The public believed Cade Harrington was falling in love with me while I was still learning how to stand beside him without wanting to run.
The sponsor dinner took place in a private ballroom inside a hotel that smelled of polished wood, expensive perfume and money pretending to be generosity. Outside the entrance, photographers crowded behind velvet ropes while security held them back with calm faces and locked shoulders. Inside, men in tailored suits laughed with athletes whose watches cost more than my first car. Executives stood beneath gold chandeliers and spoke about resilience, legacy and second chances as though those words had not been printed by marketing departments that morning.
Everywhere I looked, Cade and I were already a story.
Our photograph stood on a digital screen nea
