By admin Fake Dating My Ex’s Favourite Hockey Player Novel CH 113
EMILIA
“No.”
It slips out before I can stop it. Loud. Sure. Final.
Even Tessa startles a little, shoulders tensing.
She’s been facing the wall this whole time, like the sight of me is too much, but now she turns. Her face is flat, unreadable.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
She blinks slowly. “You’re going to what, veto my life now?”
“I’m not letting you run. You’re not quitting the job you’ve wanted since we were nineteen. You’re not going back to Russia to be your parents‘ obedient little puppet.”
“Oh, now you care about my dreams?” she snaps. “That’s funny, Emilia.”
“I do care,” I push. “I just… I should’ve said something sooner. I lied about Diana. I know that. And I’m guessing she told you everything
about the fan in the bathroom-”
“She did.” Her voice is cold. “She filled in the blanks you never bothered to.”
I flinch. I deserve it.
“I should’ve told you all of it,” I say, quieter now.
Tessa tilts her head. “But?”
“No but. I fucked up. I own that.”
I inhale, trying to hold myself steady. “But you’re not going anywhere. I don’t care how grown or independent you think you are — not letting you burn everything down and disappear.”
She scoffs. “And what, you get to tell me what to do now?”
I’m
“You quit your job and then what? Sit here and fall apart in silence? You go to Russia and let your family crush you all over again? Marry Dimitri and lose yourself completely? You think that’s a plan?”
She looks away, jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough. I know this isn’t you. And I know Lyle never deserved even a sliver of you.”
“God, Emilia-”
“No, I’m serious,” I snap. “You didn’t tell me about him, and I’m not blaming you for that if you had, I would’ve gone full Greek tragedy on him. I would’ve set his car on fire.”
–
even though I really fucking want to
– but
That almost gets a smile out of her. Almost.
I step closer. “And I know someone better is out there. Someone who already sees you, loves you, would do anything to be with you.”
Her brows twitch. The room suddenly feels too quiet.
Her eyes narrow like she’s testing me, waiting for the recoil. When it doesn’t come, she lets out a bitter little laugh and nods toward the crumpled kit on her desk.
“I couldn’t even use the test,” she says. “I just… couldn’t. So I went to the hospital instead. But you already know that, don’t you? Since you were digging through my things.”
I ignore the jab. “I never saw the results.”
1/4
3:40 PM P P
Chapter 113
Her expression flickers – surprise, maybe even guilt but I hold steady.
“And that’s still okay,” I say, quiet but certain.
–
Tessa shakes her head slowly, like she doesn’t believe me. Like she wants to believe me but doesn’t know how.
“You keep saying that,” she whispers. “Like it’s that simple.”
“It’s not simple,” I say. “It’s just true.”
She laughs harsh and disbelieving. “Do you really think I want a baby? I can barely keep myself alive some days.”
“Then don’t have it,” I say, calm and steady. “We’ll figure it out together. No shame, no pressure. Just… whatever you need.”
She goes still. Just for a second. Like something softens in her, only to harden again just as fast.
“Oh, come on,” she mutters. “I’m not your emotional charity case.”
“You’re not.” I look at her, really look. “You’re my best friend. The one who held my hand when I had no one. You don’t get to walk away just because things got messy.”
Her arms drop. Her posture deflates.
“I want to walk away,” she whispers. “Every part of me wants to disappear.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “But if you go, I follow. You want to vanish? Fine. I’ll pack my bags too. Sell the bakery, ruin my chase you across Moscow.”
A small laugh escapes her, involuntary. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m loyal,” I correct. “And stubborn. You made the mistake of loving me, Tessa. That means you’re stuck with me.”
She finally sits down on her bed, heavy like her body is made of bricks. Her hands twist in her lap.
“You really hurt me,” she says. Not accusing. Just honest.
“I know,” I whisper. “And I’ll keep showing up until you don’t flinch when you see me.”
She wipes at one eye quickly, like she thinks I don’t see. “I don’t know if I can forgive you yet.”
“You don’t have to. Not tonight.”
I crouch in front of her, gentle. “But here’s what you are going to do. You’re going to put on real clothes, come downstairs, and let me
your entire office cook you something carb–loaded enough to knock the rage right out of you. Then tomorrow, you’re going to remind who the hell Tessa Orloy is. And when you’re done being mad at me, we’ll sit on the couch and talk shit about hockey players until we forget what day it is.”
A long pause. “And when you’re ready, we can talk about the baby, too.”
Then finally, with a tearful snort, she mutters, “If you burn the pasta, I’m actually moving to Russia.
I grin. “Then I’ll make you five servings. Just to be safe.”
TESSA
I do end up dragging my sorry ass back into the office,
–
Not because I wanted to – I could’ve spent another day rotting in bed, thank you very much but Emilia basically shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth, handed me a blazer, and threatened to start rearranging my books by colour if I didn’t leave the house.
So here I am. Alive, fed, and mildly resentful.
I don’t even pretend I’m staying for overtime. That used to be my thing drowning myself in work until the ache in my chest dulled. But I’ve been thinking lately, and apparently trauma coping mechanisms aren’t actual self–care. Who knew?
Russia taught me that working hard was safer than staying home and becoming an emotional punching bag. Now I’m trying something
2/4
3:40 PM P P
Chapter 113
new: boundaries. Gross.
By the time I clock out, I’m already fantasising about my bed and pretending the world doesn’t exist. Instead, I’m walking home and doom–scrolling through a site that sells pastel onesies and breast pumps shaped cartoon whales.
It’s hell.
No matter how many Parenting 101 videos I watch or how many forums I lurk on, I feel absolutely nothing. No glow. No maternal warmth. Just cold, tight dread in my stomach and a constant chant in my head: I don’t want this.
And then there’s Lyle – whose name alone makes me want to burn every man alive. The baby would tie me to him forever. But then again, it’s not like I’d tell him. I wouldn’t hand that man a shoelace, much less a child.
Lately, though, Lyle hasn’t even taken up space in my brain. All my thoughts have been circling Theo.
Why hasn’t he replied?
Should I text again?
Is he okay?
I’m still typing and deleting messages when I glance up and stop cold.
“What the hell…”
There are cardboard boxes. Everywhere. Piled high in front of my apartment. Men are walking in and out of my place like it’s Grand Central Station, carrying trays, potted plants, and what looks like a literal golden lamp.
For a second I think maybe Emilia’s finally lost her mind and decided to remodel as revenge, but then I see her – clipboard girl.
She’s outside my door, in full designer gear and a tight ponytail, snapping orders at two grown men who look terrified.
“No, no, no! That vase is vintage Murano – if you break it, I will break you. Do you have any idea how rare that colour pattern is? No? Then carry it like it’s your grandmother.”
One of the movers fumbles with a throw pillow and she hisses, “That silk is imported. If you smudge it, I’m billing you personally.”
I blink. Then blink again.
“What in the Real Housewives of Moscow is going on?”
The woman turns slowly at the sound of my voice, eyes sweeping over me like I’m something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “Are you Tessa Orlov?”
“Yeah?” I snap. “Who the hell are you and what is going on?” I gesture wildly at the chaos unfolding in front of my apartment.
One of the movers reaches for my standing lamp – the one piece of furniture I actually like and I lunge like it’s a hostage situation. “Put that down! Don’t touch it! That’s mine!” I whirl on the clipboard girl, completely losing patience, “Why are there a million boxes in front of my door? Who are these people?! What the hell is all this?!”
The woman doesn’t flinch. She just steps up like she deals with panicked celebrities and toddlers for a living. “I’m Amanda. Ms. Vanderbilt’s personal assistant. She’s instructed us to begin renovations immediately-”
“Renovations?!” I practically shriek. “You can’t renovate someone else’s apartment! This is my home! You can’t just show up and start—” I nearly tear her clipboard in half. “I swear to God, if anyone so much as scratches my coffee table-”
“I’d calm down if I were you,” Amanda says, still maddeningly unbothered. “Ms. Vanderbilt was very specific about the timeline. This is just phase one.”
I’m halfway through composing the kind of profanity–laced threat that would make a sailor blush when a voice behind me cuts through the noise syrupy sweet, slow, dangerous.
–
“Actually…”
I freeze.
That voice. I don’t even need to turn around. My entire body recognises danger like it’s instinct.
3/4
3:40 PM P
Chapter 113
I turn.
And there she is.
Diana Vanderbilt.
Dark brown skin, smooth and glowing like it’s been kissed by wealth itself. Light brown eyes, amused and ice–cold. Her hair is slicked back like she’s about to walk a runway, not commit a personal crime. And that smile all pearls and poison – makes my skin prickle.
–
“I bought the building last night,” she says lightly, like we’re discussing the weather. “So technically… this is my apartment now.”
She tilts her head. “Taisiya – oh, sorry, Tessa.” Her voice lilts on my name like it’s a joke I’m not in on. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. You’re even prettier than you looked on my phone screen.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
Then: “What the actual hell?”
4/4