Chapter 35 Chapter 35

Chapter 35 Chapter 35
Reid's POV

The North Star Academy was thriving, but success in Chicago always attracted two things: money and vultures.

It started with a gala. The 'Skate for Grace' charity event was supposed to be our formal introduction to the city’s elite—a night to secure the scholarships that kept our doors open for kids who couldn’t afford custom steel. I hated every second of it. I felt like a circus bear in my tuxedo, standing in the marble lobby of the Peninsula Hotel while socialites poked at my retirement like it was a fascinating specimen under a microscope.

"You look like you’re ready to body-check the ice sculpture," Iris whispered, her hand sliding into the crook of my elbow. She looked breathtaking in a floor-length emerald silk dress, her hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her neck.

"I’d prefer the ice sculpture. It’s less cold than the conversation in this room," I grumbled, taking a champagne flute from a passing waiter just to have something to hold.

"Just one more hour, Reid. Then we can go home, order pizza, and forget we own suits."

But the hour didn't end. It shifted.

The crowd parted as a woman in a dress the color of a fresh bruise—deep, shimmering violet—sauntered toward us. She wasn't just beautiful; she was polished to a lethal shine. Her hair was a shock of platinum blonde, and her eyes were a piercing, feline green that seemed to catalog every weakness in the room.

"Reid Carter," she purred, her voice like expensive velvet. "I was beginning to think you’d turned into a complete hermit in that warehouse of yours."

I felt Iris stiffen beside me. I recognized her instantly, though I wished I didn't.

Sloane Van Doren.

She was the daughter of the Van Doren sports dynasty—the family that owned three NHL teams and half the broadcasting rights in the Midwest. Years ago, before the contract, before the "Ice Queen," Sloane and I had been the darlings of the sports tabloids. It wasn't love; it was a branding exercise that ended when I realized she viewed people as assets to be traded.

"Sloane," I said, my voice flat. "I didn't know you were back from London."

"London was tedious," she said, her gaze sliding over Iris with a dismissive, clinical boredom. "Too much rain, not enough ambition. I heard you were playing 'teacher' to the masses. I must say, the martyr look suits you, Reid. It adds a certain... rugged desperation."

"It’s not a look, Sloane. It’s a life," I said. "This is my fiancée, Iris Harper."

Sloane offered a hand, her manicured nails glinting like talons. "Ah, the famous Iris. The girl who broke the Butcher. Tell me, darling, is it true what they say? Is the 'Ice Queen' actually made of glass, or was that just clever PR for the trial?"

Iris took her hand, her grip steady. "I’m made of whatever it takes to keep standing, Miss Van Doren. I’m sure you understand the concept of resilience."

Sloane’s smile didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, I adore resilience. It’s so... gritty. But Reid, we really must talk. My father is looking to acquire the land your Academy sits on for a new luxury development. It would be a shame if your little project lost its lease before the first winter, wouldn't it?"

The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. "The lease is ironclad, Sloane."

"Leases have loopholes, darling. Especially when the city council is on your payroll." She stepped closer, the scent of her perfume—something heavy and suffocating like lilies—filling my space. She leaned in, her lips inches from my ear. "Come to my suite tomorrow at noon. We can discuss a 'buyout' that would make you and your little skater very, very wealthy. Or... we can discuss how quickly I can make that warehouse disappear."

She pulled back, her eyes dancing with a predatory light. She didn't look at Iris. She looked at me as if I were a trophy she’d misplaced and finally found again.

"Don't be late, Reid. I hate waiting."

She vanished into the crowd, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and chaos in her wake.

The drive home was silent. The city lights blurred past the windows of the SUV, a chaotic neon smudge against the dark. When we finally reached the apartment, Iris didn't even take off her heels before she turned to me.

"You can't go, Reid."

"Iris, she’s threatening the Academy. If the Van Dorens want that land, they’ll bury us in legal fees before we can even file a response."

"It’s a trap," Iris said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "Did you see the way she looked at you? She doesn't want the land, Reid. She wants to prove that she can still pull your strings. She wants to break what we’ve built because she can't stand that you chose something real over her world."

"I know what she is," I said, reaching for her hands. "But I have to protect the school. I have to protect your dream."

"My dream is us, Reid! Not a building!"

I stayed up late that night, staring at the ceiling. I thought about the Volkov trial, the "Ice and Fire" contract, and the way we’d fought for every inch of our freedom. Now, a new shadow was falling over us—one that didn't use haptic shocks or physical violence, but the slow, agonizing poison of influence and old ghosts.

The next day at noon, I stood outside the penthouse of the Van Doren Tower. The elevator doors opened directly into a living room that looked more like a museum than a home. Sloane was sitting on a white leather sofa, wearing a silk robe that left very little to the imagination. She was holding two glasses of amber liquid.

"You’re early," she said, patting the seat beside her. "I always liked that about you, Reid. You were always so eager to play."

"I’m here for the paperwork, Sloane. Show me the buyout proposal."

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that chilled me to the bone. She stood up, walking toward me with a predatory grace. She didn't reach for a folder. She reached for the collar of my shirt, her fingers brushing against my skin.

"The paperwork is boring, Reid. Let's talk about the truth. You're bored in that warehouse. You're a lion in a birdcage. You miss the lights, the fame, the adrenaline. You miss us."

"There was never an 'us', Sloane. There was a press release."

"Was there?" she whispered, her hand moving to the back of my neck, pulling me down toward her. "Then why is your heart racing? Why did you come here alone, without telling your little skater exactly what I promised you?"

She leaned in, her lips pressing against the corner of my mouth. "I can give you back the NHL, Reid. I can make the Academy the premier training facility for the Van Doren Sports Group. I can make you a king again. All you have to do is remember who you belong to."

I felt the familiar surge of a body-check reflex. I grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands away from me. "I belong to the woman who stayed by my side when I was nothing. And you? You're just a ghost in a violet dress."

Sloane’s face transformed. The seduction vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating malice. She stepped back, smoothing her robe.

"Fine," she spat. "If you want to play the hero, Reid, prepare to be a martyr. By Monday, the demolition permits for your precious warehouse will be approved. And I'll make sure Iris knows exactly how much time you spent in my penthouse today."

I walked out of the suite without looking back, but as the elevator plummeted toward the lobby, I realized the chaos had only just begun. Sloane wasn't just an antagonist; she was a wrecking ball. And I had just given her the coordinates to our heart.