Fake Dating The Hockey King

Evelyn Hart's POV My dad used to say that funerals show you who people really are. He was full of s**t. Funerals just show you who is the best at faking it. I stood right between my parents’ two mahogany coffins, watching a parade of expensive coats and fake sad faces drift by. They looked like bad actors. Some held flowers. Some held fake sympathy. But most were just there to stare at the car crash that was my life. I could practically hear their brains working, calculating how much money the company would lose and betting on whether I’d break. Not a single one of these vultures actually cared that my parents were dead. Rhett Lawson put his hand on my waist. Warm and possessive. He’s the university hockey captain—the kind of prick who thinks a nice suit and a smirk makes him a man. He leaned down, dropping his voice into that fake, comforting tone he uses when he wants to look like the perfect boyfriend. "You okay?" "Ask me again when the audience leaves," I snapped. His jaw tightened. Just a flash of annoyance, but he hid it the second he noticed the photographers watching us. That was when I spotted him: Damien Vale. He was standing near the edge of the cemetery, tall, dark, and looking like a statue made of pure spite. He’d vanished two years ago after a massive scandal. Now he was back, using my parents’ funeral as a stage to announce his return. And of course, he’d brought his new little toy: Vivienne Sinclair. Seeing them together made my blood boil. Vivienne is an influencer who treats her entire life like a brand. Damien knew exactly what he was doing by bringing her. He wasn't sad. He was building a story. He wanted the press, the whispers, the attention—he was using my family's tragedy to clean up his own dirty name. "Evelyn," a voice purred. I almost lost it. Vivienne was already right in front of me, her black designer clothes practically screaming for attention. She wrapped her arms around me, letting out fake sighs. "I'm just devastated," she whispered. I stared over her shoulder, my skin crawling. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with excitement. "There are so many rumors, Evelyn," she whispered. "They’re saying the company is going under. And now you're totally alone." I laughed. It was a sharp, loud sound that cut through the quiet cemetery. "I’m just amazed at how happy you look while talking about a tragedy." Vivienne's smile slipped, her nose flaring. But she leaned in even closer, getting right in my face. "You know, people only tolerate you because of your last name, Evelyn." "Then today must be your lucky day," I shot back. By now, I was shaking with rage. I couldn't be here. Not with everyone watching, not with the cameras clicking, and not with the smell of Vivienne's perfume choking me. I pushed past her, desperate for air, and ran toward the crappy little bathroom near the cemetery gates. I locked the door and leaned over the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the smell of the funeral and the image of Damien and Vivienne playing their sick games. I closed my eyes and breathed in the damp, gross air. *Just close your eyes, Evelyn. Just for a second. Turn off the noise. Just give me one second of peace,* I told myself, letting the darkness take over. I don't know how long I stayed like that. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? I had no idea. But a voice suddenly ripped me out of it. "Evelyn!" It wasn't a call; it was a screech. My eyes snapped open, but my brain felt like it was swimming through thick, black mud. My body ached all over, like I’d just been trampled by a crowd. Blinking through the fog, I looked down at the sink—no, at my hands. They didn't look like mine. They were dark. Wet. Covered in blood. What the hell?! The sight hit me like a punch to the gut, snapping me right back to reality. Or so I thought. The bathroom area was suddenly a mess. People were shouting, pushing, completely panicking. My heart hammered against my ribs, but the confusion was suffocating. I didn't know how I’d gotten outside. I didn't know why everyone was screaming, and I didn't know why my hands were covered in blood. Then I saw them. A group of men were carrying a blonde girl away—Vivienne. Her coat was soaked in bright red. My head spun with a sickening mix of adrenaline and total blankness. "Rhett?" I choked out, my voice barely working as I spotted him standing back, his face frozen in horror. "Rhett, what happened? I don't—I don't know why I'm covered in this, I don't know—" "Why did you do it?" he shrieked, backing away so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. "Why the hell did you stab her?" "What? Stab her? Rhett, I don't remember! I was just in the bathroom, I don't know—" "You're a sick, psycho freak!" Rhett yelled, his voice echoing across the cemetery. He shoved me away, hard. I stumbled backward, my boots sliding in the mud. "You stabbed her! Everyone saw you, you crazy b***h!" "No!" I screamed. The word ripped out of my chest. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't even wipe the blood off. "Rhett, look at me! I don't know how I got out here! You have to believe me!" "Believe you?" He let out a cold, empty laugh that made me want to curl up and die. He wasn't even looking at me. He was already looking around the crowd, checking for cameras, making sure everyone saw that he was on the "good" side. "I want nothing to do with you. You’re a murderer, Evelyn. Don't you dare come near me." "Rhett, please—" "Save it for the cops," he spat, his voice full of pure disgust. As the sound of sirens started wailing in the distance, he turned his back on me. I stood there shivering in the mud, watching the guy I’d been sleeping with treat me like a virus. He wasn't going to help. He wasn't going to ask if I was okay. He was already burying me, and the worst part was, he looked relieved to do it.