Page 29 of Faking the Rules

"I have to go," I whisper, turning blindly toward the exit.

"Ellie, wait!" Declan calls after me, but I'm already pushing through the crowd, desperate for air, for space, for escape from the humiliation burning through me.

Outside, the night air hits my lungs in a rush, cold and clarifying. I gulp it down, wrapping my arms around myself as I stride away from the hockey house, away from the whispers and stares, away from the revelation that I was never his first choice—just the available option when his preferred candidate declined.

Footsteps pound behind me, and then Declan is there, catching my arm, turning me to face him. "Ellie, please," he begs, his expression raw with emotion. "Let me explain."

"Explain what?" I demand, anger pushing through the hurt. "That you asked your ex-girlfriend to fake-date you before you settled for me? That I was just convenient when she said no?"

"It wasn't like that," he insists, his hands reaching for mine. I pull away, needing distance to think clearly. "Yes, I approached Kaitlyn first. But that was before—before I knew you, before everything changed."

"Nothing's changed," I say bitterly. "This was always an arrangement, always a performance. The only difference is now I know I wasn't even your first choice for the role."

"You were the only choice that mattered," he says, his voice dropping to that rough register that usually makes my knees weak. Now it just feeds the anger burning in my chest. "Kaitlyn was a mistake—I was desperate, not thinking clearly. Themoment I really saw you, really talked to you... Ellie, there's been no one else since."

I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But the evidence of my own experience screams caution—James's promises of fidelity, my mother's assurances of love, all proven false when tested.

"I need space," I say finally, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Time to think."

"Don't do this," he pleads, a vulnerability in his expression I've never seen before. "Don't let Kaitlyn win. Don't let her ruin what's real between us."

"Is it real?" I challenge, the question that's been haunting me since our first kiss. "Or just another performance that got too convincing?"

The hurt that flashes across his face makes something twist in my chest, but I hold firm. I need answers, need truth, need to understand what's happening between us before I fall any deeper into this quicksand of emotion.

"You know the answer to that," he says quietly. "Last night wasn't fake. This morning wasn't fake. The way I look at you, touch you, want you—none of that is fake, Ellie."

His words stir something molten in my core, memories of his hands on my skin, his lips against mine. But doubt persists, a persistent shadow over the brightness of what might be growing between us.

"I need to go," I say again, taking another step back. "Please, Declan. Just... give me time."

For a moment, I think he might refuse, might pursue this confrontation to its bitter end right here on the street. But then his shoulders slump slightly, resignation replacing the desperate intensity in his eyes.

"Okay," he concedes. "Time. But Ellie, don't shut me out completely. Please."

The vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. "I won't," I promise softly. "I just need to think."

He nods, accepting this small concession. "Let me walk you back to your dorm at least. It's late, and after everything with Kaitlyn..."

"I'll be fine," I assure him, though the thought of walking across campus alone after the emotional turmoil of the evening is less than appealing. But I need the solitude, need space to process the chaotic swirl of emotions threatening to drown me.

"Text me when you get there?" he asks, his concern touching even through the hurt.

"I will," I agree.

He takes a step toward me, hesitates, then says, "For what it's worth, I never meant to hurt you. And I've never regretted anything less than asking you to be part of this arrangement, whatever it started as."

The sincerity in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes—they chip away at the wall of anger and betrayal I'm trying to maintain. Before I can respond, he turns and walks back toward the hockey house, his shoulders set in a rigid line that speaks of restraint, of respect for my boundaries even at cost to himself.

I watch until he disappears inside, then turn and begin the long walk back to my dorm, tears finally falling freely in the darkness, where no one can witness my weakness.

He asked me first. He asked me first. He asked me first.

The words repeat in my head like a toxic mantra, feeding the insecurity that's haunted me since childhood—that I'm not enough, not worthy, not the one people choose when given options.

But beneath the hurt, another voice whispers insistently: He chose you anyway. He's choosing you still, even when it's hard, even when it's messy. Even when he could walk away without consequence.

By the time I reach my dorm, exhaustion has settled into my bones, emotional and physical. I text Declan as promised—a simpleHome safethat feels inadequate but is all I can manage. His response comes instantly:Sleep well. I'm here when you're ready to talk.

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