Chapter 14
Elijah
There is a specific kind of arrogance that comes with being in love.
It’s not the loud, chest-thumping arrogance of scoring a hat trick.
It’s quieter. It’s the belief that because you feel invincible, you are invincible.
It’s the delusion that the laws of physics and consequence no longer apply to you because you have found the one person who makes the world stop spinning.
I was drowning in that arrogance.
It was Tuesday. Practice had gone well—surprisingly well, considering my hand was still wrapped like a mummy’s. Coach Miller had even cracked a smile during drills. My draft projection had ticked up from "Questionable" to "Late First Round" on the insider blogs.
And Angela... Angela was thriving.
I stood by the glass boards of the campus rink, watching the Figure Skating Club’s afternoon session. Usually, the hockey team ignored the figure skaters. We considered them prima donnas who chewed up our ice.
But today, I wasn't watching the club. I was watching her.
Angela was in the center of the rink. She wasn't a skater—she was a dancer who had learned to skate three weeks ago. But her balance was supernatural. She moved with a fluidity that made the other girls look clunky.
She was wearing black leggings and a tight thermal top, her breath puffing in white clouds in the cold air. She attempted a spin—wobbly, imperfect, but brave. She laughed when she fell out of it, her sound echoing off the rafters.
I leaned against the glass, unable to look away.
"You’re doing it again," a voice said beside me.
It was Jax. He was leaning on his stick, chewing on his mouthguard.
"Doing what?" I didn't take my eyes off her.
" Looking at her like you want to mount her right here on the zamboni."
"Shut up, Jax."
"I’m serious, man. It’s getting obvious. The rookies are taking bets on when you’re going to propose."
I finally looked at him. "Propose? We’ve been... whatever this is... for a month."
"In Vance Time, that’s like a decade," Jax quipped. "Usually you ghost a girl after three dates because she chews too loudly or wears the wrong perfume."
I looked back at the ice. Angela waved at me. I lifted my good hand in a subtle salute.
"She’s different," I said simply.
"Clearly. But you’re getting sloppy, Cap. You left your car in the loading zone all night again. Security is starting to ask questions about who has the spare key."
"Let them ask."
"And Miller saw you two at the coffee shop yesterday. Holding hands."
"We’re allowed to hold hands. It’s a free country."
Jax sighed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Just... watch your six, okay? Your dad’s lawyer was on campus yesterday. I saw him coming out of the Admin building."
That caught my attention. A cold spike of adrenaline pierced my bubble of happiness.
"My father's lawyer? Pembrook?"
"Yeah. The shark in the three-piece suit. He didn't look happy."
I grit my teeth. Pembrook only showed up when Cyrus Vance was preparing to nuke something from orbit.
"Thanks for the heads up," I said, my voice dropping.
"Always. But seriously, Elijah... maybe cool it on the PDA for a few days? Until the scouts leave town?"
I looked at Angela again. She was skating toward the boards, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes shining. She looked so happy. So free.
"I can't," I admitted. "I can't turn it off, Jax. It’s not a switch anymore."
Jax shook his head. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you when the bomb drops."
He skated off to join the line drills.
I stayed by the glass. Angela reached the wall right in front of me.
"Hey, stalker," she panted, breathless and beautiful.
"Hey, show-off," I countered, leaning closer to the glass. "That spin needs work. Your center of gravity is too high."
"Shut up," she grinned. "I’m a dancer, not a puck-head. I lift up, not down."
"I can help you with getting down," I murmured, my voice dropping to a register that was meant only for her.
She flushed a deeper shade of red. "Elijah! We’re in public."
"No one can hear us through the glass."
I placed my hand—my left hand—on the polycarbonate surface. She mirrored the movement, placing her gloved hand against mine on the other side.
It was a cliché. It was cheesy. It was something out of a bad rom-com.
But in that moment, with our hands pressed together through the barrier, I felt a surge of possessiveness so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of me.
Mine.
"Dinner tonight?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.
"Sushi," I promised. "I’ll pick it up. Meet me at the penthouse at seven."
"Make it eight. I have a late rehearsal for the showcase."
"Eight then. Don't be late."
"Yes, Sir."
She pushed off the wall and glided back into the center of the ice.
I watched her go. I felt invincible. My father’s lawyer was in town? Fine. Let him come. I had the girl. I had the game. I could handle anything.
I turned and walked toward the locker room, whistling.
I didn't notice the man in the grey suit standing in the shadows of the upper concourse, holding a camera with a telephoto lens.
I didn't notice the red light blinking as he snapped frame after frame of my hand on the glass, pressed against hers.
I was too busy being happy to notice the crosshairs.
Angela
The rehearsal for Giselle was brutal.
Madame LeClair was in a mood. She stopped the music every twelve bars to critique someone’s arm placement or turnout.
"Moretti! You are drifting!" she shouted over the piano. "You are supposed to be a ghost, not a wandering cow! Find your mark!"
"Sorry!" I gasped, wiping sweat from my forehead.
My mind wasn't on the choreography. It was on 8:00 PM. It was on Elijah. It was on the way he looked at me through the glass today—like I was the only person in the arena.
Since the cabin, everything had shifted. We weren't just sleeping together. We were... woven together. He texted me good morning before I even woke up. I knew his coffee order. He knew which leo I liked best. We had built a little world, a fortress against the reality of our situation.
And I felt safe. For the first time in three years, I wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Five minute break!" LeClair barked.
I collapsed onto the floor, chugging water.
"You look disgusting," a voice said.
I looked up. Jessica—the heiress who had mocked me in Chapter 1—was standing over me. She was wearing a leotard that cost more than my tuition.
"Thanks, Jess," I panted. "You look... expensive."
"I saw you at the rink today," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "With Vance."
My stomach tightened. "Yeah? We’re friends."
"Friends," she scoffed. "Please. You two looked like you were filming a Hallmark movie. It was nauseating."
"Jealous?" I shot back, emboldened by Elijah’s confidence.
"Hardly," she laughed, inspecting her manicure. "I don't date charity cases. But you should be careful, Angela. People talk."
"Let them talk."
"Oh, they are," she leaned down, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard my dad talking to the Dean yesterday. Apparently, someone tipped off the Board that Vance is paying your tuition."
The blood drained from my face. The room started to spin.
"What?" I whispered.
"Yeah. Something about a 'conflict of interest' and 'misuse of funds.' They’re launching an inquiry." She smirked. "Just thought you should know. Since you’re... friends."
She patted my shoulder—a condescending, pitying touch—and walked away.
I sat there, frozen.
An inquiry.
If they investigated... if they found the paper trail...
It wouldn't just be me losing my spot. It would be Elijah. Paying a student’s tuition could be seen as bribery. Or worse, if they linked it to his father’s equity stake, it could look like embezzlement.
My dad went to jail for misuse of funds.
The panic clawed at my throat.
No. No, no, no.
We had been careful. Elijah said the contract was buried. He said it was private.
But Jessica’s dad was on the Board. If he knew...
I scrambled for my phone. I needed to call Elijah. I needed to warn him.
But then I hesitated.
Elijah was already stressed. His hand. The scouts. His dad’s lawyer. If I told him this... if I told him the rumor mill was churning... he would spiral. He would try to fix it. He would do something reckless, like confront the Dean.
I couldn't let him do that. I had to protect him.
I can handle this, I thought, the arrogance of love infecting me too. I’ll deny it. I’ll hide the evidence. I won't let this touch him.
I put the phone down.
I wouldn't tell him tonight. Tonight was sushi and peace. I would figure out how to kill the rumor tomorrow.
It was the first secret I kept from him since the cabin. And it felt like a stone in my gut.
Elijah
8:15 PM.
Angela was late.
She was never late. She was pathologically punctual.
I paced the living room of the penthouse. The sushi was arranged on the table. The wine was breathing. The lights were dimmed.
My phone sat silent on the coffee table.
Where is she?
The paranoia that Jax had planted earlier began to bloom. Watch your six.
Had something happened? Had Pembrook found her?
I grabbed my phone to text her again.
The elevator chimed.
I spun around.
The doors slid open. Angela walked in.
She looked... off.
She was pale. Her eyes were darting around the room as if looking for hidden cameras. She was clutching her dance bag like a shield.
"You’re late," I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
"Rehearsal ran over," she said quickly. Too quickly. "LeClair was on a rampage."
She didn't come to kiss me. She walked straight to the kitchen island and poured a glass of water, downing it in one gulp.
"Are you okay?" I asked, walking toward her.
"I’m fine," she said, her back to me. "Just tired. And hungry. Is that sushi?"
She turned around, plastering a smile on her face. It was a good smile—she was a performer, after all—but I knew her face better than my own playbook. The corners of her eyes were tight. Her pulse was visible in her neck.
She was lying.
"Angela," I said, stopping a few feet away. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" she laughed, a brittle sound. "God, Elijah, stop analyzing me. I’m just tired."
She walked past me to the table and picked up a piece of nigiri with chopsticks. Her hand was shaking. Just a tremor. But I saw it.
"You’re shaking," I noted.
"Low blood sugar," she said, shoving the sushi into her mouth.
I watched her chew. I felt a cold knot of dread form in my stomach.
She was hiding something.
Was it about us? Was it about her dad? Or... had she met someone else?
The thought was irrational, insane even, but jealousy isn't rational.
"Did you see anyone today?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I poured wine. "Besides LeClair?"
"Just the usual mean girls," she mumbled. "Jessica made a comment about my leotard being cheap. Standard stuff."
She didn't mention the lawyer. She didn't mention the Board.
"Right," I said.
We ate in silence. It wasn't the comfortable silence of the cabin. It was the heavy, loaded silence of a room filled with unsaid words.
Every time I looked at her, she looked away. Every time I tried to touch her hand, she found a reason to move it—reaching for a napkin, tucking her hair back.
By the time we finished eating, my appetite was gone and my anxiety was redlining.
"I’m going to shower," she said abruptly, standing up. "I smell like the studio."
"I’ll join you," I offered, standing up too.
"No!" she said sharply.
I froze.
She winced. "I mean... not tonight. I just... I need a minute. To decompress. Alone."
"Okay," I said slowly. "Alone."
She fled down the hall.
I stood in the living room, staring at the empty wine glass.
She’s pulling away, the voice in my head whispered. It’s happening. The chaos is back.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I picked it up, expecting a text from Angela apologizing for being weird.
It wasn't Angela.
It was an email. From an encrypted address.
Subject: FYI.
I opened it.
There was no text. Just an attachment.
It was a PDF. A scanned document.
I zoomed in.
It was a copy of the NDA Angela had signed with the university regarding her father’s case. And below it... a copy of a bank transfer.
From: Vance Equity Holdings.
To: Sterling University Bursar.
Memo: A. Moretti Tuition - Spring Semester.
It was the smoking gun. The proof that I had paid her way.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The timestamp on the email forward showed it had been sent from an internal university account. Specifically, from the Student Conduct Office.
Someone had leaked it.
And then, a second email popped up.
From: Pembrook & Associates.
Subject: Meeting Request.
Mr. Vance, your father would like to discuss the attached document. Tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM. Do not be late.
I dropped the phone. It hit the marble floor with a crack.
They knew.
My father knew. The lawyer knew. The school knew.
And looking down the hallway at the closed bathroom door, hearing the shower running... I realized Angela probably knew too. That’s why she was shaking. That’s why she was acting weird.
She knew the walls were closing in, and she hadn't told me.
Why?
To protect me? Or because she was already planning her exit strategy?
I walked to the bar and poured a shot of whiskey. My hand—my broken, useless hand—trembled as I brought the glass to my lips.
The bubble had burst. The fortress was breached.
And tomorrow morning, at 8:00 AM, the war would begin.
I downed the whiskey. It burned.
But not as much as the thought of losing her.
I walked down the hallway. I didn't go into the bathroom. I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to come out.
I needed to hold her. One last time. Before the world tore us apart.