Chapter 64: Another One Opens

Anna's POV

I sit in the car longer than I need to. The rink looms ahead of me, all glass and steel and memories, its lights glowing against the darkening sky. Marcus isn’t here yet. He texted that he’d meet me out front.

I need to talk, he’d said.

Those words have been echoing in my head since. I turn off the engine and take a steadying breath. Whatever this is, we’ll face it together. That’s what we’ve always done. I open the car door. The sound of footsteps stops me.

Not Marcus’s. I know his gait too well—the careful rhythm now, the slight hesitation. These steps are slower. Heavier. Deliberate.

I look up.

Richard McKay steps out from between two parked cars, the overhead light catching the sharp lines of his face. He’s dressed immaculately, coat tailored, posture rigid, like he’s walked straight out of a boardroom instead of a carpark.

My heart jumps, then steadies. Of course.

“Anna,” he says, as if we’re old acquaintances. “We need to talk.”

I straighten, closing the car door behind me. “I’m on my way to meet Marcus.”

“Yes,” he replies calmly. “Of course you are.”

That sends a chill through me.

He gestures slightly, as if indicating the empty space between us. “This won’t take long.”

“I don’t think there’s anything we need to discuss,” I say, keeping my voice level.

A faint smile touches his lips. “On the contrary. There’s quite a lot.”

He steps closer, stopping just far enough away to feel intentional. Intimidation by proximity. A tactic I recognize now.

“My sons have found their voices lately,” he continues. “I’ll give you credit for that.”

I don’t respond.

“But make no mistake,” he says smoothly, “I am still their father. And I still have a say in how their lives move forward.”

My hands curl at my sides.

“Marcus’s injury,” he goes on, as if discussing a quarterly report, “is a setback. Nothing more. I’ve already spoken to the right people. The best surgeons. The best rehabilitation specialists.”

I think of Marcus sitting in the rink, staring at the ice like it might disappear if he looked away too long.

“He’ll be back on the ice in no time,” Richard continues. “Stronger. Focused. Playing where he belongs.”

I lift my chin. “Where he belongs is his decision.”

His eyes flicker, annoyance breaking through the polish.

“He’ll be playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs,” Richard says firmly. “As planned.”

As planned. Not as he wants. Not as he chooses.

He leans in slightly. “What I’m asking of you is simple, Anna. Make life easier for my children.”

The word asking is generous.

“Step away,” he says. “You complicate things. You create chaos—choices, distractions, unnecessary conflict.”

I feel something settle inside me. Not fear. Resolve.

“Marcus’s life isn’t chaotic because of me,” I say quietly. “It’s complicated because people keep trying to decide it for him.”

His jaw tightens. “You encourage rebellion.”

“I encourage honesty.”

“You pull them away from their future.”

“No,” I reply steadily. “I stand beside them while they build one.”

For a moment, his mask slips.

“You’re young,” he says sharply. “You don’t understand the cost of what you’re doing.”

“I understand perfectly,” I shoot back. “You’re afraid of losing control.”

He straightens, eyes cold. “I’m afraid of losing my family.”

I almost laugh.

“You’re not losing them,” I say. “You’re pushing them away.”

The sound of footsteps echoes behind me—fast, purposeful.

“Might want to rethink that conversation, Dad.”

Damian’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. I turn.

Damian and Peter are walking toward us, expressions dark, shoulders squared. Damian’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping. Peter’s usual easy grin is gone, replaced by something sharp and furious. Relief floods me—followed closely by anger on their behalf.

“What are you doing here?” Damian demands, stopping beside me.

Richard’s expression hardens. “I came to speak with Anna.”

Peter lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. Because it looks a lot like you came to scare her.”

Richard’s eyes flick to me. “I’m having a private conversation.”

Damian steps forward, placing himself half a step in front of me without even thinking about it. Protective. Instinctive.

“There’s nothing private about ambushing her in a parking lot,” he says. “Especially when Marcus is inside waiting for her.”

Richard exhales sharply. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns us,” Peter snaps. “Every time you try to control our lives, it concerns us.”

Silence hangs heavy.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Damian continues, his voice low but steady. “Not because you disagree with us—but because you came here, of all places, to pressure Anna. To make her feel like she’s the problem.”

Richard’s gaze flicks between his sons. “You’re letting emotions cloud your judgment.”

“No,” Damian says firmly. “We’re finally seeing clearly.”

Peter folds his arms. “You want to know what’s chaotic? Watching you blame Anna every time something doesn’t go your way.”

Richard’s lips thin. “You don’t understand the stakes.”

“We do,” Damian replies. “We just don’t accept them.”

Richard turns to me again. “You see what you’re doing? Dividing them from their family.”

I step forward before Damian can stop me.

“I am not dividing anyone,” I say, meeting Richard’s eyes head-on. “They’re choosing to stand up for themselves. That scares you.”

“You think you’re helping Marcus,” Richard says coldly. “But you’re setting him up for disappointment.”

“No,” I say. “I’m helping him survive.”

That lands.

Damian nods once. “Marcus’s injury isn’t something you get to weaponize.”

Peter adds, “And if you think scaring Anna out of our lives will magically fix everything, you’re delusional.”

Richard looks at his sons—really looks at them—and something flickers there. Shock. Maybe even fear.

“You’d choose her over me?” he asks quietly.

Damian doesn’t hesitate. “I’d choose what’s right.”

Peter’s voice softens, but it’s no less firm. “We want you in our lives, Dad. But not like this. Not if it means tearing down the people we love.”

The air feels charged, electric.

Richard straightens, pride reasserting itself. “You’re making a mistake.”

Damian steps back, gesturing toward the rink. “Marcus is inside. He needs support. Real support.”

Peter adds, “You can either be part of that—or you can keep doing this and lose us entirely.”

For a long moment, no one moves. Then Richard steps back.

“This isn’t over,” he says stiffly.

Damian meets his gaze. “No. It isn’t. But this conversation is.”

Richard turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing sharply across the concrete.

I exhale shakily. Peter looks at me, concern softening his expression. “You okay?”

I nod, though my heart is still racing. “Thank you.”

Damian gives me a small, genuine smile. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone.”

I glance toward the rink doors, my chest tightening. “Marcus is waiting.”

Damian nods. “ He called us too. We’ve got your back, Anna. Always.”

As I walk toward the entrance, the warmth of the rink spilling out to meet me, I hold onto that truth.

Whatever Marcus needs to tell me tonight—whatever crossroads we’re standing at—I know one thing for certain:

I am not the chaos in his life.

I am the constant.

And I’m not going anywhere.