I Swear I Still Hate Him (Atlas Lawson) novel Chapter 171

Chapter 171

Emery’s POV

Dick… big…

85%1

5 vouchers

I was sprawled across my bed like I’d been dropped there by a tornado, hair everywhere, blanket twisted around my legs, one arm wrapped around my pillow like it had personally promised to protect me from humiliation.

“Dick… big…” I mumbled into the pillow, still halfway asleep.

Then I let out a tiny, sleepy laugh.

“Your dick’s big…” I muttered again, voice muffled. “Big? …Big?!”

My eyes flew open.

And I nearly rolled straight off the bed.

I caught myself at the last second, clutching the pillow to my chest, heart pounding like I’d just woken up in a horror movie.

Oh my God.

Yesterday.

The closet.

The fall.

Atlas.

His face.

My mouth.

My stupid, reckless, deeply embarrassing mouth.

Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it.

I sat up so fast the sheets slid into my lap, then whipped my head around the room like Atlas might still be in here, sitting in the corner and calmly replaying the entire disaster in his head for entertainment.

He wasn’t.

Thank God.

I let out a breath and pressed a hand to my forehead.

“What have I done?” I whispered.

Then I grabbed my pillow and screamed into it. A full, soul-cleasing, dignity-free scream. Because seriously, how was 1 supposed to recover from telling a man, to his face, that his dick was big while he was holding me because I might have a mild concussion?

How do

you come back from that?

You don’t.

1/3

W

O

14:02 Wed, Mar 11 = M

Chapter 171

You fake your death. That’s what you do.

ས 3 85%

5 vouchers

After a much-needed shower, one that was supposed to wash away the embarrassment but absolutely did not, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection like she was responsible for my suffering. I’d done the whole routine. Nude lipstick. Mascara. A little makeup. Not too much, just enough to make it look like I had my life together and definitely wasn’t spiraling internally.

I did not have my life together.

But visually?

Very convincing.

My hair was pulled up in a half-up style, with two soft strands framing my face. Cute. Casual. Harmless. The exact kind of look that said I’m fine when I was, in fact, the opposite of fine.

And the outfit?

A short black off-shoulder dress with oversized sleeves, fitted through the waist, flaring just enough to be dramatic in the right way. Knee-high black boots that made my legs look great and gave me the kind of false confidence only a good pair of boots can.

I turned slightly in the mirror, checking the whole look.

Okay.

I looked cute.

I hoped Atlas would think I looked cute…

No.

No, I did not. That was not what this was. I was dressing for myself. For my own confidence. For my own peace. Not for a certain hockey player with stupidly broad shoulders and criminally unfair features. I picked up my sunglasses and slid them on like armor. Then I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and stared myself down in the mirror.

“Get it together,” I told my reflection. “You’re a grown woman. Anot one. An embarrassed one, yes, but still grown.”

With that deeply motivating speech, I marched out of my room like a soldier heading to war.

The mission was simple: get out of the penthouse, avoid Atlas, survive the day, and maybe never speak again. And honestly? For one beautiful, delusional second, I thought I might actually pull it off. Then Atlas stepped out of the kitchen.

Of course he did. Because apparently peace clearly wasn’t in the cards for me.

He came into the hallway holding a mug of coffee, dressed in black sweatpants and a fitted white T-shirt that hugged his chest and stretched over his biceps in a way that felt deeply disrespectful to my healing process,

My body froze.

My stupid eyes dropped before I could stop them.

Straight down.

Thankfully, the sunglasses hid the crime.

“Morning,” he said with a small smile, like he hadn’t ruined my nervous system in the last twenty-four hours. He lifted the mug slightly. “Want some coffee?”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify