Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 148

EMILIA

The doors swing open and I stop dead.

At first, I think Liam's dragged me into a museum. The ceilings are high, light spilling in through a skylight. Everything gleams—glass, stone, polished floors. But it's not the building that steals the air from my lungs.

It's what's inside.

Sculptures.

Everywhere.

Some stand tall and smooth, carved from pale marble. Others twist in dark bronze, caught mid-motion like they're about to move again. A few are glass—fragile and glowing—throwing tiny rainbows across the floor when the light hits them.

I stop walking. My breath catches. The room is so quiet it almost hums, like even the air's afraid to disturb the art. My footsteps echo when I move, and for a second, I feel like I'm walking through someone else's memory.

When I glance back, Liam's still by the door—jaw tight, shoulders drawn. He's not looking at the sculptures.

He's looking at me.

I walk back to him. "Liam. What are we doing here?"

He shifts, shoving his hands into his pockets like he doesn't know what else to do with them. For a man who usually radiates smug confidence, he suddenly looks almost boyish. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw set, and he keeps sneaking glances at me like he's trying to read my face but too scared to ask what I think.

"This is..." My voice comes out small, breathless. I have to clear my throat before I can finish. "Liam. This is a gallery."

"I'm aware."

"It looks like it costs a fortune just to—" I gesture helplessly at a bronze horse rearing mid-stride, every vein and muscle carved so sharply it looks alive. "—exist in here."

He almost smiles, but it's nervous, twitching at the edges. "Pretty sure they're not charging us rent."

"Yet," I mutter, turning in a slow circle. The light, the glass, the sheer beauty of the space—it hums, alive with every sculpture.

And then I notice the plaques. Small, neat plates at the base of each piece. Each one etched with the same name.

My stomach drops.

I spin back to him, heart pounding. "You didn't."

He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling like the air's been stuck in his chest for hours. Then his eyes meet mine—steady, anxious.

"I did."

For a second, everything inside me stutters. My hands are shaking. My heart's racing like it's trying to catch up to something I can't yet name. Tears blur my vision before I even realise I'm crying. The feeling—shock, affection, disbelief—hits all at once, too big to swallow.

From the way his brow creases, I think he can see it all written on my face. "Em...?"

I can't help it. I reach out, tracing the letters on the plaque with trembling fingers.

Luther C. Vanderbilt.

A wet laugh escapes me. Then another. I laugh so hard I cry, and then I'm crying so hard I can't breathe.

By the time my knees give out, Liam's there—catching me before I hit the floor. He kneels with me instead, his arms wrapping around me, steady and warm. He presses soft kisses to my damp cheeks, murmuring, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," over and over like an apology could fix something this impossible.

Every piece—the bronze horse, the twisted iron hands, the marble figure half-formed like it's still fighting to exist—they're all his.

Of course they are. I should've known the sculpted man I barely glanced at was Adrian. Of course it felt like walking through a memory. It was Lu's.

My throat burns. "How—how did you—"

The words crumble before I can finish.

Liam kisses the last of my tears away. When he speaks, his voice is quiet—like he's afraid that if he's too loud, the moment might shatter.

"I found out who bought them after your father sold the collection," he says. "Took a while. Some were in private homes, some in storage. A few were rusting in a warehouse in Busan."

"He sold them?" I press a hand to my mouth. There's salt on my tongue. "You found them?"

"I got them back," he says simply. "And I wanted you to see them the way you always imagined he would."

I look around again, vision swimming. The sunlight pouring through the skylights paints the sculptures in gold—every line, every curve alive again. For a second, I swear I can almost hear Luther's laugh echo through the room. Like he never left.

I rest my head on Liam's shoulder. He rubs slow, soothing circles on my back.

"Liam," I whisper, shaking my head. "You can't just—this is—"

"I can." His voice breaks, just a little. "You told me once you were supposed to build him a gallery. You didn't get to. So I did."

Something inside me cracks wide open.

All the guilt, the years of running, the grief I thought I'd buried—it all surges up at once, raw and impossible to contain. I look up at him, tears spilling freely now.

"I don't deserve this."

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my temple, and when he speaks, his voice is a whisper that sounds a lot like a promise.

"Em," he murmurs, "you deserve everything."

That's all it takes for me to fall apart again. I clutch his shirt in both hands and cry, and he just holds me—no rush, no words—kissing the top of my head every now and then, tangling his fingers in my hair, and then kissing me again. Over and over. Soft, patient. Until I'm too kissed to keep crying, and all that's left are a few shaky sniffles.

"How do I even thank you for this?" I mumble against his chest.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

"This is the best gift I've ever gotten," I say, pulling back just enough to see his face. "I know I say that every time, but it's true."

He smiles, brushing a tear from my cheek. "It must be, since you haven't complained once. But your gift's only half done."

That wakes me up a little. "There's more?"

"Of course there is, love." His arms tighten around me. "I love you, Emilia. More than I can ever show you. More than I thought I could ever love anyone. You make me want to do things I've never done before—just to see you smile. I want you to have everything you've ever dreamed of. And maybe," his voice drops, almost shy, "I want you all to myself too."

I sniffle, laughing weakly. "I love you too. Is this a proposal?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh, thank God. I'd have a heart attack if you proposed right now. I'm not a cute crier."

He laughs—really laughs—and helps me to my feet. I wobble, and he steadies me instantly, his hand never leaving mine.

"You're a pretty everything, actually," he says easily.

My face warms. "You're ridiculous."

He leads me toward one of the statues, and I spot a brown envelope resting beside it. He gestures for me to take it. I wipe my tears quickly, drying my hands on my shirt before I open it—but the second I pull the papers out, my eyes fill again anyway.

"Liam..." My voice breaks. "This place..."

"It's all yours, love," he says quietly. "It's in your name. You can make it whatever you want—a private space for you and Luther's memories, or a full gallery like you always dreamed. Whatever makes you happiest."

I look up at him, heart in my throat. He just smiles that soft, gentle smile that undoes me every single time.

"I just want you happy, Em," he says. "That's all I've ever wanted."