"I can't believe he chose to marry her over Lola Perez," one girl said, her voice dripping with disdain. "She's not even that pretty, especially not compared to Lola."

"She has to be easy," another voice chimed in. "I mean, if I got even a taste of that Douglas fortune, I'd be on my knees too."

My cheeks burned with humiliation and anger. I clenched my teeth together, forcing myself to stay calm. Without a word, I slung my bag over my shoulder and left the classroom.

The halls were a blur as I made my way to Pandora's Box. The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped inside, a welcome relief from the heat of embarrassment that still lingered on my skin.

I headed straight for the women's locker room, avoiding eye contact with anyone I passed. Once inside, I changed into my work uniform—a simple polo and slacks—hoping the routine would help steady my nerves. I slid off my rings and tucked them safely in my bag. The last thing I wanted was to damage them while I worked.

The familiar scent of the locker room—a mix of sweat and cleaning products—was oddly comforting. I began my usual tasks: folding towels, checking lockers, making sure everything was in order. The repetitive motions allowed me to clear my mind, if only for a moment.

As I worked, the sting of those cruel words still echoed in my head. But there was no time for self-pity; there was always work to be done. I folded towels and checked lockers, but I couldn’t shake the gnawing doubt in my mind. Had I made the right choice by marrying Keaton? The scrutiny, the whispers, the cruel words—had I really thought I could escape all that? I should have known better. Crestwood Academy was a breeding ground for gossip and judgment. Why wouldn't they latch onto the news of my sudden marriage to Keaton Douglas?

I finished my tasks, my mind a tangled mess of regret and uncertainty. Stepping out of the locker room, I paused as a familiar sound reached my ears—the rhythmic thwack of a hockey puck hitting the boards.

I turned toward the ice rink and caught a glimpse of Keaton. He was out there by himself, taking shots at the goal with an intensity that bordered on ferocious. Each movement was precise, controlled—an outlet for his pent-up frustration.

I found myself rooted to the spot, watching him. His sharp features were set in concentration, his tousled blond hair damp with sweat under his sleek black helmet. The way he moved on the ice was mesmerizing, each stride powerful and purposeful.

That's my husband, I realized with a jolt.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Despite everything—the pressure from his father, the arranged marriage to Lola, our own whirlwind union—there was something undeniably captivating about him.

Keaton's final shot hit the back of the net with a satisfying thud, and he skated to a stop, breathing heavily. He leaned on his stick for a moment before looking up and meeting my gaze through the glass.

For a split second, neither of us moved. Then he straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his glove.

I hesitated before stepping closer to the edge of the rink, unsure of what to say or do. But as Keaton continued to watch me with those eyes, something in his expression softened.

Without breaking eye contact, he skated toward me and stopped just in front of where I stood.

“Like what you see, babes?” he asked with a smirk.

Before I could respond, another figure glided onto the ice. Damien Sinclaire, with his silver-blond hair and stormy blue eyes, skated over with an air of casual confidence.

"Is this the new missus?" Damien asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

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