I Made Him Famous, He Made Me His Secret

Harper's POV

The day I died in a foreign country, my boyfriend was in the spotlight with another woman.

He's the man I built from nothing. Five years ago, I saved a broke orphan fresh out of college from the gutter. He said he wanted to be famous, wanted to make it to the top of the hockey world. In exchange, he became my boyfriend for five years.

I gave him the best coaching staff money could buy. Bought an entire hockey franchise and made him the centerpiece. Called in every favor I had to make him MVP.

But while he enjoyed everything I gave him, he refused to make our relationship public. Said it would "hurt his brand." He could make headlines with reporters and models, but nobody could know I existed.

He even said on national TV: "Those owners who just throw money around are pretty boring. Hockey is about skill, not money."

So why did he lose his mind when he found out I was dead?

When my private doctor tells me I have three to six months left, something close to relief washes over me.

It's a hereditary disease. No cure. The same thing that killed my mother. I always knew this day would come. Just didn't expect it so soon.

"Just prescribe some painkillers." I stand and adjust my bag. "And keep this confidential. Don't tell anyone. Especially not him."

My driver waits outside the clinic. The second I slide into the car, my phone buzzes. Urgent messages from my PR manager.

"Miss Ashford, we can't keep this down anymore. Chase and that reporter have been trending for two hours straight. They definitely bought bots. He hasn't said a word to clear it up. Want us to keep trying to bury it?"

I open the attached video.

On the ice, he wears his captain's jersey, arm around her waist as they glide together. She smiles like she's won the lottery, body pressed against his. When the camera zooms in, his expression makes my stomach turn. That tender smile, the one that could melt glaciers.

I haven't seen him look at me like that in years.

The comments explode with opinions. Some say they're perfect together. Others call him a player. His fans scramble to defend him, insisting it's just a normal interview.

I close the video. Type back: "Leave it. Let him do what he wants."

Then I call him. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail, every single one.

The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Miss Ashford, Chase is probably just caught up in all the excitement. He's still young, you know. Those reporters won't leave him alone. I'm sure deep down he still cares about you."

"He's twenty-eight." I lean back and close my eyes. "Not eighteen. Stop picking him up from now on. He can figure out his own way home."

The driver hesitates, but says nothing.

By the time I get home, he finally calls back.

"Sorry, sorry, just saw your missed calls." Background noise drowns out his voice. Cheering, laughing. "We won another game today. The team's celebrating. I'll be back late, don't wait up."

I don't respond.

A few seconds of silence. "Harper?"

"Yeah." I stare at the darkening sky outside. "Got it. Come home soon."

After I hang up, I sit on the couch and wait. Hours pass.

One in the morning. The front door finally opens.

He walks in already complaining. "Harper, why'd you tell the driver not to pick me up? What did I do wrong now? Do you know how hard it is to get a ride this late?"

He moves toward me like he's going to pull me into his usual hug. I push him away.

"Go take a shower first."

He pauses, sniffs himself, shrugs, and heads to the bathroom.

When he comes out, he's only wearing a towel around his waist. Bare chest, water still dripping down his shoulders. His body looks incredible. Defined muscles, broad shoulders. Five years of brutal training turned him into the perfect athlete.

I remember when I first met him. Skinny as a rail. Now he's the league's hottest MVP.

He walks over and wraps his arms around me, kisses my cheek. His damp hair brushes against my neck.

"Don't be mad." He rests his chin on my shoulder, voice dropping into that coaxing tone. "I know I messed up. I swear it won't happen again."

Five years. Every time there's a scandal, he does this. Gets all touchy and apologetic to soften me up. I've seen him at his lowest, walked him through his darkest days. So every single time, I forgive him.

But not this time.

I push him back and pick up the clothes he just took off.

"This perfume smell. And this lipstick stain. How are you going to explain that?"

He glances at it, laughs it off like it's nothing.

"It was just a party. You know how it gets. All those fans, someone probably grabbed me when I wasn't looking." He pulls me close again, murmurs in my ear. "You jealous? That's on me. I'll be more careful next time."

His arms tighten, trying to draw me back in like always.

I sigh. "We need to talk."

He catches the seriousness in my tone. Lets go and looks at me.

"What do you want to talk about?"

I meet his eyes. Five years ago, they were clear and grateful, full of sunlight. Now there's nothing but obligation and impatience.

"I've been thinking." I smile slightly. "What if we tell everyone about us? Think of it as my gift."