Chapter 17
Sofia
Paris in the spring is supposed to be a cliché of romance. Accordion music, couples kissing by the Seine, blooming cherry blossoms framing the Eiffel Tower.
From the window of my office on the Champs-élysées, Paris looked gray. It looked like a postcard that had been left out in the rain—saturated, blurry, and cold.
"Mademoiselle Thorne?"
I turned away from the window. My assistant, a terrifyingly chic French woman named Elodie, stood in the doorway holding a tablet.
"The proofs for the Fall Campaign are ready," she said. "And your father is on line one. He wants to discuss the quarterly projections."
"Tell him I'm in a meeting," I said automatically.
"He knows you are not in a meeting," Elodie said gently. "He tracks your calendar."
Of course he did.
"Fine," I sighed. "Put him through."
I walked to my desk—a sleek, modern slab of glass that felt like an ice rink—and picked up the phone.
"Hello, Daddy."
"Sofia," his voice was crisp, satisfied. "I saw the preliminary numbers for the European launch. Impressive. You're up 15% year over year."
"I know," I said, staring at a stack of fabric swatches I didn't care about. "I wrote the report."
"You sound tired," he observed. "Are you getting enough rest? The gala is tonight. You need to look fresh."
"I'm fine," I said. The lie tasted like bile. I hadn't been "fine" in three months. "Just busy."
"Good. Busy is good. It keeps the mind sharp."
He paused. I knew what was coming.
"Have you... heard anything?" he asked. He didn't say the name, but it hung in the air between us like a ghost.
"No," I said. "And I don't expect to. He's gone, Daddy. You won."
"It wasn't about winning, Sofia," he said smoothly. "It was about protecting you. And look at you now. running the division. Accepted to Chicago. You have the world at your feet."
"I have a spreadsheet at my feet," I corrected. "I have to go. Elodie is waiting."
I hung up before he could respond.
I slumped into my chair, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars exploded behind my eyelids.
You have the world at your feet.
It felt more like the world was on my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs.
It had been ninety days.
Ninety days since Liam walked out of the penthouse. Ninety days since I threw a vase at his head. Ninety days since he told me he never loved me.
I tried to hate him. I really did. I spent the first month in Paris fueled by a rage so hot it kept me warm at night. I worked eighteen-hour days. I reorganized the entire supply chain. I fired incompetent managers. I became the ruthless, efficient Thorne Heiress my father always wanted.
But the rage burned out. And what was left was worse.
It was a hollow, aching silence.
I missed him.
I missed his voice. I missed his hands. I missed the way he smelled like motor oil and soap. I missed the way he called me "Princess" with that mocking tilt of his lips that made my knees weak.
I checked my phone. I opened Instagram.
I searched for the hashtag #UtahGrizzlies.
I did it every day. It was my secret shame.
I scrolled past the game recaps and the promotional photos until I found it.
A post from a fan account. A blurry photo of the Grizzlies bench.
There he was.
He was wearing the backup jersey. Number 30. He was sitting at the end of the bench, watching the game. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
He looked thinner. His jaw was sharper. He wasn't smiling.
He looked... haunted.
"Liam," I whispered to the screen, tracing his face with my thumb. "Why did you do it? Why did you lie?"
Because I knew he lied. Deep down, in the part of my brain that wasn't screaming in pain, I knew. The man who held me in that garage, who cried in the hospital, who let me touch his scars—he didn't use me.
He saved me. Or he thought he did.
But he was wrong. He didn't save me. He just left me alone in a glass tower.
"Mademoiselle?" Elodie cleared her throat.
I snapped the phone off.
"The gala," I said, standing up and smoothing my skirt. "Right. Let's go put on a show."
The Thorne Athletics European Gala was the event of the season. The ballroom of the Hotel Crillon was dripping in gold and crystal. Waiters circulated with champagne. Models, athletes, and investors mingled in a cloud of expensive perfume.
I was wearing a dress that cost more than a car. It was emerald green velvet, backless, with a slit up the thigh. It was armor.
I circulated. I smiled. I shook hands.
"Enchanté."
"Merci."
"Yes, the Q3 numbers are promising."
I was a robot. A beautiful, high-performing robot.
"Sofia! There you are!"
I turned. It was Pierre, the son of a major French investor. He was handsome in a slick, European way. He had been trying to get me to dinner for weeks.
"Pierre," I smiled. "Enjoying the champagne?"
"I am enjoying the view," he said, looking me up and down. "You look stunning, chérie. But sad. Always the sad eyes."
"I'm tired," I said, repeating my mantra.
"Come to St. Tropez this weekend," Pierre offered, stepping closer. "My family has a boat. Sun. Sea. No spreadsheets. It will cure the sadness."
He reached out and touched my arm. His hand was warm. Soft. Manicured.
I flinched.
A memory flashed—visceral and overwhelming. Liam’s rough, calloused hand on my skin. The grease under his fingernails. The geometric tattoo on his forearm.
"Don't," I whispered, pulling my arm back.
Pierre looked confused. "Pardon?"
"I can't," I said. "I can't go to St. Tropez. And I can't... do this."
"Sofia, it is just a weekend," Pierre laughed nervously.
"It's not just a weekend," I said, my voice rising. People were starting to look. "It's my life. And I hate it."
I realized it as I said it.
I hated this. The gala. The champagne. The polite conversation. The endless pursuit of "more."
I looked around the room. It was filled with beautiful, wealthy people. And I felt absolutely, completely alone.
My phone buzzed in my clutch.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again.
I frowned. It was late in the States. Who would be calling me repeatedly?
I pulled the phone out.
Mia (Roommate): Pick up. Now.
Mia (Roommate): Sofia. Answer the damn phone.
Mia (Roommate): It’s Liam.
The world stopped. The music faded. The chatter turned to white noise.
I stumbled backward, hitting a waiter. Champagne glasses shattered on the floor.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, ignoring the mess.
I ran.
I ran out of the ballroom, down the gilded hallway, into the ladies' room. I locked myself in a stall.
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.
I called Mia.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Is he dead?" I choked out. "Mia, tell me. Is he dead?"
"No," Mia said quickly. "No, Sof. Breathe. He's not dead."
I slid down the wall, collapsing onto the tile floor in my couture gown. "Then what? What happened?"
"He's playing," Mia said.
"What?"
"The Grizzlies starter got hurt in warmups," Mia said. "Liam is in. Right now. It's the playoffs, Sofia. Game 7 of the first round. It's streaming on ESPN+. You need to watch this."
"Why?" I asked, confused. "Why do I need to watch him play hockey in Utah?"
"Because," Mia said, her voice soft. "Because he's not wearing the Grizzlies mask."
"What mask is he wearing?"
"Just watch," Mia said. "I sent you the link."
I hung up. I clicked the link.
The stream loaded. The quality was grainy, but clear enough.
The Grizzlies were in white. The other team—the Idaho Steelheads—were in black.
The camera focused on the Grizzlies' net.
There he was. Liam Vanner.
He looked massive in the net. He moved with a fluidity I hadn't seen since before the injury. He looked strong.
But then, the camera zoomed in on his mask.
Goalie masks are usually painted with team logos, mascots, aggressive designs.
Liam’s mask was simple. It was matte black.
But on the side, painted in delicate, white script, was a design.
It wasn't a logo.
It was a mountain range. The same geometric peaks from his tattoo.
And nestled in the valley of the mountains... was a single, stylized rose.
A rose.
Sofia.
I gasped, pressing my hand to my mouth.
He had painted my name on his mask. Not literally, but symbolically. The rose in the mountains. The flower in the stone.
"You idiot," I sobbed. "You sentimental, lying idiot."
I watched.
He was incredible.
He was moving laterally—fast, explosive movements that defied the surgery he had three months ago. He was stopping everything. Glove saves. Pad saves.
He was playing like a man possessed. Like a man who had nothing left to lose but the game itself.
The announcer was screaming. "Vanner again! Unbelievable! The backup netminder is putting on a clinic tonight! Where did this kid come from?"
The game went to overtime. Of course it did.
My battery was at 12%. I didn't care.
Overtime started.
The Steelheads dumped the puck in. They were swarming.
A shot from the point. Liam kicked it out.
The rebound came right to a Steelheads forward. He had an open net.
Liam didn't just slide. He dove.
He threw his body across the crease, his stick extended—the "Desperation Save."
Thwack.
The puck hit the shaft of his stick and deflected wide.
The buzzer sounded.
The Grizzlies counter-attacked. A breakaway. They scored.
Game over. Grizzlies win.
The team swarmed Liam. They piled on top of him.
But he didn't celebrate. He pushed them off gently.
He stood up. He took off his mask.
The camera zoomed in on his face.
He was sweating, panting. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He had a cut on his cheek.
He looked straight into the camera.
He didn't know I was watching. He couldn't know. I was in Paris. I was gone.
But he looked right at the lens.
And he mouthed two words.
For you.
I dropped the phone.
The screen cracked against the tile floor.
I stared at the spiderweb fracture.
For you.
He hadn't let go. He hadn't moved on. He was fighting. He was fighting for his life, for his dream, and he was doing it for me.
And here I was, drinking champagne in a velvet dress, pretending to be happy.
The lie crumbled. The "Noble Sacrifice" dissolved.
I realized with a blinding clarity that I had made a mistake. A massive, catastrophic mistake.
I had let my father win. I had let fear dictate my life.
I stood up. I wiped the tears from my face. I looked in the mirror.
The sad eyes were gone. Replaced by something else.
Fire.
I picked up my cracked phone.
I dialed Elodie.
"Mademoiselle?" Elodie sounded surprised. "Are you okay? Pierre said you ran out."
"Elodie," I said. "Book a flight."
"To where? St. Tropez?"
"No," I said. "Salt Lake City, Utah."
"Utah?" Elodie repeated, as if I had said 'Mars'. "When?"
"Tonight," I said. "Now. Get me the corporate jet. Tell the pilot to fuel up."
"But... the gala? Your father?"
"Screw the gala," I said. "And screw my father. I quit, Elodie. Send the resignation letter in the morning."
"You... quit?"
"I quit," I said, a smile spreading across my face. A real smile. "I have to go see a man about a rose."
I hung up.
I kicked off my heels. I left them in the bathroom stall.
I walked out of the bathroom barefoot, carrying my shoes. I walked through the ballroom, past the shocked guests, past Pierre, past the life I was supposed to want.
I walked out of the hotel into the Paris rain.
It was cold. It was wet.
It felt like freedom.
Liam
The locker room in West Valley City was a far cry from the Blackwood Ice Box. It smelled worse—like stale beer and old popcorn—and the showers were always lukewarm.
But tonight, it felt like a palace.
"Vanner! You beauty!" The captain, a grizzled veteran named Davis, slapped me on the back. "Drinks are on you, kid! That save was robbery!"
I smiled tiredly. "Thanks, Cap. But I'm skipping the bar. Need to ice the knee."
"Suit yourself," Davis laughed. "More for us."
I sat in my stall, slowly unbuckling my pads. My knee was throbbing a dull, steady rhythm. It held. It held for sixty-five minutes of war.
I looked at my mask sitting on the bench next to me.
The rose.
I touched the painted petals.
I wondered if she was happy. I wondered if she was in Paris, eating croissants and wearing silk. I hoped she was.
I hoped she never saw this game. I hoped she never saw how much I still hurt.
I pulled my phone out of my bag. I had a new number. A new life.
One message. From an unknown number. International code.
My heart stopped.
I opened it.
It was a photo.
A cracked screen showing a freeze-frame of me on the ice, mask off, looking at the camera.
And below it, a text.
Unknown: I saw. I'm coming. Don't move.
I stared at the phone. My hands started to shake.
I'm coming.
I stood up, ignoring the pain in my legs.
"Vanner? You okay?" the equipment manager asked. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"No," I said, grabbing my bag. "Not a ghost. An angel."
I ran out of the locker room. I didn't limp. I ran.
She was coming.
And this time, I wasn't going to let her go. Not for Marcus Thorne. Not for a contract. Not for anything.
If she was coming to Utah, she was staying. Even if I had to lock the doors.
I walked out into the cool desert night, looked up at the stars, and for the first time in three months, I breathed.